#and the fact that i was dissociated from their concert when they used to be the only thing to keep me grounded to this earth???

[phlve]

Feeling In The Extraverted Attitude

Feeling in the extraverted attitude is orientated by objective data, i.e. the object is the indispensable determinant of the kind of feeling. It agrees with objective values. If one has always known feeling as a subjective fact, the nature of extraverted feeling will not immediately be understood, since it has freed itself as fully as possible from the subjective factor, and has, instead, become wholly subordinated to the influence of the object. Even where it seems to show a certain independence of the quality of the concrete object, it is none the less under the spell of. traditional or generally valid standards of some sort. I may feel constrained, for instance, to use the predicate ‘beautiful’ or ‘good’, not because I find the object ‘beautiful’ or ‘good’ from my own subjective feeling, but because it is fitting and politic so to do; and fitting it certainly is, inasmuch as a contrary opinion would disturb the general feeling situation. A feeling-judgment such as this is in no way a simulation or a lie—it is merely an act of accommodation. A picture, for instance, may be termed beautiful, because a picture that is hung in a drawing-room and bearing a well-known signature is generally assumed to be beautiful, or because the predicate ‘ugly’ might offend the family of the fortunate possessor, or because there is a benevolent intention on the part of the visitor to create a pleasant feeling-atmosphere, to which end everything must be felt as agreeable. Such feelings are governed by the standard of the objective determinants. As such they are genuine, and represent the total visible feeling-function.

In precisely the same way as extraverted thinking strives to rid itself of subjective influences, extraverted feeling has also to undergo a certain process of differentiation, before it is finally denuded of every subjective trimming. The valuations resulting from the act of feeling either correspond directly with objective values or at least chime in with certain traditional and generally known standards of value. This kind of feeling is very largely responsible for the fact that so many people flock to the theatre, to concerts, or to Church, and what is more, with correctly adjusted positive feelings. Fashions, too, owe their existence to it, and, what is far more valuable, the whole positive and widespread support of social, philanthropic, and such like cultural enterprises. In such matters, extraverted feeling proves itself a creative factor. Without this feeling, for instance, a beautiful and harmonious sociability would be unthinkable. So far extraverted feeling is just as beneficent and rationally effective as extraverted thinking. But this salutary effect is lost as soon as the object gains an exaggerated influence. For, when this happens, extraverted feeling draws the personality too much into the object, i.e. the object assimilates the person, whereupon the personal character of the feeling, which constitutes its principal charm, is lost. Feeling then becomes cold, material, untrustworthy. It betrays a secret aim, or at least arouses the suspicion of it in an impartial observer. No longer does it make that welcome and refreshing impression the invariable accompaniment of genuine feeling; instead, one scents a pose or affectation, although the egocentric motive may be entirely unconscious.

Such overstressed, extraverted feeling certainly fulfils æsthetic expectations, but no longer does it speak to the heart; it merely appeals to the senses, or—worse still—to the reason. Doubtless it can provide æsthetic padding for a situation, but there it stops, and beyond that its effect is nil. It has become sterile. Should this process go further, a strangely contradictory dissociation of feeling develops; every object is seized upon with feeling-valuations, and numerous relationships are made which are inherently and mutually incompatible. Since such aberrations would be quite impossible if a sufficiently emphasized subject were present, the last vestige of a real personal standpoint also becomes suppressed. The subject becomes so swallowed up in individual feeling processes that to the observer it seems as though there were no longer a subject of feeling but merely a feeling process. In such a condition feeling has entirely forfeited its original human warmth, it gives an impression of pose, inconstancy, unreliability, and in the worst cases appears definitely hysterical.

Source: Psychological Types

[z0mbicide]

okay, one random fact abt each of the menaces LET'S GO:

under the cut bc there are a lot of these fucks (affectionate)

asterion's favorite color is midnight blue

atlas lived in michigan from ages 12 to 15

agri has a visceral reaction to being called a freak bc in school he was always called "that freak zales" by a number of his classmates

arven is a stock boy at a sports shop

aeon did track during high school and college and is the fastest member of his friend group

andrew's brother had two nicknames for him: drew and drewby. he was the only person ever allowed to use them

ambrose hates surprises, and is the guy who finds his gifts early and opens them to see what they are (he always wraps them back up after)

xander dissociates when he drinks energy drinks

azur only likes coffee from his favorite family-owned coffee shop bc they're the only ones who make it the exact way he likes it

alcor really likes classic rock ("it scratches an itch in my brain."), and his favorite song is rock you like a hurricane by scorpions

arsène is a big prince fan bc of his mother, and his favorite song is lovesexy

rian loves trash tv, and his favorite reality shows are 90 day fiancé and catfish

artemis has a younger twin sister and they swapped middle names when they both came out as trans, but kept their birth first names by choice

attis exclusively wears tanktops (but will wear jackets if it's cold)

alata loves gorey horror movies

avan collects i-dogs, and his favorite is the i-dog soft speaker

gaius gets severe migraines if he doesn't use his future sight for long periods of time

ardalion got his first nickname(s) from agri

adam is a licensed healer, but since that doesn't really.. pay the bills, he works at alata's flower shop

sunny chose his name at random and isn't very attached to it; his parents guilted him into keeping his birthname, but he's still thinking about changing it anyways now that he lives on his own

aegnis has never listened to music bc he's always in the lab he was built in, and the technicians don't really play music while working

axel is an editor at a publishing office, but his real dream is to be a musician

adrian is a side sleeper bc he gets sleep paralysis when he sleeps on his back

amelio's favorite color is pink, but he doesn't wear it often

austin and ambrose met at a green day concert (at 17 & 18 respectively) and they dated for 2 years before breaking up when ambrose graduated from the university they went to

owain loves chocolate and his favorite kind is dark chocolate

[epersonae]

⭐️, what makes me kind?

While I am feeling a little bit maudlin already, here's some thoughts about the last scene in Chapter 3 of what makes me kind....

One of the things about my obsession with Our Flag Means Death is about the grief. And with the whole Kraken heel turn thing, the pressure to perform a worksona while going through immense grief.

This was the first scene that I wrote where I was actively thinking, I want to channel this thing that I have been going through directly into this character. I want to describe things that I have felt, but obliquely: this fictional character, he's having a bad time, etc etc.

And there's three bits of that which I feel very strongly about:

“Answer your captain,” says Iz, and it’s like he doesn’t have to do anything, just be inside of this face, inside of this shape, and the world bends itself back to what it wants.

And it sort of goes on like that, that people will just expect you to slot back into the person they knew before, and if you're good enough at faking it, well, then, yeah. (Loved dissociating at my old job when I had to go back to the office; good times.) But then when he's alone:

In the quiet and the dark of the middle of the night, all the anger and restlessness ebbs away, like a low tide leaving creatures gasping in the air. Leaving him gasping in the emptiness of a room where he’d been happy, and what had that got him? If he closes his eyes, he can see it: the table laid with food (and too many kinds of spoons), the roaring fire, the shelves full of books and art and strange little trinkets, the rugs spread across the floor, the way the sun fell through that window there, when they tacked eastward, and it caught on the golden glints in — he thinks of the light in Stede’s hair, the light in Stede’s eyes, the light of that fucking smile. It catches in his chest, the image of light and color, and the memory of being happy.

I did in fact write that while remembering very vividly the living room in the house that Ryn and I lived in (I had to move! a week after they died! it's a long story and I'm still mad about it!) which was a room with lots of windows full of art that we'd put up, mostly together. It was a great space, and we were happy. "the light of that fucking smile" indeed. :(

And then I think I actually spooked @emi--rose when she was betaing with this last passage. She asked me if it was the bit that I wrote while at the Mountain Goats concert, and I said "oh no it's just a random Tuesday." [grief dab]

The sound he makes feels like it comes from deep in his chest and at the same time from somewhere outside of his body. It’s not even crying ( don’t fucking cry ) so much as it is a wailing, the screeching sound of something inside him coming apart. He takes a breath, realizes, yes, it is the middle of the night and he’s making an ungodly noise, and right, none of that.

Grief fucking sucks. Losing your partner and best friend fucking sucks. I've cried in ways that I didn't know existed before this. On a good day, at least I can turn it into art, at least.

One last tidbit about this chapter: I've thought a lot about names and naming conventions, and what people call each other in this fic, especially since there's so much POV switching. When I first started writing this chapter, and was trying to decide what name to use for Ed when it's in his POV, it struck me very intensely that no option felt quite right. And so it's been tricky writing, but I'm committed to the sections with his POV not ever using his name. At least not until a specific turning point...

[soundsof71]

FIVE ALBUMS YOU NEED IN YOUR LIFE RIGHT NOW!!!

aka, My Top 5 of 2020, but I didn’t want to seem too retro!

Yep, I have a classic rock blog. Yep, I think that the best rock and roll in history is being made RIGHT NOW. And yep, ALL of it is being made by women. 

(Shown at top, Nova Twins by Ant Adams [x] and The Tissues by Michael Espleta [x]. I was planning to make a collage of all my faves in concert, but  not all of them were able to play in 2020. Both of these photos are pre-pandemic.)

There’s been quite a bit of movement on this list, and all five of these have spent some time at Number 1 as the year has done (gestures broadly) All This™. Anyone looking for rock and roll is going to dig any of these. 

Rocking out is just the start of it, though. Wrestling with my bipolarity and schizophrenia is tough on a good day, and there haven’t been too many of those lately. The plague has also taken its toll around me, with two family members dead and a third who’s doing better, but will likely never be all the way back. (Mask up, kids!)

I’ve written plenty about how deeply Taylor Swift and Phoebe Bridgers have moved me this year (and will do so again), but in those rare stretches where I’ve had enough spare energy to listen to music at all these days, I’ve mostly been looking for more than beautiful music. Heavy times need heavy lifting, and I find that in heavy music. 

The five albums here have all helped carry me, pointing the way toward light.

1) BULLY, SUGAREGG

Alicia Bognanno is a force of nature as a guitarist, vocalist, composer, and producer/engineer. (While working on her degree in audio engineering at MTSU, she interned with Steve Albini, who remains both a fan and an admirer). A Nashville transplant from Minnesota, she’s still a natural fit in her home on Sub Pop: as heavy as Soundgarden, as hooky as Sleater-Kinney. 

I was blown away hearing her searing honesty while working through her discoveries of her bisexuality and bipolarity (double bi!), and her triumphant roar lifts me out of my seat every time I listen.

“She sings the hell out of [these songs], her voice fraying to the point of combustion every time she launches to the top of her range. This is phenomenal music for converting anger and anxiety into unbound joy.” ~Stereogum, Album of the Week

Also, check this fantastic interview with Alicia in the New York Times talking about what she’s gone through to get here. 

TURN IT UP!

2) GANSER, LOOK AT THAT SKY

Ganser syndrome is a rare dissociative disorder characterized by nonsensical or wrong answers to questions and other dissociative symptoms such as fugue, amnesia or conversion disorder, often with visual pseudohallucinations and a decreased state of consciousness. ~Wikipedia #it me

‘Just Look At That Sky’ doesn’t presume to offer solutions; it’s an honest document of what it feels like to wade through anxiety, day by day, not a survival guide or handbook of answers none of us actually have. Whether or not you pay attention to this, Ganser are simply one of the most invigorating, exciting new bands. ~Clashmusic

I saw one very positive review compare Ganser to a cross between Fugazi and Sonic Youth, but I think they hit much, much harder than either of those. And as you can surely guess, I also deeply relate to their themes of mental illness and dissociation while trying to make it through All This™. But my god, are they TIGHT. This is a BAND.

Ganser has two fantastic lead vocalists, and on “Bad Form”, bassist/vocalist Alicia Gaines wrote the song for the voice of keyboardist/vocalist Nadia Garofolo. Alicia also wrote a FANTASTIC essay on the strains that making an album during a pandemic puts on the mental health of the entire band at talkhouse: “Writing, recording, reaching out, balancing relationships outside and within the band, I found (and still find) myself under-rested and agitated to no particular end. More than not doing enough, I was not enough.” 

(If you can’t relate to that, I can’t relate to you, tbh.)

This video also does a fantastic job of showing dissociation. TURN IT UP!

3) THE TISSUES, BLUE FILM

“Blue Film” is a ten-song shot of dagger-twisting electro-(s)punk. It’s completely addictive from the very first listen. The tour de force is “Rear Window”, an art-punk masterpiece of slashing guitars and mad caterwauling. Copious doses of jaunty poetics and social commentary reward the earlooker patient enough to untangle Kristine Nevrose’s hysterical meowing about intergalactic salt shakers and hysterectomies, but I’m too emotionally invested to look under the hood.” ~ Sputnik Music

“Rear Window” is in fact my most-played 2020 track. TURN IT UP!

4) GUM COUNTRY, SOMEWHERE

It’s not all heavy! But even when I’m looking for something light and hooky, I need a bite, and Gum Country has done it with the kind of swirly, feeedback-laden wall of sound that Lush or Yo La Tengo would make if they lived in LA. (Recent transplants to SoCal from Vancouver, I do think that the sunshine has gone straight to their heads, in the very best way.)

Indie music nerds will know guitarist/composer/singer/front woman Courtney Garvin from The Courtneys, and she really does throw up a glorious wall of sound. I adore this video too! Sweet, swinging, fun -- and yes, the drummer is playing keyboard with one hand while slapping the skins with the other! 

I mentioned earlier that all five of these albums have spent part of the year at #1 on my list -- I think that this one might have spent the longest stretch there. Like all shoegaze, even as hooky as this, the truth of these songs is revealed in VOLUME. TURN IT UP!

5) NOVA TWINS, WHO ARE THE GIRLS?

Now, THIS is heavy! Amy Lee (vocals, guitar) and Georgia South (bass) are fucking LOUD, and insanely intense. A mix of grime, hip-hop, metal, punk, and good old rock and roll, they’re a harder-hitting, more theatrical Prodigy, with a pyre of intensity that recalls the heaviest howls of Rage Against The Machine. Indeed, Nova Twins spent a good bit of 2019 playing heavy metal festivals and toured as openers for Prophets of Rage. (Tom Morello has been a fan and supporter from the beginning.)

As you may have noted in the photo at the top of this post, their musical audacity extends to visuals too: they design their own clothes, hair, and makeup, they art direct their own videos, and more. They impress the hell out of me, and I’ve been a huge fan since hearing their first singles in 2018. I’ll plant a flag and say that Georgia South in particular is the most innovative musician on any instrument in any genre right now, but they’re both absolutely monsters. 

I’m honestly not at all sure that #5 is high enough for this, but I’m absolutely certain that after this video, you’re gonna need to rest for a little. LOL

“Taxi” is the story of two gleefully and creatively violent women shaking up the local crime syndicate as they use a vintage cab for their moving murder scene. This is the movie that Robert Rodriguez wishes he was making with Sin City, if it were combined with Blade Runner and The Matrix. And gangsters. And a snake.

I’m gonna take your crown I’m gonna, I’m gonna bleed you out We demand it by the hour We devour, control, power

I’m gonna burn it down Even the, even the royals bow

So not the same kind of therapeutic work being explored on this rekkid, but you know what? Fucking shit up is therapeutic too! 

Definitely take this full screen, and for the love of fuck, TURN IT UP!

SO. Not done with the best of 2020 yet? I’m sure not! A lot of my favorite songs aren’t on albums (at least not yet), so for an unedited list of everything I’m finding, check out my Spotify list, 2020: Shuffle This List! 268 songs and counting, over 15 hours, and not finished yet. I’m still checking out everyone else’s Best of lists (including yours! Message me links to yours!!!), so will probably be adding to this for most of 2021, too. 

And for more banging tracks by women from 2020, plus a few 2019 gems that I’m still grooving to, check out my more thoroughly curated Spotify playlist Women Bangers: A Tumblr New Classics Jam. (You’ll see a couple of these tracks there!) I’m working on a YouTube playlist and an essay to properly roll that one out. I’m also still tweaking the ending, but the three dozen or so tunes there are definitely bangin’.

Tell me if you hear anything you dig here, and tell me what YOU’VE found! We’re gonna get through this together.

Yr pal, Timmy

[skevans]

Nocturne op.72 no.1 — Essay

Hi, welcome to my long-forgotten tumblr I barely remembered existed. Dust and cobwebs aside, this is an essay I initially wrote in French for a Literature class. Don't ask me how the hell I found the will to hand this in to my teacher, bless his soul.

A couple of years later, I found that essay in the depth of a folder on my computer. I remembered what was in it, to a point, but when I decided to read it again, I got very emotional (and very mortified 'cause oh god school). And during the following weeks, I started thinking about a lot of things that were still floating unresolved within my head. But then, I decided to write. And after a few days of internal debate, I posted the first chapter of A Sea of Silence.

It's been months since I finished that story, and those months have not been kind to me for many reasons. And maybe that's why, this week, I started thinking about that essay. When I did, I was overcome with a desire to share it with the world—and especially with the people who read my fic. So here it is, hastily translated but just as honest. Please note that it discusses anxiety.

And so, thank you if you take the time to read this, and an even bigger thank you if you read the essay, too! 

Nocturne op.72 no.1

When I think back on my childhood, I hear the sound of piano. Various melodies follow me, accompanying me in a waltz between memories. It’s my mother’s interpretation of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata that haunts the quiet moments. My sister and I would play in an adjacent room, glowing with delight as our mother started the first movement. It’s the piece’s somber and melancholic tone that colours my memory, but it’s a good kind of darkness—the kind that feels like the soft touch of night as you walk under the stars. My mother didn’t stop there; she would segue into the second movement, a graceful interlude that almost got swallowed in between the grandiosity of the other movements. And at last, she would tackle the final piece. I remember the anticipation; I remember wanting to watch her fingers fly over the keys. We would sneak in the living room—don’t make so much noise, you’re gonna bother her!—and thus we became the spectators to a private concert. The combination of semiquavers and staccato, everything played presto agitato, was the most fascinating thing. And despite the intensity and the tempestuous rhythm, I would sense my muscles relaxing, my thoughts lightening, the frenetic beat of my heart slowing. When I listen to this piece now, there’s still a glimpse of that long forgotten peace.

I turn six and I learn the piano. It’s a decision that comes from me, but also from my mother. It’s a decision that pleases me, even enchants me. The learning process goes well; I love to learn and I love to play—a rarely seen fervour seizes me. My motivation originates both from a desire to walk into my mother’s footsteps and from a childish inclination to create noise. The teacher likes me, and the sentiment is reciprocal; she speaks with a soft voice, but underneath there is an unyielding tone that I come to respect. She nudges me forward, constantly making sure that I don’t neglect my practice. I try to meet her expectations because I want to succeed, but also to maintain that impression of calm that possesses me when I sit at the piano.

The next step is to play at a recital, so we set off for the musical conservatory. I’m ten the first time I play before an audience. Panic controls me—I worry I won’t be able to perform, and the thought loops in my mind until I believe it. I climb on the stage in spite of my terror, and the room morphs into a cage. At 10 years-old, the size of the concert hall is intimidating, to a point that my heart crawls up my throat. The exit is far—way too far—and all the stares fixed on me feel more like I’m attending a trial than a recital. My hands become damp (how will I play if my hands slip?), but wiping them on my dress of red velvet means showing my fear—and my father always tells me not to show my fear. So I look at the floor and force my legs to move until finally, finally, I stand before the piano. I sit. Even now, I believe it’s impossible for me to play my piece, that piece I yet find so easy. I take my time adjusting the bench; once done, my hands reflexively settle over the keys. One deep breath—and I start to play. That tranquility I’m so desperate for guides me, and the audience fades from my mind. My eyes track my fingers as they find all the notes—not one mistake—and for a moment, it’s like I’m floating over my body, surrendering utter control to instinct and music. Once the piece ends and my hands lift from the piano, it’s the thunderous applause that tugs me back into reality; I walk off the stage, that paralyzing feeling of fright dismissed.

The feeling that possesses me is anxiety. At 6 years-old, as I begin learning the piano, I don’t know what anxiety is; the only thing I understand is that music offers solace. When I turn 10, I can’t find the word to explain that emotion that assaulted me as I stepped on the stage. It’s with time that I discover the word “anxiety”. I see my reflection in the definitions I find in dictionaries and on the web; it’s those definitions that grasp onto me, that glue themselves over me until I cannot dissociate them from my being without ripping out of my skin. The term “anxiety” now belongs to me—or rather, I belong to it. The years pass and my thoughts cede before it. My anxiety takes control of me for a period of my life; I have lost all mastery of myself. I graduate from high school with terrible difficulty; I drop out of college three times. But anxiety doesn’t stop there; she smears her poison throughout all spheres of my life. My relationship with my family degenerates slowly but surely—so do many of my friendships. Working becomes a hurdle because my boss at the store agitates me with her severe attitude—it feels like nothing is never enough and everything is wrong. I cannot stand myself anymore. Anxiety seeps into my body, an army of swarming bugs that infiltrate all I am as an individual. They contaminate me from the inside, and I am nothing but a puppet, subjected to circumstances out of my control. And this lasts and lasts and lasts for eight years—eight long years. I lose my footing and fall into the arms of depression several times. Appointments with doctors tell me what I already knew. We try solutions and then more solutions; there are good times, scarce but cherished. But happiness and peace of mind slip through my fingers like grains of sand; I grab another handful, but it was never meant to last. These feelings end up seeming distant, unreachable, impossible. I mind myself to the fact that I will have to live with the physical and emotional wounds my anxiety inflicts on me. Time and experience allow me to gauge my level of comfort and how to react; sometimes, I cannot step out of my apartment. And so life goes on—and I am swept away by the tides.

Thinking back on this slice of my life, I’ve come to several conclusions. There were many happenings that were completely out of my control—and yet, as I dig deeper and deeper, I realize that this deviation originates from one thing in particular.

The year I turn 15, I experience an acute pain in my right wrist. Holding a pen for longer than a few minutes is impractical; playing piano on a regular basis is impossible. Those news, validated by a medical consultation, are not surprising—but they are heartbreaking. Later, the pain extends to my shoulder. Within weeks, I become an unwilling witness to the collapse of my dream of studying and teaching piano. The problem comes from within me, within my body—my love for the piano is the trigger to this pain. I’m told that a cure is implausible—you can do exercises to lessen the pain, and you have to eliminate repetitive movements since they will worsen it, and yes, miss, that includes the piano. I used to play piano at least one hour a day, something that unconsciously kept my anxiety at bay—but the inability to play for longer than a few minutes opens the door to my anxiety. I discover myself anew when I’m 16: tirelessly worried, always anxious, terribly distrustful. It’s the start of the downward spiral. I am not me anymore, I am someone else. Anxiety is my mother, instability is my father, fear is my sister. I am reborn into an unknown world dubbed Real Life by my family, who firmly believe this is part of being a teenager. But I don’t believe in this Real Life, and I pray to all and nothing for a miracle. I only know one line of prayer so I make up my own. I fill fictive litanies with my fears and my hopes. Amen. I refuse to consider this existence as True because to me, it can only be False. But my convictions are tossed aside, their dismissal hammered into me endlessly. It’s almost as if a huge neon sign hangs on a wall of my bedroom: Welcome to Real Life! But all I see are ridiculous directives that only bring misfortune—don’t forget to register for our latest draw! Discover what setbacks you will endure next! I don’t want this—I refuse, I reject, I refute. It’s the song of my mind, playing on repeat; I want to believe it—I want to believe it more than anything else because I have exhausted all of my solutions and the future beyond is veiled in uncertainty.

But with time, I realize that simply wanting something, no matter how much, doesn’t mean it will slip into the world through the cracks of my resolve. And so, I begin to toil over my own fate. I try to shape it. I fail. I try again. It’s a cycle with no end in sight. I wander aimlessly through life, and thus I discover more of myself and I try to understand. Questions assail me; most of the time, there is no answer; when there are, they are often unpleasant. Still, I accept them—because I have learned that closing my eyes and rejecting a reality will not bring me anything. This crushing problem, this anxiety that manipulates me, I try to be aware of it—and in the end, I accept it. She is part of me, too intrinsic for me to surrender her; she welded her existence in my foundations, and if I break free, I negate myself. But what crystallizes with time is the recognition that I’m living a fight that I believed lost before even entering the arena. It’s an intimidating fight: my adversary is formidable, and there is no end in sight; it’s an everlasting battle that occurs every hour, every minute, every second. And yet, I am not done—I gather my arsenal, I warm up, and I entre the arena. No referees—this isn’t a fair fight; there cannot be a winner, only moments of victory. My adversary steps forward, and in her, I see me—me as I was for eight long years. The signal goes off and we begin. No turning back now.

Strangely, what helps me survive the daily fights is time. Throughout this turbulent journey, my wrist undertakes its never-ending recovery. Nine years later, the dreadful pain I felt at every move has become a memory. I live alone now, and getting access to a piano is not always easy; neither is it regular. But one day—one day, I decide to try again. I make my way to my mother’s house on a day where she and her husband are absent; the fragility of my resolve hangs over me, and I cannot let it waver out of self-consciousness. In the basement are all of my mother’s sheet music—all of my sheet music—and it takes a lot of searching before I finally find the last piece I learned when I was 15. The last piece I ever played. Too eager, I snatch Chopin’s Nocturne op.72 no.1 off the floor, grabbing a few more sheet music from that part of my life forever ago. At last, I sit on the piano bench. I open the booklet, flipping through the pages until I find the Nocturne; it’s one of my favourites, whether by coincidence or a design of my own. But it’s with wretched bitterness that I realize I am unable to play the piece. Not only has it been nine years, but my dexterity has vanished, bidding me goodbye with a mocking smile. My fingers each weigh a pound; I hear myself strike the keys with a mortifying clumsiness; the resulting sound is disappointing, closer to chaotic noise than the flowing music of my memories. Nothing happens like I want it to. However, the same passage of time that helped my injury gave me the strength to cross out the word “abandon” from my vocabulary. I sometimes know victory, more often I know defeat, but what has become unfamiliar is capitulation. So I close the booklet, hiding the piece I yearned for, and I pick another one. It’s an easy piece, but in truth, nothing seems easy anymore; the piece is a crutch, a stepping stone towards more. In time, I will get sick of hearing Chopin’s Waltz op.69 no.2, my mind saturated by the melody from months of practice. It’s a challenge, and I start to get obsessed with the notion of learning this piece, because learning it means I can learn more. Nothing will stop me.

There is progress, but it’s slow and it’s tedious. Each week, I ride the bus to my mother’s house so I can practice for one hour, sometimes two. These hours are precious; I try not to squander them and I try even harder to remind myself this is just the beginning. My wrist still hurts at times; whenever I test my limits, a zap of pain echoes through my hand, signalling the end of the practice. It slows me down, frustrates me to no end, but the possibility of not playing for another nice years snaps me out of those low moments. And one day, six months later, I pick up Chopin’s Nocturne op.72 no.1 again. I start with the left hand; the constant rhythm of the triplets played legato rips the stitches of a long-buried wound. A ghost rises out of it—it’s Me as I was, and it possesses me, guiding my hand with its cold touch. I play the first line, then the second; soon enough, I jump to the second page. I am not here, not really; rather, I am lost to that old fragment of beloved peace. Now that I recognize the beast in me as anxiety, I finally understand that those moments of solace happen when I hear the twinkling notes of the piano. And so I get on my feet in the arena and I stand ready to continue the eternal fight. There are other ways to keep anxiety away, to rationalize it, and I think back on my first fifteen years, nearly empty of anguish, full of other pains, but also filled with hours of music. I learn Chopin’s Nocturne in three months. It’s not perfect—it will never be—but I can play it. I play it until I can do so with my eyes closed.

The year I decide to sit at the piano again, I return to school. The first semester is trying; I haven’t studied seriously in over five years—good habits are difficult to unearth. I try to keep my demanding job despite the crushing amount of pressure, but there comes a moment where I cannot breathe under that weight, and stress wins once more. Everything appears ready to crumble before it began. Luckily, my mother realizes that my fragile pyramid of cards is about to fall, and she wakes me up with harsh and well-aimed and true words; we don’t always understand each other then, and feelings get bruised, but in time, things will change for the better. I still fail the classes I took; I search for a new job. My anxiety hit me with an uppercut that could have turned the tables in her favour, but I stand again and again—I stand long enough to finish college a year later. I am 24 the day I hand in my final project that allows me to graduate. As I walk out of the building, there is pride accompanying me, but most of all, it’s a soothing sensation of satisfaction that wraps itself around me. It resembles that peace of mind I find from the piano, and that is what makes me smile.

The next fall, I have my own piano. The opportunity to play whenever is still incredible. Not long before the purchase, the pain in my wrist flares once more, stronger than before. But this time, I know what to expect. I adapt instead of running away; I’m not 15 anymore and I have so much more experience in the suitcase I carry through life. I get tests done in hope of a permanent solution; they reveal nothing new, but the professional advice that follows those tests opens the door to new possibilities to rein in the pain. Those possibilities are comforting in their own way; that absolute sense of defeat is now barely discernable.

I still believe that the Me from over ten years ago will not come back to life; she doesn’t exist anymore; her only vestige is her love for music. But that is alright—I am not the same person I was at 6 years-old when all I knew was the music weaving through the house. I am someone else, so I baptize myself anew. I allow myself the sanctity of a second chance, that unreachable notion always evading me. But this time, I chase it. I grasp it close to my heart. I take it—and I live it.

[lady-daydream]

Fallout New Vegas Companions Reactions/Thoughts on Classical Music

As requested this ones for you @winged-light-collectors-posts , I'm sorry it took so long, I hope this is okay, the reacts aren't as long as I would have liked however I found that got stumped by a few of the characters. If I missed anyone please let me know. And also you seem like a lovely person and your love of classical music was really refreshing :)

Once again I apologise for spelling error, I am horrible at spell checking. If anyone has any imaginations or reactions from fallout 3-4 or new Vegas just comment or send a request. Hope you all enjoy and have an amazing day -Love you all <3

Btw if anyone cares I listened to Tchaikovsky 1812 overture with cannons, Clair De lune Ethereal remix, and chop in Ballade No.4 in F minor ethereal remix while writing 

Arcade: It wasn't the first time he had heard Classical music, due to some of the enclave radios having classical music paired to their broadcasts. Surprisingly, despite the memory of the music being attached to his past he enjoys it. Even commenting to you once or twice when he would recall his mum listening to certain songs when she was alive. He also preferred the soothing factor to classical which he found made it easier to focus compared to some of the limited other choices available. So whenever you both are resting or are setting up camp the both of you may be found relax doing your respected activities such as repairing weapons and reading while Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninov plays in the background.

Boone: He didn't have a strong opinion on what music the courier listened to while traveling with him. While serving he learnt that music of all different genres helped soldiers relax, or reminded them of happier times or just of home. Though he did wander from time to time what the genre of music said about a person.However he normally didn't think too hard about it or just didn't want to go down that rabbit hole of a thought process. Through travelling with you over time he slowly learnt to warm up to some songs, with calmer songs such as those by Chopin being his favourites though he would never tell you. And on rare occasions when you both are travelling and he can see the night sky, the classical music helps him relax enough to close his eyes even for a moment without his own ghosts haunting him.

Cassidy: Similar to Boone, she was indifferent to classical music. Though every so often while travelling with you she may comment  that it reminded her of a few mornings she had woken up in bars across the wasteland, with a hangover stronger than an radscorpions sting. She did find it annoying whenever the courier seemed to stop and become engrossed in the music, moaning how they were burning daylight. However when the both of you are drunk, the both of you may try and make lyrics to classical tunes, curses and dirty lyrics included until the both of you are rolling on the floor laughing on the ground like idiots or somehow turn certain sounds in the songs into drinking games.

Ed-e: The both of you enjoy classical music, the robot bopping along with the courier whistling along side. It always made you smile when you would hear happy beeping noises whenever a certain song would comes on the radio. After travelling for a while, Ed-e starts to play certain tunes himself, some of which he must have recorded while Whitley was in the room, as sometimes a person humming or a small mutter or comment can be heard. You knew how important Whitley was, almost like a father to Ed-e as after a while the mans comments blend into the music itself . However you wandered if Ed-e recorded the two of you listening to music similar to Whitley as sometimes while stopping to set up camp for the night Ed-e seems oddly quiet while the two off you listen to your pip-boy. However even if he was recording you didn't mind, you were more happy that Ed-e saw you as important enough to him to want to remember your times together.

Follows-Chalk: Neither of you had really listened to classical before meeting, and Follows-Chalk hadn't heard it at all. However while searching for a certain radio station while travelling with him you stumbled across the classical music station. Follows-chalk instantly loves it. Whistling some of the tunes he had heard while you travel together. Sometimes commenting on the differences between the music he had heard from the travelling singer when he was younger as well as some of the songs his tribe would sing. He would sometimes even teach you some in return for playing some classical music. He always has questions about the artists and their meanings, which you would often reply that it was up to him and how the music made him feel. And so sometimes when the both of you are travelling you may share what the music makes you both feel and think of, helping you both understand each other better.

Joshua: Listening to it was a kick from the past, as memories of listening to it while he was living in New Canaan with his family long before Caesar come flooding back the first time he heard or listening to it. He tried to enjoy the music as much as possible,trying to hold on to the more positive memories of his family- of his father and mother listening to it while doing other activities, memories childhood friends and the misadventures of kids all while having classical music in the background as they all got up to mischief. These memories did leave a smile that hurt as it pulled at burnt calloused skin. However through listening he was also reminded of the absences.The new Cannans destruction, of his family's and friend death. How his love of the music had dissolved as he got closer to Caesar and further away from his childhood and home. You notice he gets slightly quieter when you play the music and If you ask him if he is okay he will comment on these memories, not going into too much detail unless questioned further, respecting your one associations of the music don't need to be shared with his. After travelling a while, slowly he would try and dissociate the music with his memories replacing them with more positive moments while travelling you or just letting the sound of the music flow through him. On very rare occasion he might even ask you if he may offer to dance, commenting that he learnt from a few dances and events the town had in his youth. Mostly however, he is just glad he was able to listen to the music with you, using the calming music to just focus on the two of you and the peace the music brought him.

The King: On first listening he didn't like it. He didn't mind you listening to it if he saw it made you happy; however, he would always recommend songs from ‘the king” on holotapes he had. Both of you at first choose to respect each other's opinions. After a while though both of you made a deal. For every song he listened to of your preferred genre of music, you would listen to one he wanted you to listen to. So it became a routine. Whenever he knew you had a long journey he would slip you holotapes with songs such as ‘suspicious minds’ and ‘stuck on you’ and in return when alone The king would listen to the radio station you recommended. After a while you both soften up to each others music and as the both of you got closer you both associate certain lyrics and songs to each other, with the songs ‘Can't Help Falling In Love’ and ‘Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No.2′ holding a special place in both of your hearts. When things get more serious, he might even sing small medley of songs from either genres that you stated you like more, and would even nickname you his ‘symphony’ or his “song bird” if you try to sing any of the songs he likes. 

Raul: When you listened to classical music with him for the first time he laughed, sarcastically commenting on “isn't this music a little too old for you, boss?” or “Mi abuela would have loved you”. Plus if you enjoyed the music he didn't really mind. If the radio station had different regional classical music, Raul would happily translate any lyrics if need be if he recognised it, commenting of different memories of his family if the both of you were comfortable enough sharing.Unlike other companions he was able to educate you on some of the instruments used and just the basic knowledge he would have known before the bombs fell. Once or twice though if you are both relaxed (and if you have had a few to drink) you might ask him to dance to some of the more energetic classical songs. And though he will resort to comments about his knees can't handle dancing, and how “you are a few 100 years too late to be asking him to dance”. He still will dance anyway laughing at the joy you brought with you - as well as both of your dancing ability.

Veronica: ’”Didn't think classical music was your thing, but hey to each their own I guess- was told it helps focus, but idk.If I had someone playing a violin next to me I'm pretty sure I would have a difficult time focusing”. She had listened to music before meeting you, however much preferred learning pre-war information from long forgotten technology more than listening to it. As such whenever you are both listening she would randomly tell you small random facts about composers such as “.hey, did you know Edvard Grieg had a good-luck figurine. It was a little frog that he would pat before a concert- found that out on an old library achieve. wonder why he thought the frog was so lucky. - hey maybe I'm your lucky charm y/n”. However she wonders why classical music was associated with intelligence at the time since, anyone can listen to the music, so what made it so intellectual, or was it just that the skill it takes to play an instrument made it associated with knowledge.

Ulysses:He collects all pre-war music he can. He enjoys listening to just his surrounding and the silence that would sometimes bring. He also enjoys focusing on music and was surprised by how many classical music recordings he found while travelling. He enjoyed what each song means by its self but also how the music and the meaning behind it still remained even years after their creators and original audiences had died. He did sometimes wonder what message the listeners were supposed to take away however he knows that answer is one of many lost by time. At first he is rather hesitant about even bringing up the subject, due to you're association of destroying the traces of the old world, However through gaining his trust he slowly opens up about it and will let you sit and listen with him.He will sometimes ask you what you think the meaning is or what you think of the song and sometimes comment that he wonder if the creators would imagine someone like him listening to their music, a lone man sitting one the edge of a cliff, watching over the past while protecting the present from the threats of tunnelers and marked men or the significance their music would have on a person. When you join him, you normal listen in silence broken by occasional discussion. Allowing you both you be in your own thought. However even if it is just your presence next to him or you holding his hand or sometimes falling asleep resting against him, he is glad he isn't completely alone and that you understand, even if it is just a little bit, the importance the music is to him.

[ttopswordvomit]

anger

march 25th, 2021. @ sonic.

This isn’t going to be super well written because I could edit it and edit it until I die, but I have decided not to care. I’m sitting here cross legged in my car at Sonic. It’s 9:42 on a Thursday and I’m just sitting here eating a Reese’s blast. I needed to leave my apt or else I was going to go to bed at 10 pm and this would all carry to tomorrow. No matter how bad I didn’t want to deal with it. 

I’ve had that feeling all day. Where the day isn’t really bad, I’m doing things that are good for me, but there’s that thing sitting in the corner. Festering so slowly and quietly that I don’t even fully know it’s there. 

It’s been hard to focus on work today. Maybe that was my sign that something needed my attention. Even now, I still haven’t cracked. Crying and shit. I think it’s because I don’t feel sorry for myself? I’m not just. Desperately sad. Maybe that means I’m numbed out. Which happens a lot so probably. 

I didn’t know what to do with this feeling. So what else is there to do but to push on and make the best of it? I wish I could describe the tangle of feelings that happens. I look at it and I only barely know it’s there. Much less what the hell is going on inside of it. 

I’m afraid of explaining all of this to Michelle. How do I summarize this feeling when I don’t even really know what it is? And I’m afraid that once we figure it out it won’t feel as big as it does. Like it’ll be chalked up to the things I can’t change. To the things I’ve been working on, that I should know by now. I’m afraid it’ll be dismissed. Maybe I’ve felt dismissed before. 

I feel like this hurts a lot. Like I’m not ready to have conversations or look it in its ugly face. I’m not ready to do the hard things it’ll require.

It scares me. 

It scares me because I know it’s going to hurt. And peace feels so far away. And especially now that I have a deadline to talk to my mother by... I feel so scared. Like it’ll never happen. Like I can’t possibly do it no matter how much I’ve told myself I can do it. No matter how much work I’ve done towards it. 

And this shit I’m avoiding.. it hits hard because it is so painful to know how absent my mother is. Realizing that the other day felt agonizing. The weight of it is heavy. And it makes me realize just how abandoned and alone I feel by my parents in general. It makes me so angry.

I see how far removed, detached, gone my mom is. She glazes over. She does it all the time. And I’m mad at her for it. I’m mad at myself for being mad at her for it, because I know it’s just her coping mechanism. That’s how she deals with things. I understand that. But it hurts me, and I can’t seem to ignore that yet. Because her coping skill leaves me standing by myself. 

It leaves me alone. Alone to deal with my feelings that I don’t even understand myself. 

I’m angry that she gets to just check out. Especially when I lived at home, I felt such a burden to deal with everything she chose not to. She used me to numb out. To pretend things were good. She used me emotionally to escape the pain of her divorce. And when that happened, I feel like I dealt with that pain alone. I couldn’t go to my mom. Not when I was carrying her weight. My sisters were all on different pages so that felt unsafe. I didn’t know how to talk to my dad yet. I suppose there wasn’t really a choice but to deal and move on. I kept going to school, I tried to pick up help around the house and with Stephen. My mom had never done the independent mom thing. She suddenly had a house to take care of all by herself. And me and Stephen. So I picked up the slack the best I could I guess. But that sort of backfired when I offered myself up as an emotional punching bag. My bad. 

I’m angry at my dad too. Because his physical abandonment hurts too. I’m glad he’s happy, I really am, but god. He’s so far away. He’s so far removed from the situation with my brother. He lives a totally different life. I don’t even know if he’ll be at my graduation and I’m assuming not frankly, because how weird would that be. Plus he hasn’t flown down here in over a year. That’s another thing. He’s good with me flying down there any time but he won’t come down here? I get it with Covid but. Damn. Why can’t he come see my sisters when he’s seen me way more this past year? They’re mad at him for it and I’d say they’re right for that. It’s shitty to not come see your other kids when you’ve seen me so much. I have the luxury of coming to California, they don’t. They have families and jobs. God I hate being in the middle of shit. And I always am. Curse the 9 in me. To see both sides and peacemake, and to be left alone in the middle with nothing. A curse and a blessing.

I think I’ll always be hurt by my dad’s distance. We miss out on the time we used to spend together. And it was a lot. Seeing movies, going out to eat, hanging out in general. He couldn’t come to my band concerts anymore. I don’t know what I wish for here. Maybe that he’d stayed a little longer? But I know he’s happy. So I don’t know. I guess it’s just always a little sad. Perhaps the way he left too was hurtful. One day I came home and he didn’t live there anymore. And from there he got farther and farther away. 

My parents are gone in their own ways. So far removed from the realities that neither of them can stand to look in the face. And I’m mad at them for it. Because look at my brother. He needs help more than ever and what do they do? My mom pretends it’s not as literally life threatening as it is. Her dissociation from reality puts all of us in danger, even though I believe she’s a good mom at heart. She approaches no situation with the gravity it deserves because she pretends it doesn’t possess that gravity. It’s dangerous. And my dad? Bottom line, he’s not here to do anything. He can say all he wants over the phone to my mom but she won’t listen. However it seems that as of recent his best advice is to “keep trying” and encouraging her. Which I guess is good in a way if she won’t take his suggestions. Idk. I won’t ever really know the truth of their private conversations. My brother won’t answer his phone for anyone, especially not my dad. So what’s he to do if he’s so many miles away? Which I still can’t excuse to a degree. Stephen is still his son. I get how hard it is to have any impact from that far away with a mom that won’t really listen, but damn, that’s your son. 

I’m just angry. Angry and hurt. There are so many repercussions from their far removed ways, and I feel so frustrated that my efforts to change that don’t even hold weight. I feel like I’m sitting on an island watching a fire burn in the distance. I feel abandoned and disregarded. Powerless. Pained. I can’t imagine how Stephen feels. And I’m so worried for him. I’m worried for my mom too. I genuinely want her to be happy. But the chaos she allows could get her hurt. And hell, I’m mad at her for allowing that. I want to scream at her to wake up, to care about herself and about her family. But she’s so wrapped up in her own misery that she dissociates and walks through life that way. Just getting by.

And for no reason at all, I can’t help but to think back to all the times I needed help emotionally. Especially in high school when I was so stressed and taking on too much. I would have a breakdown and if, god forbid, one of my parents saw it, they’d hug me and comfort me. But god. I wish they’d told me to drop an AP class or something. Told me to not overwork myself so hard. Instead it felt like... they just sat with me maybe like a friend would? But more removed than that. More distant. My dad would try to make light of it too fast. My mom would be so confused by my crying and try to offer solutions but. Something was missing. And I think it’s the fact that I needed some sort of... parent intervention? Some sort of reassurance that the number of AP classes I took didn’t define me. Or that my mental well-being was more important. I wish for those sort of lessons back then.

Writing has been relieving. Something about it untangles that web of feelings for me. It puts names to them and allows me to explore where they come from and what they look like for me. Maybe will try to emotionally release later, lol. Still sort of numb in that department, but thanks for listening. 

[paperhatcollection]

Sides of a Coin

“-legally they can’t-”

“-swear I’ll break down the door if they don’t-”

“Hehehhehehehhe-”

“Oh! Hey guys, watch-”

“-Warm, Please Consider Shifting Into A Better Position To Allow-”

Jack had his eyes closed, letting the sound of voices wash over him. He didn’t need to look up to know Chase was trying to do a handstand in one corner of the room, or that Jackie was cracking his knuckles while glaring at the door, or that Anti was whispering with Marvin off to the side. He didn’t need to look because it was all happening in his head anyways. 

He wasn’t crazy. At least that’s what Schneep told him, and Bing had even run ‘system checks’, whatever that meant. The other doctors, the one that worked in this place, they thought Jack had Dissociative Identity Disorder, but that was silly. People with DID didn’t see people, or have all the different personality's active at once, and they always found themselves with lost time or memories when the other sides took over. 

The egos wouldn’t have been real if he had DID. And they were real. They wouldn’t be able to touch Jack, to interact with him if they weren't real. The doctors just weren't willing to take the time to figure out what was really going on with Jack. He wished they would. It was always so loud inside his head, Jack would kill for even an hour of silence. 

Anti perked up, sending Jack a bone chilling grin he didn’t need look to see. Jack sighed. 

The door to his room buzzed, a louder and harsher noise compared to the buzzing of the lights overhead. Jack opened his eyes, blinking them. Trying to focus against the dim lights. They were supposed to be calming, but Jack just felt like they were annoying. Across from him, past the table, the door opened, and a man stepped in. Kinda short. Long, wavy hair. Slightly Asian? 

Jack shifted in his chair, trying to get comfortable. It was a metal chair, with plastic seats. Kinda reminded him of being in school. He’d always hated those chairs. The man sat in the chair across from Jack, sending him a warm smile, comforting him. It was better than what most doctors in this place did. 

“Mornin’,” the man said, leaning forward slightly on the desk, hands half folded on top of it. “My name is Dr. Fischbach- or Mark, if you’d prefer. I know it’s a mouthful.” Mark continued to smile at him, his tone light as if he were sharing a joke. “You’re here because you have a psych evaluation next week, and if it goes well, you’ll qualify for a supervised release program, and-”

“Oh, zat’s rich!” Schneep and Jack said, their voices overlapping and echoing back in Jack’s head. “Zah Doctah’s here hate us, zey’d never let us walk away free!”

“Sir, please,” Mark shook his head slightly. “I only want to help you, I promise. The fact you’re even getting the examination shows how much progress you’ve made, but you can’t risk throwing it away by letting your egos run w-”

Jack and Anti burst out laughing, nearly rocking the chair back as they did so. Anti’s grin fit naturally on Jack’s fact, abit a little wide. “Help us? Oh- oh please doc, do you REALLY THINK you could help us? We jumped off the deep end YEARS ago~”

His head tilted forward, shaking it slightly. Off to the side, Chase had leaned his head against the wall, absentmindedly tracing a crack in the concert with one finger. Jack traced invisible lines on the table. “What’s the point? We’ve already lost everything...”

“I don’t like him.” Jackie leaned over Jack’s shoulder as they talked together, eye narrowed Mark, who never took his eyes off Jack’s face. “He’s trying to trick us, I know it.” 

“You don’t trust me.” Mark said. He didn’t sound hurt, just like he was stating a fact. “If I may ask, who am I talking to right now?” 

“Previous Attempts To Explain Ourselves Have Gone... Poorly.” Bing explained, in stand by mode by the side of the table. Anti crept up behind him, reaching out with a glitching hand to poke him, only for Jackie to grab Anti and wrestle him away. The two slammed back into the far back, making a couple landscapes in picture frames rattle on the wall. Bing completely ignored the two of them, and so did Jack. 

“No, no. It’s okay.” Mark assured them. “I know all about your egos. Jackieboy Man, Marvin the Magnificent, Dr. Schneeplestein-”

“Finally!” Schneep scoffed. “Zomeone bozhers to pronounce it right!”

“Anti, Chase Brody, Bing, JJ-”

“JJ’s gone.” Chase whispered. 

Mark paused, blinking. Than he closed his mouth, reduced on Jack, and continued. “Gone? What do you mean?”

“Poof!” Jack grinned and spread his hands, imitating the sparkles Marvin had thrown in the air, but that Mark couldn’t see. “He just disappeared! We don’t know what happened to him, to be honest, but sometimes this new guy shows up in his place. Robbie, I think he’s called.”

“I bet they did something to him,” Jackie growled, getting back up. He abandoned Anti on the floor, his hands tied behind his back with the strap of Jackie’s mask, his knife stolen by the hero so that he couldn’t cut himself free. “They’ve always wanted to get ride of us, get in our head- it was probably that disgusting syrup they forced down Jack’s throat!”

Anti laughed, managing to shove himself up against the wall. “No, cause that was for me! Remember? After me and Schneep cut up Jack’s arms?”

“Uhg,” Marvin shook his head, running a hand down his mask. “They forced us to wear that straitjacket for three years, before I had to put on a preformance and convince them we were fine! Don’t remind me of that.” 

“What about you?” Mark asked. Leaning closer. “What’s your name?” 

“I’m Jack.”

“No, what’s your name.” Mark repeated, lifting his hands to point at Jack with his hands pressed together. Jack paused, blinking and shaking his head. 

“Designation Is Recorded As Jack-”

“Ah, hahahha, is someone BOTHING dear ol’ Jacky?” 

“No, but they’re bothering Jack.”

“I was TALKING ABOUT Jack, you utter-”

“Zut up! We all know vat za ment!”

“Something something S something....” 

Mark jumped at that. “S? Does your name start with an S?”

“I-” Jack shook his head, gulping. The egos were arguing back and forth around them, their words scrambling up in is mouth. He couldn’t focus. “I... I am... sss.. sh...”

“-back my knife-”

“-if I just made him disappear-”

“-demand to speak to a-”

“-Stress Levels Are Rising-”

“SHUT UP!” Mark yelled, breaking through the chatter of the egos as he stood, slamming his hands down on the desk. He finally broke his gaze with Jack, turning it too each ego, one at a time. “How is he supposed to think with you all screaming in his head all the time? Fighting for control like this? None of you are getting out of here unless you work together, and more impotently, let him back in charge!” he jabbed a finger at Jack, lingering his gaze on Anti’s, before finally sitting back down. 

“Now,” Mark cleared his throat, sitting back. “What were you saying?” 

“I...” the man across from Mark shook his head, taking a slow, deep breath. It was too quiet. There was no one in the room except for them. “My name is... I’m...”

“I’m Séan.” 

The smile returned to Mark’s face. Warm, comforting. He laughed. “Nice to have you back, Séan.” 

The door opened behind him. Mark stood up and walked behind Séan, while another man walked in. This one was carrying a coffee mug and a paper folder in his hands, setting both down on the table before taking his seat. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and flipped the folder open, glancing his papers before finally glancing up. 

“Hello, Séan. I’m Dr. Blake. I’m here to talk to you about your psych evaluation next week, if that’s alright?” he asked. Séan nodded slowly. “Okay, good. I’ve got a few questions for you. First, how are you feeling today?”

Mark placed his hand on Séan’s shoulder. “I’m okay, I guess. Thank’s for asking.” 

[volcanicflash]

Morph

„A light in my hand

A light in my heart

I polish the rust off my soul

And place a mirror across from your mirror

So as to create an eternity of you” – Ahmad Shamlou, The Garden of The Mirror (trans. Jason Bahbak Mohaghegh)

 „I am the beginning and ending of what is war

And I am the beginning and ending of what is raw” – Jedi Mind Tricks

 It’s late at night, and nights usually come with grace. There’s a certain eternity to them that doesn’t try to convince me that I should believe every thought I’m having.

But this one is different. It takes only two words and a light switching up in the bathroom for me to start spiraling down. As if a part of my brain would start fogging, no longer being able to see through the endless, calm silence that a warm summer night brings. The brain, when the light switches on, becomes like the bathroom window: a frosted glass. Reality is not allowed. Reality is especially not allowed when I’m looking in the mirror for a brief moment, while I’m washing my hands, and that moment is rewriting everything I knew about myself in a split second, the horror of not seeing my reflection as it is. Or, rather, seeing it exactly as it is. Then the mirror becomes the enemy. Then is the moment of truth for the one who would rather spit herself in the face through the mirror rather than facing it.

I’m trying not to gaze into it any longer, I’m switching off the light, but as I step out from the bathroom, there’s another one in the hallway, a full-body one, gathering in the lights coming from the opposite room, just enough to reflect my silhouette. A form that stays the same even in darkness, where no one can see reality. I shut my eyes, what is reality. I know the next morning won’t be the same.

 *

 Wake up. Stretch. Get up. Sit for five minutes, observe your thoughts. They’re racing. Observe them. Stare at the wall. Put one foot on the ground, feel the cold. Put the other one down, feel the rug. Stand up, open the door, grow a shield, be bulletproof. Open the door, switch up the lights again, observe your surroundings, step on the smooth and fluffy rug that’s trying to distract you from having the thought, then open the faucet, wash your face, look in the mirror, try staying neutral. Feel the itch on your skin, the knot growing in your throat. Resist the urge to claw your face violently. No attack, no satisfaction.

Prepare yourself, be like a dead animal, your own version of taxidermy, put on a pedestal for an imagined audience that stares into your glass eyes, you could almost hear their sharp gazes like knives clashing onto the smooth surface.

Step out on the street and everything is a mirror. Dirty car windows that have „for sale” posters glued to them, dusty and uncomfortable underwear shops’ windows, supermarket walls shining inhumanly. Try not looking, look anyway.

There is no sense of body as whole while looking into a mirroring surface through the lens of dysmorphia. You see shapes and sizes impasted into something you forgot that’s human. They’re just feet that you’d rather shape and smooth down with a chainsaw, you’d slam back together as if the joint could pop back, you’d skin yourself alive to suck off flesh and fat tissue with some weird machine that’s all in your imagination, cut off the breast then reshape them and slam them back onto the flesh, no, you’ve never seen a plastic surgery, no, you’d never be able to endure one, no, absolutely no one would break open your skeleton to reshape it. Nip and tuck, that’s the other story. Sit with it.

Then come the fabrics, textiles that cover you. But none of them fall accurately, and none of them are hugging the skin in the right places. You don’t know where the right places are. You just know that they’re not right places. Palm-sized areas, softness, a curve, an angle. Nothing remains of it if you look at it from the perspective of an insect, climbing up on the skin, stepping on it with its tiny legs, one by one, barging into hairs, dead skin cells. But is this body dead or alive, when you can’t inhabit it. Where does dissociation end, when you’re dissolving in the worm’s stomach-organ, when you can finally see your true reflection in the eyes of deep sea creatures who never saw anything bright before machine encounters and their summer days and nights are infinite in the void of oxygen? Longing for deep salty water won’t sanitize your wounds, evil mathematics and ratio-obsessions. Sometimes I wonder in front of a reflecting surface if all of this will matter in a decade, among severe droughts, hailstorms, floods and food shortages. But the internalized audience and someone else’s voice, that speaks instead of mine disapproves of it. Dwelling in a foreign city, dwelling in a foreign body.

 *

 The only place that has no reflections is a dark one. Lying on the bed, for the first time in my life I wanted to know how being drunk would feel, dead, bare-assed drunk, not remembering anything the next day, in the glorious, numbing headache and graceful nausea, where throwing up would mean that for at least ten minutes I’d turn off a thought process. But I resist.

Then the emptiness ensues. There are no drinks, no drugs, but the feeling of being a vessel, a vessel of void.

I remember sitting in my kitchen with a classmate years ago, working on some insignificant project for an insignificant grade. A small-stature, very pedantic young woman, her legs carefully placed on each other, polka dots, hair in a fringe. I’m explaining the difference and connection between clitoral and vaginal orgasm, as she’s marrying her boyfriend in the next month and the only thing she did with him is kissing.

„But is this a custom in the Baptist Church, that you’re marrying the person after half a year of dating?” – I asked.

„Yeah, usually, but there were some exceptions before.”- she replied with a fake smile that slowly faded into a genuine one, after she realized she’d been through answering one of her most difficult questions in her life. „But I’m very curious. It feels so good when I hug him. And I can feel the wedding night is going to be great.” – she added.

„But have you ever felt that tingling, squeezy, flooding-hot sensation down there before?”

„Yes. It was interesting, at first, I didn’t know how to feel it. That’s why I started to be curious.”

„This curiosity was intense for me too, when I first had sex” – I added – „but my worst concern was that what will he think about my naked body. I’m not in the best relationship with it.”

„Sometimes I’m not either. But then I look in the mirror and I remember that God created us to be perfect. And when I’m thinking about that, it fills me with peace. Try to place your existence into God’s hand.”

Good for you, I thought. I’m placing my existence into the hands of a god below. God, please touch me, I can’t touch myself. Do your duty and fill this vessel. Fuck me to unfuck me.

I’m rolling back to my side, I turn up the volume on the music, the soundscapes fill me up, this is what one usually doesn’t get in subcultures and nomadic taste-groups, these intense sensations during concerts or listening, when the symbolic sonic self-destruction transcends the whole body into another realm of existence. This constant becomingness that fills every nerve, every pore, every inch of skin, these goosebumps that annihilates the pain of being trapped into a body you can’t always cope with.

 *

 What does it mean being a woman, when one is an empty vessel that could be filled up with anything. Does honoring the dread of looking in the mirror count as an approach to end this phase of utter madness? Why do I think every pain that comes across my way is trying to teach me a lesson? In fact, they do. It’s a productive emptiness, a Śūnyatā, a black ensō circle drawn to the blank paper. And with every brush stroke and every new circle drawn in silence, they become infinite, yet none of their ending is connected as the ink slowly fades out from the brush. Where the lines don’t touch, where the saturated ink-spot gathers on the paper, is where pertaining to self ends. While being a vessel of existence is not inherently something good or bad, a shattered vessel is what losing the sense of one’s femininity would look like.

In the evening I’m reading Bolaño’s 2666, where professor Amalfitano is having a conversation with the Voice. When I get tired of it, I just simply press the button on the Kindle and close the cover, I switch off the lights then I take the last stroll to the toilet.

In the hallway the full-body mirror stops me. Lights from the streets gather in it, coming through multiple windows and blinder-holes. The silhouette is standing there in its whole 171-centimeter height, dark and weirdly shaped. „What does femininity mean to you?” –  it asks. „I don’t know”. I’m trying to look away, but it stares into me. „What does femininity look like to you?” – it’s persistent and its voice is hollow but stringent. „Something that’s always someone else and is outside of me. When I see women, I see the lack of woman in me. Yet I don’t know this piece from the puzzle. Woman is a puzzle. Femininity is that piece from the puzzle and the image is not complete. Why are you asking me these?”

Before it could answer, the silhouette transforms itself into someone resembling my young mother. She has no face of her own, but I can see a vortex of words, curses and fragments from lost sentences spinning in her skull. She’s shivering, squeezing her breasts and stomach. And I can hear her voice from behind. „You are pear shaped like everyone in the family”. „I looked just like you when I was your age.” „I was even skinnier”. „When I worked at the theater, I had this guy who said once that if I put cold compresses on my breasts they would cease like pimples.” „You’re so beautiful, can’t you see yourself? Tall and long limbs.” „Many would envy your legs.” „I got fatter after you were born, but before that I was just as thin.”

She’s vibrating until her face starts growing back, then her presence fades away and the voices that came with her. Then my silhouette appears again but turned into stone. And this one tiny snake is just there at its legs, crawling up and down, slowly turning to me, growing and growing, an then it comes right through the mirror.

Its cold skin touches my feet. It creeps up and with every inch of its scales it tries to turn me on, going back and forth on the places I hate seeing the most and it just caresses me and tries to blend in with the softness, and its double tongue is weird and erotic and what’s femininity even more, than weird and erotic? Making love is a snake trying to get into a desire-machine. This is when it becomes cosmic.

[selfconstructedself]

Sometimes I Marvel at my Remarkable Ability to Save Myself

TW biblical counseling mention, conversion therapy brief mention, self harm, eating disorders, suicidality, swearing, abusive relationship, hospitalization mention. This is mostly a therapeutic exercise that people are welcome to read but do not have to. 

Looking back on my progress and how far I’ve come in the past 10 years since I first developed severe mental illness symptoms, I’m really proud of myself and my resilience. (Even though part of that resilience is defined by a dissociative disorder.)

When I was 12 I was placed in “biblical counseling” for self-harm. Needless to say this did not help. I was also dealing with undiagnosed autism, an eating disorder, and my first alter who I clearly remember/who is still active today (Alyria). When I was 14 I realized I’m gay, and realized that I had to get out of biblical counseling before they found out lest it turn into legitimate conversion therapy. I told them what they wanted to hear and they deemed 2+ years of working with me “a success”. By the time I was 15 I was an expert at pretending to be okay even though I was secretly breaking down. I channeled my energy into schoolwork, trying to get high grades so I could get a scholarship to college and get out of there. I worked hard on music so that I could tutor younger students in flute for extra money. I wrote a lot, got better at hiding self harm, and saved my breakdowns for 2 am when I couldn’t sleep, felt suicidal, felt like I was going insane because of the voices in my head and my inability to have a stable identity, etc. 

Right before Christmas when I was 15, I ended up in the emergency room because I passed out from eating disorder symptoms at my Christmas concert in which I had several flute solos. To this day I don’t know why they discharged me the next day- I was very underweight and tachycardic, and it was obvious what was going on. Fearing ending up back in biblical counseling and also fearing for my life in general, I threw myself into the recovery community on Tumblr and set myself on a meal plan I had found online. I did a lot of research on how to safely increase my caloric intake and had the goal of being weight restored and on a weight maintenance meal plan by my 16th birthday 6 months later, and I fucking did it. Somehow. A fighting spirit, determination, friends on Tumblr, my inner self helper (@ you Kari), and some amazing friends at school who held me up when I couldn’t do so myself. I would have mini relapses and my weight would go up and down over the next 3 years, and it would take 3 more years before I would figure out intuitive eating, but I somehow recovered from one of the most deadly mental illnesses without much therapeutic help. 

I graduated from high school in the top 10% of my class, got a scholarship to college, and moved out a few weeks after turning 18. Before moving out I had emailed my college counseling center explaining that I’d basically spent the last 6 years of my life super fucked up and the last 3 years of my life holding myself together and could I please get some professional help now? They responded with yes and they would provide all the support they could and to call to set up an appointment after I moved in. I called after my parents left and set up an appointment for the next week and at that intake appointment I finally felt safe. I finally felt like I didn’t have to do this on my own anymore. 

After a few weeks of working with me, the counseling center assessed me and diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder and after the first semester of college, I decided to seek out DBT. I found a DBT therapist who did group and individual sessions 2 miles from me, called and scheduled a meeting, took a bus to her office, and explained that my parents didn’t believe in therapy so I couldn’t use their insurance nor could I afford to pay out of pocket, but that I really needed it, and we worked out a system where I did some administrative work for her (super ethical grey area I know, but it worked) and I got the rest of the money from babysitting my professor’s kid (another ethical grey area, that also worked). 

I credit DBT with saving my life. Even though all throughout my DBT experience I was completely disconnected from the fact that I was in an abusive relationship and my OSDD was getting worse, or even the fact that I had OSDD at all, my BPD and ED symptoms were improving and I had finally gotten an informal-but-valid autism diagnosis that I was adjusting to. DBT helped me strengthen my inner self helper and decrease my self-destructive behaviors and ultimately helped me realize I was being gaslighted and got me out of the abusive relationship. 

It would take a psychiatric hospitalization for me to finally access a comprehensive psychological evaluation, get diagnosed with OSDD-1B, get on the right medication for bipolar, and begin facing the trauma of my childhood and the abuse of my early adulthood. I still haven’t uncovered whole years of my childhood but I am coming to terms with that being okay. I don’t have to remember to recover. I have continued to advocate for myself - my rights to confidentiality and quality in my psychiatric care, my rights to self-determination as an autistic adult, my qualifications to be admitted into a top university graduate program in a profession that, on paper, I do not look capable of but that I have proven I can do. 

I somehow made it to adulthood and independence with very little support. It’s not easy but I am almost completely financially independent and at any moment have the financial resources to disconnect my parents from my life were I to need to. I’ve got a long way to go in trauma therapy and I haven’t made it yet but I am making it. I’ve got this, we’ve got this, my system is overall working together to construct a sometimes messy but overall beautiful life for us. I have a lot to be proud of, and I need to remember that. 

[laughingupfromhell]

My Gillette Experience + Pre-Show M&G.  7.28.18 -- Extended Edition

I’m sorry this has taken so long to post, but it’s literally so hard to get my thoughts together because I’m still so overwhelmed by the fact that this even HAPPENED to me. I’d convinced myself it wasn’t in the cards, that Taylor didn’t know me, and that I needed to find a way to be okay with never meeting her. But then, IT HAPPENED. (I’m going to write the whole story from the time I got the DM and it’s going to be really long, so if you just want to read the Taylor part, I’ll write it in bold so you can skip to it easily. Just keep scrolling. I’m just posting the long version so I can look back on it whenever I want and never forget anything. I’ll post just the Taylor part individually too in case you don’t want to hunt for it.)

Friday, July 27th, I had the worst day at work. I work in a cafe, and the AC was out in the kitchen which made the entire place SO hot. Literally, it was 92 degrees in the building and we had the ovens on. I live in Florida, so it was disgusting and I felt so sick. We were shorthanded, I was stressed out about my flight, dealing with some pretty intense anxiety about meeting people I had never met before because I’m shy af, and just overall feeling kind of bleh despite being so excited for the concert the next day. I found out as I was on the way to the airport that my flight had been delayed nearly three hours and that set me into panic mode, because it would put me in Boston around 2 in the morning instead of 10pm. Eventually it got pushed back to only an hour delay, which made me feel a little better, and I passed the time in the airport just walking around the shops and scrolling tumblr. Jaime @cages-boxes-hunters-foxes texted me to tell me that one of my best friends Meredith @meredithswift had just met Taylor and I was SO excited for her because I’ve known how much she wanted this since we started talking in 2008. Jaime was like “you next!” and I was like “noooo, it’s not going to happen for me.” Taylor was intent on making me look like boo boo the fool.

Right before I boarded the plane, around 8pm, I took a selfie at the gate because I was bored and tagged Taylor in it on tumblr and said “I’m coming for you, Taylor!” I didn’t even know she was online, and she never liked the post, so I didn’t think anything of it after that.

 I boarded the plane, but there was a RIDICULOUS thunderstorm going on so we sat on the tarmac for nearly two hours, and I had been DMing back and forth with Jeannine @it-feels-like-a-perfect-night all day, so when I saw a notification on tumblr, I thought it was her...until I opened it and it said taylornation. All of my internal organs came flooding out of my ass in that moment and landed on the plane floor beneath me, not clickbait. I literally didn’t believe it was real for a whole hot ass minute because things like this do not happen to me and I was LITERALLY sitting on a plane about to go to Boston so WHAT WAS HAPPENING??? I open it, and they asked for all my information, and when the best time to call was. I was like????!!!? I’m LITERALLY SITTING ON A PLANE LESS THAN 24 HOURS BEFORE MY SHOW AND YOU WANT TO KNOW WHEN THE BEST TIME CALL IS???? YESTERDAY???? I ALREADY HAVE MY BAG CHECKED, I DON’T HAVE TIME TO BUY ANOTHER OUTFIT, I LOOK LIKE A RAT!!!! So obviously I said “I don’t land until midnight but anytime after that, thank you so much!” 

At this point I’m in such shock I literally have no reaction other than to stare unblinking at the seat in front of me and go into full body tremors. I’m pretty sure the girl next to be me on this flight thought I was scared of flying or something, because I was literally shaking so hard I could hear my teeth chattering together. My heart rate shot through the goddamn roof. If you don’t believe me, here is a helpful graph from my Fitbit. I hit 117 BPM from 58 BPM. I’m pretty sure that is indicative of an actual heart attack.

I didn’t know what to do, so I immediately texted my mom and I KNOW it says the message is confidential and you’re not supposed to tell anyone but I needed my mother to know that if her only child died mid-flight, it was taylor nation’s fault and to tell Taylor I loved her. It was VITAL. The southern jumped out -- I literally haven’t called her mama since I was 10, I don’t even know. 

I also told my friend Lindsey @lskbe because I once promised her she’d be one of the first to know if it was ever going to happen and she was a GEM even though she DIDN’T ANSWER ME RIGHT AWAY BUT ANYWAY!!!! (screenshot provided by her). She made me a playlist titled 7.28.18 on spotify and everything for the occasion because she is extra and I love her. 

 I spent the next 2 1/2 hours literally trying not to pee myself with anxiety and excitement because then of course I start thinking WHAT IF THEY FORGET TO CALL? What if it’s just merch? What if I’m boo boo the fool? What if this isn’t real life? Then we hit turbulence and my thoughts turn darker like WHAT IF THE PLANE CRASHES AND I DIE BEFORE I MEET HER? I literally had to make Jaime reassure me multiple times that turbulence wouldn’t make the plane crash and that I would survive. We love her logical brain. So obviously now that I’ve stopped panicking it’s time to take selfies to post later.

 I finally make it to Boston and at this point I think I’ve dissociated because I just can’t even think about it anymore. My brain was on overdrive and I didn’t even know how to process. It was either shut it down or shout it from a rooftop and I COULDN’T TAKE THAT RISK. 

I got to meet my sweet honeys @straightlinedownx and @heypay FINALLY and it’s up there in my top ten best moments of life. They’d just gotten home from Night 2 so they were pretty spent and it was 1:30 in the morning, so we all headed to bed, but if you thought I was sleeping, you’re WRONG because I was literally peeing every half hour because I was so nervous and excited. I was like a chihuahua I swear to god. I was talking to Brittany @messthatuwanted for most of the night trying not to be suspicious and I guess I did a pretty good job because she NEVER FOUND OUT until I wanted her to. Which is what her snake ass deserves tbh. I literally didn’t get to sleep until 4:30 in the morning and then I woke up at 6:45 am and was like...well they said they’d call me in the morning, and technically it is morning, so I should stay up. Clearly logical. Obviously. We love anxiety. I couldn’t turn the ringer on for my phone because I was sharing a room with people and I didn’t want to wake anyone up so going back to sleep was a risk I wasn’t willing to take. 

I spent most of the morning internally exploding, and I eventually told @heypay because I needed someone to tell me I was being crazy and that they would call and she did a very good job at this, so thank you Paige, you’re the love of my life. We were all laying around, relaxing, watching Lejla and Liana’s pet rabbit eat a salad, you know...typical things friends do, when I got a call from a NYC number and shit my pants. I got up from the floor so fast and ZOOMED to the kitchen and Paige followed after me and practically shoved me out of the apartment door so I could have some privacy lol. It was Sydney from Taylor Nation and she was a sweetie and asked how my flight was and and rambled on about delayed flights and I was like....I literally do not care, I’m so sorry, please tell me what I NEED TO KNOW WOMAN I AM DYING!!!! Eventually she cuts to the chase and is like “have you ever had an opportunity before?” And I was like um...hehe..it depends on what you mean by an opportunity because I REALLY JUST WANTED HER TO SAY THE WORDS and she was like “have you ever met taylor before?” and I was like NO!!! I HAVEN’T!!!! At this point I’m shaking so hard I had to lean against the wall for fear of falling down the stairs because THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING, HUH? Then she asks if I’m going to the show with anyone who hasn’t had an opportunity before and I said YES, my precious baby Emily @straightlinedownx. So she asks for Emily’s information and thank god I had checked her facebook to find out her birthday before just in case they asked (since they asked for mine) because IT WAS A STRESSFUL TIME. So she tells me I’ll get a DM within the hour letting us know when we’re verified and where we should pick up our envelope between 4 and 5 pm and I’m just saying thank you over and over and over again because WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO LIKE WTF IS EVEN HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!!!!!!! 

So in my head I had this beautiful thing planned for how I would tell Emily she’s meeting Taylor, but it turns out beautiful plans can’t happen when your brain is literally exploding, so instead of doing this elaborate thing where I filmed her reaction and everything, I just went over to where she was lying on the ground and kicked her. As friends do. She turns around and I’m like “Come. Here.” I was probably terrifying, I’m so sorry Emily, but I didn’t KNOW WHAT TO DO. So she follows me out to the kitchen and WHAT DO YOU SAY OTHER THAN WHAT IS HAPPENING???? SO I JUST SPIT IT OUT AND SAID “We’re meeting Taylor” and she deadass goes “No we’re not.” Just so casual.  And I’m like “We are. We’re meeting Taylor tonight. I got a DM on the plane and they just called me. I’m bringing you. We’re meeting Taylor.” AND THIS DUMB BICTH GOES “ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO BRING ME????” AND I’M LIKE “BICTH YES????? OF COURSE I DO???” And then she just kept doing this the rest of the day and it was my favorite thing. Here she is in Starbucks ten minutes after finding out. 

So we spent the rest of the day obsessing over make up and hair and we headed to the stadium around 2 PM because we wanted to make sure we had plenty of time to meet up with people and buy merch etc. Here’s us waiting for our ride (photo credit to angel @iknowplacesclean and a big thank you for letting me stay at your apartment spur of the moment!!!)

 We met up with Steph ( @thesethingswillchange), Leyton, Jess ( @jtmaster13) , and Sammi (@slytherinraven13) and I got to tell them all what was happening and they were SO happy for us because they’re literal angels on earth.

 Once we made it to will call and gave them our names, THEY DIDN’T KNOW WHAT WE WERE TALKING ABOUT so I started to panic, naturally, but it was chill because they found it eventually and we immediately started taking pictures with the paper. Some nice lady offered to take one for us, bless her, because the struggle was so real. 

By this point I had told all of my friends but Jaime @cages-boxes-hunters-foxes and Brittany @messthatuwanted because I was planning on snaking them the way they snaked me when they met Taylor, and it brought me the greatest joy in life since they both thought I was incapable of it. Little did I know that Jaime was on her way to SURPRISE ME AT THE SHOW which was a MESS since I was in REP ROOM WHEN SHE WAS LOOKING FOR ME! But more on that later. So we met @ninetay89 at will call and we were all so excited for each other because honestly it’s what we all deserved and we just kind of hung out, waiting in line for the gates to open and that’s when Meredith @meredithswift came RUNNING towards me full force. Meredith and I met when we were 13 and 15. We were each others first online friends, and we became full blown stans together. She was the one that convinced me to make a taylor tumblr blog in the first place way back in 2010. We’d never, ever met before that moment and it was honestly one of the highlights of my entire life. I love her with my whole entire heart and it was one of the best hugs I’ve ever gotten. We didn’t let each other go for like 3 minutes. It was great. 

The gates finally open and me and Emily ZOOM up to the 100 level bathrooms to fix our make up because the humidity was KILLER and we were legitimately melting. Then we had to run back down the stairs to meet at the bottom of 129/30 and met up with @sunflowershealing and she was SO sweet! I’m so glad we got to meet! 

So a security guard comes up to us and tells us we’re actually supposed to meet at the TOP of 129, which isn’t what the paper said but it’s FINE, so we go up MORE stairs and it’s honestly beginning to feel like gym class now but it’s fine because I will do hours of cardio for Taylor Swift if need be. So we go up only to be told to go back down the stairs AGAIN because what is organization and they give us our wrist bands and we’re GOING TO REP ROOM BITCHES. 

Let me just say that I was chill literally the entire day. I was excited, yeah, but I wasn’t nervous or anything. Even when we got to Rep Room, I was totally fine. But when I saw the Rep Room doorway, I was jumping up and down like a five year old because how was this REAL LIFE? I never in a million years thought when Taylor shared the fact about Rep Room and showed us the inside that I would ever see it in PERSON. And here I was, walking through the arch??? SOUNDS FAKE. So we get in there, and there are three polaroid cameras sitting on a table next to the throne, but I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to touch them since I’ve heard that a lot of pre-show meet and greets weren’t allowed to do much in rep room. So Emily and I just kind of hang out next to them and hope for the go ahead, which Steph from Taylor Nation eventually gives us and then she has to help our dumb asses put film in them because we’re USELESS. But it’s fine. We take pictures on the throne first, and they came out so iconic honestly I will never take a better picture. 

Obviously I had to take a picture with the iconic rainbow dress.

My one singular complaint about the polaroid idea is that rep room is SO dark and it doesn’t really work well with the film. 

There was water, coke, diet coke, and sprite available to us, but not the booze or the cookies that were in previous rep rooms. Probably because it’s pre-show or because there wasn’t media that night, I’m not sure. Anyway, we’re able to mingle for about 8-10 minutes maybe? Maybe shorter than that, but Steph tells us to put the cameras up and line up. We were third from last to go in of about 5-6 groups. I’d say there were about 10-12 people in there. I’m pretty short, so  I couldn’t see Taylor when they opened the curtain to let the first group in, but I heard someone say “She’s wearing the purple Olivia shirt” and I was like...I literally hate her. Everyone keeps talking and I just wanted them all to shut UP so I could HEAR HER SPEAKING. Eventually, we’re a few groups from going in and I hear her laugh and that’s when it really started getting real. This was really happening. I was about to meet Taylor. Surprisingly, I managed to STILL hold it together. Right before we went in, “Type” by Todrick Hall comes on and I was screaming because I KNEW that would be her favorite song on Forbidden. 

So they open the curtain and she’s standing RIGHT there and she opens her arms so wide and goes “oh my god hiiiiii” and without hesitation I just go right into her arms and wrap her up so tight and said “Hi, I’m Megan!” and she starts laughing and goes “I know! I picked you last night, I see your posts all the time, I saw your selfie like I’m coming for you...and I was like I’m coming for you, I sent your post to TN and was like I need her, bring me her.” Literally I wish I could describe in detail the noise that came out of my mouth when she said I know, because it definitely wasn’t human. I was like “YOU KNOWWWWW???” But i literally growled it like some kind of rabid animal, I’m SO sorry, Taylor. That was the first time I lost my chill, which surprisingly only happened twice. 

As soon as she drops that bomb on me she turns to Emily to hug her which is what she DESERVES but I was so shook by what she said that I was leaning in for another hug but her back is to me now so I kind of halfway climbed her back I HATE MYSELF. Like my hand was gripping her shoulder and my other hand was pressed against her back and I had to physically talk myself off the ledge like BE COOL BITCH, BACK UP, DON’T BE WEIRD! So I just subtly slide my hands off of her and step back...only to embarrass myself further by stepping closer to Emily, aggressively rubbing her back and shouting “THIS IS EMILY! WE LOVE HER!!!!” Honestly what the fuck is wrong with me? She goes “Thank you guys so much for coming!” And I literally PANTED out “THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR INVITING ME!” Literally I was malfunctioning. I needed to be rebooted.

She turns back to both of us and shimmies her shoulders because she clearly wants me dead and goes “Sooooooooo....” and without hesitation I go “We need to talk about ‘Look What You Made Me Do’” and she’s like “okay, what do we need to talk about?” And then...I did it ladies. I literally told her I didn’t get the joke when it first came out, it flew right over my head and I thought she was being serious about the old taylor being dead and I was so worried about her that I threw up in a parking lot. She goes “Oh my god WHAT? That makes me so sad!” But she was laughing so hard, she threw her head back and covered her mouth, and for a split second I’m like DID I HURT HER FEELINGS??? DOES SHE THINK I HATE THE SONG??? So I was like “NO NO BUT I LOVED IT!” and she goes “You threw up!” And I’m like “BECAUSE I WAS WORRIED ABOUT YOU! I WAS LIKE IS SHE OKAY????” And she literally can’t stop laughing, she’s doing that stupid dolphin laugh she does and I literally wanted to smoosh her face between my hands because I adore her so much and she is so fucking cute and GOD I WANT TO DIE. So she goes “I was literally climbing out of a grave dressed as a zombie, you didn’t get how that was supposed to be funny???” And I was like “NO, I understood it was a joke when the video came out but for a whole week before I didn’t get the joke!” And she goes “Ohhhh, when the single dropped and you listened you were like WHAT IS WRONG WITH HER???” And she just kept laughing like honestly what the fuck is my life? I made Taylor Swift LAUGH? ME??? (Emily said everyone in the room was laughing, like the security at the door and everything I literally want to jump off a cliff.) So I was like “YES EXACTLY! I was like is she okay? I’m so worried about her, I need to know that she’s okay!” And she like...touched my arm and goes “But you’re okay now, right?” and made the most INTENSE eye contact like...if there is one thing I will say about meeting her, it’s that she keeps eye contact with you the WHOLE time and you know she’s hearing everything you say, she’s paying attention to every word and you KNOW she cares. And I’m like “yeah! I get the joke now, I get it, I swear!” And EMILY GOES “I don’t think she’s okay...” like honestly... drag me.

So I attempt to change the subject and the bitch CUTS ME OFF and leans in to me, looks down at me with this smirk on her face and goes “....do you need me to explain the joke to you?” like she was TEASING me, but I was being DRAGGED. I was like “NO, I get it now! I get it!” BUT SHE EXPLAINED IT ANYWAY. She explained that the whole concept of the line came from how people were saying Taylor Swift is over, she’s dead, and she was making fun of the whole cancellation culture that social media and media in general has, so she decided to just be like “Ohhhh, cause she’s deaaaaaad” (and she said it in the funniest, whiniest mocking voice I literally can’t stand her) to show them all how stupid they sounded when they said things like that. To paraphrase because I don’t remember exact wording, she said that’s really just the whole tone of the album, reputation, itself. That there are a lot of things that go into building a reputation, but that a reputation isn’t real, it’s a perception that can be formed by any number of things, true and false, but isn’t always based on what is actually happening. It’s fake, just like the old taylor being dead is fake, it’s a joke. I think the entire time she was saying this I kept repeating “No I get it, I get it” because I wanted to be sure she knew that I got it, but I think she really just wanted to explain it in general and I’m so glad she did, because I loved the insight. And then she goes “BUT IT’S SO FUNNY NOW because they’re like ‘What is she doing with the snakes? Why is she doing that? She’s so annoying!’ And I’m just like BECAUSE YOU TWEETED IT OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN EVERY SINGLE DAY! YOU’RE JUST MAD BECAUSE IT DOESN’T BOTHER ME ANYMORE!” And I shit you not, she was literally screaming this in my face, and acting like she was scrolling through her phone and laughing like...I was scared lmao. I just kept saying “I’m so proud of you, you just took it back, it’s what you deserve!” God, she’s so pretty when she laughs I can’t stop picturing it and hearing it and I don’t know where I could possibly go from here, I’ve peaked. 

She turned to Emily then, and I’m not going to share what happened there because it’s Emily’s story to tell, but I’m literally so happy that she gave her the love she deserves. The moment they shared touched me so much. 

When she looked like she was stepping into position for a photo, I suddenly flashed back to everything my friends who had met her already told me -- that if you stop talking, the M&G will end, but if you keep talking, so will she, so I sort of side stepped and started talking to her about how I’ve dealt with some pretty toxic relationships in the past couple years, and how it breaks my heart to think she’s ever felt the same way as I have in those moments of vulnerability and hurt, but that I was so thankful for songs like Dear John and Better Man because it made me feel less alone. And she goes “it’s always nice to know that you’re not alone in feeling the way you do, I totally get it. But that’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? That’s why we come to a stadium and we sing and dance and cry (we said cry at the same time, what kind of shared brain bullshit?) with each other, because we understand each other. We have that connection.” 

From there it got a little personal for me, and I want to keep that for myself, but she gave me the biggest, tightest hug and said some of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me and I’ve never felt more loved in my entire life than I did in those few minutes in a room with her. She said “I love you sooo much” and I said I loved her too, and then she asked what we wanted to do for a picture and Emily goes “I wanna do a smoosh...” because she’s the cutest person that has ever BREATHED and Taylor looked so confused so we both said at the same time (at the suggestion of Paige) “Can we do a Taylor face sandwich?” and she got so excited and was like “YEAH, I’ll smoosh your faces to mine!” So we got in position for that I knew I grabbed onto her, but I didn’t actually know what part of her I grabbed, I think I was reaching for her hand forgetting that her hand was on my face LOL. 

Anyway, we got our picture, she told us she loves us and hopes we have fun at the show and that she was so happy we were there and Emily manages AT THE LAST SECOND to go “CAN YOU PLAY COME BACK BE HERE.....please” and I’m like “Yeah, like....tonight.” And I felt so bad because I know I sounded so forceful and I DIDN’T MEAN TO. And she goes “Well, I can’t tonight because I promised someone else I’d play a different song, but I promise I will play it at a show soon, I know how much you guys want that one, I promise.” And we thanked her and told her we loved her and took our autograph and our dignity and got the hell out. 

I remember I was shaking when I came out of rep room, but I wasn’t freaking out really. I was still pretty chill. Chiller than I expected to be. We got about halfway back to her seats and I screamed “WHAT DID SHE SAY???” because for about five minutes, I blacked out completely. It was such a whirlwind of emotion that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to feel again. When we got back to our seats, the sweet angel that is Steph came over to me and asked how it went and I managed to get out “I said Hi, I’m Megan and...and....and...” and then I completely LOST MY SHIT and started SOBBING in Steph’s arms. I literally could not process that she KNEW WHO I WAS! I’M A LITERAL GARBAGE CAN! WHY DID SHE KNOW ME??? WHY DID SHE LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT? WHY DID SHE LAUGH SO MUCH? I COULDN’T PROCESS!

Steph: Meg, Taylor wanted to meet you, how do you feel?  

 The sobbing didn’t last long and I recovered just in time to meet my sweet baby Lauren @iknowplaces13 which I was SO EXCITED FOR! She was so happy for me and such an angel BUT THIS WASNT THE END OF THE ANGELS because JAIME APPEARS OUT OF THIN AIR TO SURPRISE ME (even though Dani @screamedsooloud ruined the surprise by accident but it’s FINE) and at this point, I still haven’t told Jaime that I met Taylor and I’m squirming trying to get out of the vice like hug she’s giving me so i can pull up my sleeve and show her my wristband LOL. Eventually she lets me BREATHE and I yank my sleeve up and go “SURPRISE, Snake!” and she literally is the blinking man gif, just no actually expression, raises her eyebrows, looks down at it and back at me and just goes “....when?” and then LAUNCHES herself at me because she is the sweetest, purest bean on the planet and was so genuinely happy for me. She’s listened to me cry about how I was sure this would never happen for so long and she kept telling me she was sure it would happen in Tampa and it was SO fun to outsnake her for once. I started telling her the story and every time I’d tell her something new, she’d tackle me again, it was so PURE. I love her with my entire heart.  Here’s a picture after I’ve cried all my eyeliner off. 

And then I snaked Brittany @messthatuwanted for snaking me because it’s what she deserved: 

The show was obviously amazing and we had great seats near the B stage and were able to make it to barricade, which was such a highlight to an already amazing night. I danced so much and sang at the top of my lungs and had a full on breakdown during long live that Emily the angel had to hold me through because I literally could not cope. Just full on sobbing for half the song. I had so much fun with Emily, Steph, Jess, Sammi, Leyton, Lejla, Sarah, Paige, and everyone else I spent time with this weekend. I’m forever grateful to Taylor for bringing so many amazing people into my life, I don’t deserve any of you and I can’t wait to reunite with 99 percent of the people I met at Gillette in Nashville. 

I quite literally had the time of my life with you, @taylorswift. Thank you so much for loving me like I love you, thank you for loving my friends and for bringing them into my life. I’ll never forget you as long as I live.

[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.

[everythingbutthecat]

The Suicidal Elephant in the Parlour or Anne of Green Gables and Depression, Loss, & Suicide

by Adrianna Prosser

It’s no secret I’m a redhead, and it’s likely no surprise that when I was young I pretended I was Anne of Green Gables. In fact, my first best friend from junior kindergarten was a raven haired girl that I nicknamed Diana (hi Erin!) and she in turn called me Anne. When I was 14 I played Anne in my regional community theatre show in the musical (see community newspaper photo below) and it caused quite a stir: the theatre sweetheart who was supposed to play Anne with her beau as Gilbert was thwarted by me, an awkward untrained teenager who already knew the libretto by heart and I owned a straw hat. That show defined my love for theatre and my love of Anne transformed into a love of performing and storytelling. Anne was my life. Anne was me. From her temper to her bombastic nature, her hyperbolic narratives and of course her wild imagination, and let us not forget her competitive nature at school was all playing out pretty much the exact same way only in 1980s Canada in Barrie, instead of PEI in the 1880s.

^1998 newspaper article photo with me and my “schoolmates” in Avonlea school for South Simcoe’s Anne of Green Gables musical production in Cookstown, Ontario.

Naturally I watched the Megan Follows series of Anne until the VHS tapes wilted and wouldn’t play in my VCR. I used the musical version as my audition songs to get into theatre school and plays. I even grew up to be a schoolhouse teacher in a 1910 museum where I involuntarily (ok ok I did it on purpose) looked like Anne in Anne of Avonlea when she gives up her scholarship to stay with Marilla and teaches at the nearby school. I made time in my curriculum to read aloud from Anne of Green Gables the infamous chapter “Tempest in the School Teapot” to my grade 3’s and did voices for Diana, Anne, Gilbert and Mr Andrews; the crack on the head was always the best part played by the schoolhouse strap and a quick thwack to an antique desk. The kids would jump and laugh and want me to read more - what happened to Anne with an e?

Anne has been a big part of my life since I was 5 years old.

Then the CBC casts RH Thompson as Matthew and all of a sudden I’m back in Avonlea with earnest dread: what are they doing to Anne? I hear mixed reviews, I can’t seem to make myself watch it. It has been years since I have shed tears for the reveal of LM Montgomery’s secret: her granddaughter went public to say that Lucy had died by suicide. There was a note in her journal that seemed to indicate as much. I haven’t grieve the author of my youth, but now with this new rendition coming to TV I was going to have to face much more than childhood memories.

The CBC version called Anne The Series is wonderful: the vistas, the costumes, the character work… but there is something hard and dark around the edges. Gone are the warm hues, the bright scenery, the soft focus - this version has the contrast up, the grit and clarity filter showing weathering and wrinkles, and blues and greys highlight most every scene. I am intrigued to see some scenes play out exactly as I remember, and then others make me weep.

I enjoy adaptations, I am an actor and playwright and have read and performed several Shakespearean renditions of the same title over and over again in different ways throughout my career. I get it. Why do the exact same thing when it’s been done before? My thoughts and feelings are that of someone who GETS IT. I liked that in 2017 when this version premiered, we have such days celebrating mental health and focusing on mental illness like #MentalHealthWeek or #BellLetsTalk or suicide prevention day is September 10th and we as a collective here in Canada are getting better at being mental health advocates and de-stigmatizing depression, therapy, suicide and mental illnesses to the point that we are able to talk about it in pop culture (ie. 13 Reasons Why, The Virgin Suicides, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, etc…) and we are left to unpack it at our own pace and level of understanding as an audience member. So when this Anne adaptation starts to inject Lucy Maud Montgomery’s narrative into Anne’s I feel two things: 

OF COURSE now we can talk about this! Now we can interpret the reasons why Anne was talking to her reflection in a glass window and named her mirrored self Katie and talked to herself like as if she was two people - THAT isn’t normal. They could be dissociative disorder and throughout the show we see ways in which Anne has dealt with trauma, loss, and the loss of her innocence (though I don’t think rape was implied she has heard and or seen sex and possibly witnessed rape in this adaptation,) at such a young age that of course she needs imaginary friends to help her deal with her situation, or even just the profound loneliness she lives. OF COURSE there would be residual PTSD moments that leave Anne riddled with inaction and mental scarring hearing from every person that she is not a person but a tool to keep the household running and forced to care for three sets of triplets; being told all the while that she is not a family member and reminded of it constantly. OF COURSE we should raise awareness of the things that were happening in Canada around this time like the beginnings of the Suffragettes and women’s rights activism, and of course we should inject that history into a retelling where we as a viewing audience can accept that lens showing us a bit beyond the warm fuzzy historical narrative we are used to.

BUT. And it’s a but I am still struggling with… When the show paints a portrait outside of what’s in the book and rewrites the scope of its characters ambitions and actions - I get mad. And I don’t know why. The specific scene I’m talking about is when Matthew, brilliantly portrayed by RH Thompson (of Road to Avonlea fame,) Here is the show and the book version:

Having re-read all of Anne of Green Gables to see where the artistic liberties by Walley-Beckett for the CBC version (she wrote on Breaking Bad and I joke that this is Breaking Anne,) are and where the book informs the adaptation. (I wanted to know if Marilla and Matthew had been given made-up backstories or if they were indeed in book *fun fact Marilla WAS courted by John Blythe, but the Jeanie button story, though adorable, never happens for Matthew as we are constantly reminded in the book of how shy he is to women, Anne being the only exception.) And of course the suicide scene was never in my recollection but I had to be sure that as a child I wasn’t just misunderstanding LM Montgomery’s intentions.

This is where my very biased opinion takes the milk crate:

Matthew Cuthbert from the novel never exhibited depression, suicidal attempts, nor “invitations”. When I say invitations I mean the signs that one may perceive as invitations to recognize inner thoughts and feelings to be that of a suicidal nature. And the show version of Matthew also does not exhibit these invitations. But that is not to say that impulsive suicides don’t exist, just that they are very very rare. Also, in Christian Victorian society they are DOUBLY rare. So to, speaking to his character (in both book and show version) do I question Walley-Beckett and her exploitative use of suicide in this narrative - it seems wildly out of character and ridiculous. 

It seemed the choice was made for ratings and getting fangirls like me bawk at this rendition and give buzz to the show rather than playing into the original story’s nuance - like how I applaud her use of mental illness in Anne and that is why she is the “gypsy witch” that everyone calls her in the book: it is why she isn’t like everyone else on the island because everyone else on the island hasn’t been abused like Anne has. The stigma of being an orphan is explored and highlighted with the picnic scene in the show that doesn’t happen in the book. Anne has to triumph over her snobby neighbours not once like in the book (she saves Diana’s sister from croup) but defies a RAGING HOUSE FIRE in the show at the Gillis homestead to save a child and help put out the fire (a nod to her reading everything under the sun even a fire fighting manual at the train station, a call back to the first episode). 

Sure. I like the in-between the lines bits like that. In fact upon re-reading it a lot of the action doesn’t take place on the page, it is usually recounted to us by our grand storyteller Anne herself, so the events are wide open to interpretation because often LM Montgomery says ‘and the concert happened’ or ‘and the school year passed’ and that’s it. My friend JM Frey writes how "Anne is an unreliable narrator.” and I agree.

But, what I can’t handle is imposing trendy topics into a show that is near and dear to many a Canadian heart for the sake of ratings. I thought it a bit odd how blunt the feminist sewing circle was. Not in the book by the way but huzzah for modern narratives and exploring what that gossip and chit-chat would be at Mrs. Lynde’s sewing bees (in the book it’s her gatherings). And clearly what spurned this whole blog-novel is the suicidal elephant in the parlour...

Then the other side of my heart believes this is a good thing, this new Matthew who is depressed because he is getting older and can’t “spare himself a mite” and then his reluctance to listen to his sister leads to them losing all their money. He has the same symptoms of the men who jumped from the ledge of their workplace in the Great Depression. Guilt. Blame. Loss of hope. Burden. And being the sole provider, or being told that one is by culture and society, he is overwhelmed and not only that he is weak in body so he can’t fight as hard as he used to… is suicide so unheard of for our dear Matthew? Many a Christian soul has taken their own lives. Many a Victorian had too, so too our dear writer LM Montgomery is believed to have taken her own life just outside of Toronto proper at the house she nicknamed “Journey’s End.”

While I cannot deny my anger and resentment and frustration with this new rendition of Anne of Green Gables I am reminded that the original still lays intact on my bookshelf and I can re-read it anytime. That maybe this new Anne is taking characters we have invested our love and time with for over a century and that perhaps this unsettling feeling that Matthew would try to take his life is the exact hurt we need to feel to address the suicidal elephant in our own lives. 

When my brother died by suicide I was, am, beside myself with questions, guilt, blame, and looking for reasons. This scene made me react in a similar visceral way, to be sure because I am suicide bereaved, but also I had a pre-existing connection with Matthew since I was 5 years old! Matthew is a fictional character and I am not equating him with my real life brother, but I can’t deny that the way this rendition of the story being told rattled me to the core, and I don’t think it would have elicited the same response with a new tv show about a teenage girl with a distraught father figure who attempts suicide after a huge money loss. My love and time wouldn’t be as invested, and so using a beloved cultural phenomenon like Anne to share these themes, and with a main character no less, seems…. bold. And perfectly infuriating for the right reasons.

So while I digest all these feelings I am resolved to let them stay in this area of grey. The show isn’t wrong and the book isn’t right, or vice versa. What I can take away with certainty that I am glad LM Montgomery’s work is being appreciated all over again, along with her new Heritage Minute 

^which not only focuses on her talented writing, but that she wrote such an epic while struggling with depression. That message that you can still create and create great things while depressed is a message we need to hear and celebrate. We also need to own that some people are suicidal and we all need to step up our efforts to help our loved ones around us know that they can talk about it, seek help without judgement, and lean on us. There is no need to read between the lines like we are here with Anne, and we can ask our friends and family directly for help when we too have thoughts and feelings that make us want to end our lives.

“It was the last night before sorrow touched her life, and no life is ever quite the same again once that cold, sanctifying touch has been laid upon it.” -LM Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables, Chapter 36 “The Glory and the Dream”

Thank you Anne for once again growing up with me and helping me understand my thoughts and feelings a bit better.

[kira-akira]

where do i start. 

as a warning, this post isn’t going to be a lot of things. it isn’t going to be optimistic, it isn’t going to be beautiful. it isn’t going to be motivational or inspirational or even well-written. i just want to get my thoughts out to try and help my process of grieving along, and it’s going to be all over the place so don’t feel obliged to read it all. this post is for me and me alone.

at first...it didn’t feel real. and it still doesn’t feel real. i found out at 4am from a facebook article on koreaboo of all places. an old high school friend had shared it with the caption ‘this better be a joke’, and at first i thought it was. until i searched online and found article after article about what happened. after an hour or two of crying, my chest ached so badly i had to force myself to watch youtube videos in an attempt to dissociate and try to momentarily forget. throughout my entire day, i had to pretend i was alright as i went shopping with my mom and went to the dentist and visited my grandma, because i knew if my parents knew that one of my favorite artists had killed himself, they would worry, especially because of my past history of depression and self harm and suicidal thoughts.

jonghyun’s suicide letter....hit too close to home. and i couldn’t stop the thought of ‘...will that be me when i’m 27?’ because its always felt like...i’ve made it this far, the worst must be over. i never thought i would live to be 19 and so i never really planned my future because it didn’t seem attainable. jonghyun’s words of how it’s easier to say you’re going to kill yourself that actually kill yourself could not be more true. perhaps i made it this far because of an innate fear of dying, or maybe because of some tiny shred of hope, a survival instinct. i don’t know. but jonghyun lost whatever it is was.

in some ways, there’s the feeling of wanting to take solace in the fact that hopefully, he has found his peace. i hope more than anything that he found what he was looking for and that he doesn’t have to suffer any longer. i always thought that anyone who sees suicide as cowardly must either be cruel, or must have had such an easy life that they could never understand the feeling that there is nothing left for you here.

to think that jonghyun was suffering so much and we never knew...or we knew a bit of it but not the full extent...it’s stained all of my memories of him. now, when watching clips from weekly idol or concert videos or anything, all i can think about is how we only ever saw snippets of his life. and that after the camera was off, or even when it was on, he was suffering on the inside.

the strongest emotion i feel towards what happened is helpless. helpless because there’s nothing i could do and nothing i can do. none of us knew jonghyun personally, but there’s the feeling of wishing i could have been there for him. to talk to him and listen to him, and the desperate, consuming feeling that we.should.have.done.more. and then maybe he’d be alive right now. 

after this, there has to be more conversation on metal health. i don’t feel i can really comment on the attitude towards mental health in korean society as i’ve never been apart of it, but we’ve all heard about the heavy stigma. i hope more than anything, that jonghyun didn’t die in vain, and that from here, more people in the same place will be able to get help. jonghyun was nothing but kind. he was so sweet and caring, and he would want each and every one of us to live our lives to the fullest, and reach for as much happiness as we can. be happy for him, because he couldn’t be.

i don’t know how to move on from here. i don’t know how to grieve this, i don’t know how to recover from this. i don’t know.

jonghyun, i’m proud of you. you did well. now rest in peace.

[autisticseaserpent]

Shutdowns, I do like dissociate because trauma, but I’ve never experienced a shutdown.

I’ve also been on autistic tik tok a lot and there are so many things cited as signs that you’re autistic which are at least not true to my experience and definitely not diagnostic. Like if you relate it’s fine though

Like autistic people having a hard time lying. I don’t get that. Are we like supposed to be the fae or some bullshit? Tbh, it seems a bit like it’s playing into the aspie supremacy thing and disabled people as helpless pure beings thing at the same time.

Also I’ve always understood sarcasm and humor. Now do I always understand when other people are joking, no. I’ll also respond to jokes literally sometimes. But I think I’m pretty funny. In fact what gets me in trouble is joking at the wrong time.

As for my personal quirks, I like concerts . I get overstimulated at times but usually the good sensory I get from the music keeps me going.

Something that is often used as diagnostic that I don’t relate to. Is that I actually like doing stuff with people. I have a hard time being in large groups because I can’t follow the conversation. But I like doing stuff in small groups. I can’t tell you how many autism screeners have a question like I prefer to be alone. And it’s like no, I like peopling I’m just bad at it and need time to recover.

To other autistic people, are there any things you feel most autistic people experience that don't apply to you?

[helshades]

Far from me to use the crude tumblr speech but, here I have to say, I believe you're "reaching" quite a bit. As much as i agree that a lot of people involved in fandom(s) have… unusual… taste… I'm skeptical about the idea that sexual fantasies have much to do with political or belief systems. One fantasy can be more or less encouraged, sure, but overall, the big ol' classics stay in fashion. Usually a variant of "what if something that's supposed to be horrible happened… and I liked it???"

Human beings are bizarro primates, after all, and if left to their own devices in the company of most inanimate objects, will probably try to either eat it or have sex with it, it’s true. Add to this the fact that bodice-ripping novels have been a thing for way too long for many of fandom’s twistier fantasies to look that new (although you can bet your sceptic arse that the whole Alpha-Beta-Omega item is a strictly postmodern horror) and you’re quite right in assuming that in spite of numerous variants, overall fannish forays into Sigmund Freud’s censored nightmares aren’t that original. On the other hand…

Nevertheless, I’ll contradict you on a few points:

When I was sardonically linking fandom’s most hive-minded tendencies to a certain state of contemporary society, and I used the term ‘liberalism’, I wasn’t either announcing my conversion to Trumpism or alluding to a system of beliefs, rather to a structural phenomenon pervasive in our Western societies—and one must never forget that politics is by essence a res publica: civic life, what is common to all in the public space, and on which all can operate equally provided that they concert… Fiction doesn’t happen in a vacuum, it reflects a great part of our current preoccupations, personal ones indeed, but also ones we’ve absorbed from social osmosis, you might say.

Liberalism in Occident isn’t a mere set of political beliefs so much as the default structure of our respective and common economies, dictating the way States interact with one another in regards to a common market. This is capitalism triumphant, where in the initial idea resisting absolutism has long dissolved into pretty antisocial individualism as social constraint has come to be perceived as the worst kind of oppression possible. This has to be conjugated with the rise of consumer society—which, symptomatically enough, doesn’t have a Wikipedia page—in the 1960s, whose core issue is that the desire for consumption eventually overrides most ethical principles.

Economy completely informs social interactions, and that includes the way we educate children, actually. Did you know that an entire social phenomenon and bona fide psychological condition happens to be a direct consequence of mass consumption? In French we know this as the ‘kid king’ issue, what happens when a whole society is encouraging parents to spoil and coddle children so much that they grow into adults incapable of handling frustration, or indeed any type of adversity. Bear with me, because this is actually fascinating:

▬ Human beings are in a way programmed to seek pleasure and flee discomfort; they instinctively seek to fulfil basic needs, and once these are satiated, try to find as much comfort as possible. Any human infant and young child is ruled by this principle of pleasure, and the role of education is to basically teach children the reality principle, that they aren’t alone in life, that others exist and have to be taken into account, that impulses have to be controlled; this is done essentially by setting limits for the little child not to cross. Balance between the two principles is paramount to the construction of the self.

▬ Psychological resilience pioneer Boris Cyrulnik commented on the fact that if animals regularly abused in their infancy tend to find themselves as adults at the bottom of the social scale since they’ve acquired a certain aptitude for subjection, those never exposed to aggression tend to stand outside the group because of their inaptitude to participate in socialising rituals. Yet, adversity is absolutely needed to set sane limits to one’s behaviour: deprived of any real frustration, a child will grow up still believing himself omnipotent, becoming hedonistic, selfish, egotistical; throwing tantrums at any opposition. Typically, these children end up suffering from attention disorders—with or without hyperactivity—anxiety issues, oppositional disorders…

▬ This is also an unplanned consequence of widespread contraception, as most children nowadays are born of the

desire

of their parents to have them meaning that family no longer makes the children as much as a child makes a family; the main problem being that as the immutable centre of his parents’ attention, a child tends to become a perpetual consumer of everything that a society of mass consumption is ready to provide to keep him sated in his own desires. French psychologist (specialist of cognitive immaturity) Didier Pleux listed the ‘five Os’ of the overattentive parents: overconsumption, overstimulation, overestimation, overprotection and overcommunication; the parents will spoil their child with toys and sometimes food, seek to keep him busy at all times because boredom is perceived as yet another form of violence (but it is crucial in the development of creativeness), laud every single of his realisations, prevent him from making any real effort and prioritise his expression (letting him interrupt others when they speak, for instance) at all times.

▬The thing is, contemporary society harasses all of us with the injunction to consume, perpetually, at every opportunity, and in the case of good-willed parents it furnishes with the means to spoil their children just as advertisement convinces them that if they don’t cater to their every supposed need, they’ll be bad parents.

▬The phenomenon, because that type of behaviour, essentially consumerist, was being so encouraged by the rise of neoliberalism (a more aggressive form of that rapidly-globalising capitalism), quickly snowballed into public education, and I can tell you, most especially because I used to teach for a living, that in France a whole educative system got based on the notion that collective education would be better off if it was made to cater to the personal needs of pupils—but this is a can of worms to be opened on another day, preferably one when my cold has abated and I’ve stopped sneezing my brain away all over my keyboard.

Believe it or not, I’m not digressing that much. We are the grandchildren of the first mass consumers and the kid-king phenomenon is a Generation Y thing. My generation is having children of its own. Most importantly, this is the generation that got to grow up with the Internet first, meaning that we were born in a very, very different world. You noted that fandom fantasies aren’t really unheard of and I concur, but I’d argue that the Internet allowed for fantasies to be shared on a massive scale and amplified into becoming cultural phenomena that have much to do with group emulation. Psychologically and sociologically, it’s pretty fascinating, too: there is this uncanny collection of intensely personal feelings, really intimate stuff, stuff that used to be considered private (for some good reasons and a couple bad ones as well, I suppose), now exposed very publicly on the ground basis that the Internet preserves a certain anonymity—which isn’t untrue, mind you, unless you carelessly sign into one of those many websites and applications that syphon your data and manipulate your online browsing, but I digress again (if only a bit).

Sexuality has become incredibly public, as of late. Let me remind you that there are political movements asking governments to give an official status to their sexual habits (or lack thereof, in the case of ‘asexuality’) or, more aggressively, their feelings. Sorry, folks, but that’s the whole basis for the ‘transgender’ movement, and as far as I’m concerned people may live as they choose but I’m not entirely certain that the State has a rightful place in this? Anyway, the frontier between ‘private’ and ‘public’ has been melting, unfortunately so, and most of this must have to do that Western societies have been considerably depoliticised over the last few years, inasmuch as we’ve been rapidly losing our means of popular representation, decent public information, or generally civil services, due to an overabundance of capitalism, precisely.

Sex in fanfiction… it’s not quite sex in fiction, either. Oh, granted, there’s quite enough raunchy literature out there to make you doubt, but the particularity of fanfiction is that most works are an ongoing affair between an author and her readers, who often swap places, very much informed by public demand, meant to cater to very specific desires. In that, it’s not too different from many a published novel, albeit not the best ones probably, only fanfiction is… unbridled. But that’s not actually the point.

The point is, simply, that fanfiction is a cultural product issued from a certain period in time and it reflects part of the expectations of a society; because its producers are mostly young women, it has a lot to tell on the mechanisms of a modern young woman’s psyche—I can tell you it contains a lot of misogyny, for one, if not even gynecophobia…—but it also proposed a certain picture of the modern world that acts a little too much as a two-way mirror for my intellectual comfort. It’s not that every single writer of a Baby-Daddy kinkfic is going to develop paedophilic tendencies growing up, but one, although one mustn’t indulge in full-blown paranoia either, one absolutely has to consider the fact that sexual pleasure is the most powerful incentive out there. For realsies, I mean, it’s actually one of the most prominent arguments to be made against pornography, because we know its devastating neurological effects for regular consumers, who rapidly become incapable of dissociating the unrealistic portrayal, notably, of women, to the detriment of all real-life relations and rapports male consumers of porn could have with women. Sex rewires the brain with exceptional efficiency, because it’s linked directly to our reward system and programs us to want more of the pleasurable thing.

I assure you there’s no pearl clutching in remarking that pornographic fiction written by fans can have enormous influence on the budding sexuality of young people in a day and age where we have this paradoxical relationship to sexuality as a social concept: on the one hand, it’s absolutely everywhere and even children can’t escape it, since magazines and clothings brands do their worst to groom them into mini-pimps, sexy baby Barbie dolls and overall future (antisocial) disasters; on the other hand, we seem to have somehow revolved into the most shameful anti-intellectualism possible, and nobody needs to bother being rational anymore, and adults make desperate attempts to look like kids for fear of growing old, and they act like it, too.

I’m ending this long-arse comment on an anonymous post just sent to me, which is bound to ignite some… conversation as well:

I’m reluctant to make this point publicly for a myriad of reasons (mostly my own cowardice), but I think the then-concurrent rise of the Brony fandom, more specifically futa porn and its prevalence in adult male MLP “fans” has had a larger impact on current transwoman narratives.

I’ll be waiting patiently on the sides with a hot drink to see my followers count drop again, I reckon.