#as someone who's done most of their creative work during manic episodes I need to learn how to do it when I'm on an even keel

[abutterflyobsession]

actually deeply apprehensive about opening up my strange magic fic documents |:

[calzona-ga]

SPOILER ALERT: Do not read if you haven’t watched the March 11 crossover episodes of “Station 19” (“Train in Vain”) and “Grey’s Anatomy” (“Helplessly Hoping”) on ABC.

RIP, Andrew DeLuca: surgical attending at Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital, ex-boyfriend of Meredith Grey, brother of Carina DeLuca, and, as of ABC’s crossover episodes of “Grey’s Anatomy” and “Station 19″ on Thursday night, murder victim by the hand of a henchman in a trafficking ring. Yes, DeLuca (Giacomo Gianniotti) was stabbed by one of the human traffickers he and Carina (Stefania Spampinato) had chased through Seattle, and despite receiving care at his own hospital, he died. But his efforts weren’t in vain, we learn: The traffickers are all arrested.

It was the culmination of a “Grey’s Anatomy” story that had been cut short by the COVID-19 production shutdown in March. In what turned out to be one of the final episodes of Season 16, DeLuca suspected a patient was being trafficked by her so-called “aunt” who had brought her to the hospital, but because he was in the middle of a manic episode, no one believed him. In the midseason finale of “Grey’s” in December, DeLuca — medicated for his bipolar disorder, well-rested and clear-eyed — spotted the trafficker, Opal (Stephanie Kurtzuba), and this time, he wasn’t going to let her get away.

In an interview with Gianniotti, who was on “Grey’s” for seven seasons, he said that when he learned how his character was going to die, he’d wanted to make sure that it was apparent that DeLuca — “a very brave and noble person,” in Gianniotti’s words — go out as “a pillar of representation for people struggling with mental health.”

“It wasn’t that he was unmedicated and unrested, and that’s what led him to put himself in a dangerous situation,” Gianniotti said. “This was the most DeLuca thing DeLuca has ever done.”

In the episode, as DeLuca hovered between life and death, he communed with Meredith (Ellen Pompeo) on the beach where she has spent most of this season, also in a liminal state, having been taken down by COVID in the season premiere. There, Meredith has hung out with Derek (Patrick Dempsey), her dead husband, and George (T.R. Knight), her dead friend — as well as characters who are still alive.

Of his beach scenes with Meredith, Gianniotti said: “You see DeLuca more happy and relaxed than you’ve ever seen him ever on the show, because all of those stressors are all gone. And he’s with the person whom he loves, which puts them even more at peace.”

“Grey’s Anatomy” — now its 17th season, and still the one most watched shows on television — is itself in limbo, according to showrunner Krista Vernoff. With negotiations with Pompeo for a contract extension ongoing, Vernoff told Variety she has to “plan for both contingencies” as she and the writers room map out the end of the season — or the series.

Though DeLuca is dead, Vernoff revealed that we haven’t seen the last of him — that’s what the beach is for, it seems. And Gianniotti, mentored by “Grey’s” executive producer-director Debbie Allen, returned recently to direct an episode that will air in the spring. He will miss the fans, Gianniotti said: “I’ve never seen a show be so beloved. To feel that love, and have felt that love over the seven seasons has really been remarkable.”

As Vernoff said, “He’s still in the family.”

In an interview, Vernoff talked about how she conceived of DeLuca’s death, the difficulties of not knowing whether the show is ending and how shooting during COVID has changed “Grey’s Anatomy.”

And what in God’s name is happening on the beach!?!

You killed DeLuca.

I’m the worst.

How did this story come about?

Honestly, the story told itself to me. I went for my walk on the beach to come up with my pitches, and these episodes came in whole cloth, like a vision. And I was like, “Oh, no! Really, that’s the story?” And it was. We knew as I pitched it that it was the midseason finale story.

Sometimes stories tell themselves to you, and your heart just breaks. You’re like, “That’s not what I want the end of that story to be!” But that’s so much of life this year.

Can you talk about killing a major character this season, and having the cause of death not be COVID?

That was born, I’m certain, of my psyche wrestling with all of the ongoing tragedies and traumas in the world not stopping due to COVID. There’s this feeling of injustice, like, no, COVID is enough. But sometimes you’re going through all of it at once.

Can you talk about putting DeLuca on the beach with Meredith, and the larger meaning of the beach as a storytelling device this year?

The beach was born out of desire to have an escape from the pandemic.

We came back before almost anyone else. And the actors were scared, and nobody really knew for sure that all the safety protocols were going to work. Doing the pandemic felt like the right thing creatively, but it also felt like the thing that was going to make the actors feel safe to come back to work, because they were all going to be able to be in masks. And if they weren’t, they would be outside. And once the decision was made to do COVID, and then the decision was made to give Meredith COVID, it felt like a way to get Meredith outside without a mask, and in a non-pandemic world.

If you’re a magical thinker like I am, that beach is a real magical in-between place. But if you’re not, if you are not a believer in magical things — if you are an atheist, a scientist, a whatever, my stepsons don’t believe in a magical place — we’ve designed it very carefully so that it also could just be a dream. So anytime someone’s on that beach with Meredith, they are also in her room so she’s hearing their voices from her hospital bed.

When DeLuca visits her on the beach, for me, DeLuca’s between life and death. For my stepsons, Meredith heard in her hospital room that something happened to DeLuca. So now she’s dreaming DeLuca! I wanted very much for the motif to work no matter what you believed.

It just feels to me like whatever you believe, that’s right.

DeLuca has been on the show for a long time. What did you want his final episode to say about him?

I think he went out a hero. I think that he went out fighting for what he believed in. And he was through his mental health crisis. He’d become a very productive member of the hospital staff. And he wasn’t going to let this woman walk away again.

What was it like when you told Giacomo Gianniotti what was going to happen to DeLuca?

He was so relieved that I was not having him kill himself, or go out in a mania frenzy. And he was excited to play it — he played the hell out of it. He actually does appear in a couple more episodes this season. And he’s directing an episode.

I’m going to assume that Meredith wakes up and finds out that he’s dead. Do you see the beach as a place she’ll have an awareness or a memory of in any way?

Yes.

OK!

I don’t have too much more to say about that, because I don’t want to spoil too much. And also: Sometimes I change my mind. But at the moment, yes.

It’s been such a heavy season for both “Grey’s” and “Station 19,” reflecting the world right now. But I know that’s not necessarily where your heart is as a storyteller. Can you talk about where the thinking is on continuing “Grey’s Anatomy”?

When you’re living through a pandemic, and you’re coming back amidst a pandemic, and you decide to do the pandemic, the nature of the storytelling turns a little bit darker. And so for this moment, it is where my heart is.

And I also feel like my heart as a storyteller, my sense of light, and my sense of hope and beauty and joy that infuses most of what I do is expressed through that beach. The joy, the collective joy for all of us in getting to see Derek Shepherd again, getting to see George O’Malley again, in getting out of the hospital and getting onto the beach, and seeing Meredith’s relief there — I know that we’re worried about her, but also there’s joy.

And in terms of whether or not it’s the last season of “Grey’s Anatomy,” I don’t know. And that’s the truth. I wish I knew. It’s a source of frustration at this point. And it sort of doubles my job, my workload, because I have to plan for both contingencies. But I am. And God willing, I’ll know soon.

It can’t end like this! Can you reveal how many episodes will be in this season of “Grey’s Anatomy”?

17.

That’s a lot.

It is a lot. Yeah, it’s a lot, considering what we’re navigating.

Will anyone else be joining Meredith on the beach?

Yes! But I won’t tell you.

Returning cast members or current?

There are some surprises in store.

Now that you have shot more than half the season during COVID, can you talk about what you’ve learned over the course of the year?

The crew is exhausted because they’re behind masks and visors all day. The masks and visors are dehydrating and stultifying, and as a result, you need more breaks. You need to send everybody off the stage to take their masks and visors off to hydrate. You can’t ask everybody to be there for 12 or 13 hours at a stretch. So we’re shooting 10-hour days. And that is a really significant change to what we’re able to accomplish and shoot.

What I’ve learned, and I’m continuing to learn, is how to write the show in a way that makes it producible — we cannot have scenes with as many characters in them. And we cannot have as many scenes. And we cannot have as many locations! Because we can’t have as many company moves. All of it has to become smaller, and that changes the stories we tell. If you usually have five or six people in a scene, and now you usually have two people in a scene, sometimes the whole cast isn’t in the episode. You look at an episode and you’re like, “Where’s Amelia?” Well, she’s home with the kids! We didn’t make the company move.

I think that there are silver linings: Deeper, longer richer scenes are really beautiful things sometimes. But they’re different for “Grey’s Anatomy.”

Do you see a light at the end of the tunnel, both for these fictional characters and for all of us?

Yes, I do! I feel like we’re all living the light at the end of the tunnel right now as our parents and grandparents get vaccinated. And as we begin to emerge, hopefully, from this year of cocoon. I feel like we’re living in in some light, and I do see a light at the end of the tunnel for these characters,whether this is the end of the series or the end of the season.

There’s so much coming up! I know this one is going to be devastating for the fans. And I feel it too. I cried harder watching this episode, this cut, than I’ve cried since I watched the episode where George O’Malley died. And that is a really powerful tribute to the character that we built and to the actor.

[curiouserandthatmuchcuriouser]

I don't talk a lot about this on social media, but two years ago I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Next month is Bipolar Awareness Month, and even though it's not here quite yet, I'd like to share my story. We all fight secret battles, and the first step to breaking the stigma of mental illness is starting a dialogue and finding compassion for others as well as ourselves.

Around December 2018, I started feeling... different than I normally do. I didn't understand what was happening at the time: I'd never had so much energy before, and at first it was exhilarating. I was running around, talking a mile a minute, suddenly completely free of the social anxiety that's plagued me my entire life, completing chores & errands in record time, and feeling on top of the world. My mind was overflowing with creativity, ideas for poems and essays and songs and even a full musical of my own design (in hindsight, it's all nonsense of course). My appetite slipped away and I suddenly felt free from the constraints of sleep, even though I'd never been more productive. I barely ate or slept, but I wasn't hungry or tired. I lost so much weight and I barely noticed.

At the same time, my moods were swinging all over the place -- I was irritable, I was ecstatic, I was angry, I was morose, I was playful, I was paranoid. I was charismatic, I was churlish, I was ambitious, I was friendly, I was sullen. I was crazy. Naturally I was too busy with my newfound productivity and "creative genius" (lol) to even notice the mood swings. I was an artist! With an artist's temperament! And there was so much to write! I started carrying around yellow sticky notepads in my pockets so I could write down my "brilliant" epiphanies (hint: it was more nonsense) wherever I went. I filled them up within days. My handwriting changed, became sloppier, messier. So many thoughts, I couldn't get them down fast enough.

My thought process, my inner monologue, became fast, then rapid, then downright muddled. It was like a movie playing at warp speed in my head, all day, every day, and most of the night too because who needed sleep when there was so much to think about? I developed a horrible sense of grandiosity. It was my newfound purpose in life to help people, personal cost be damned. I gave the coat off my back to a homeless man begging for change at the dollar store. I impulsively blew through what little savings I had on… I don't even know what. On useless crap that I didn't need.

Paranoia overtook my psyche. I was certain that some of my friends were conspiring against me in various ways, and I wouldn't (couldn't) shut up about it to anyone who would listen. I was suspicious of the world at large. I started walking around with a knife tucked into my boot (thankfully I never used it). I drove too fast, recklessly, getting lost on familiar streets (that's not poetic license, I actually found myself getting disoriented in familiar neighborhoods and needing the GPS to find my way home). I was crying while driving, sobbing and squinting at the cars ahead of me. Everything I experienced was fast and bright and sharp in the most confusing ways.

I still thought I was invincible. I was not invincible. In fact, I was 24 years old and I was experiencing my first manic episode, and it ended up being the scariest period of my life thus far.

I couldn't focus on my job anymore, a job that I loved, a job that I had worked hard to get. I would sit down to read an email and the words would swim before my eyes like a school of fish. If I tried typing anything, at least half the words would be misspelled and I'd have to start over. I wasn't getting any work done, not really. I couldn't sit still. I started pacing around the office every chance I could get and taking long walks at night in the winter chill (which I barely felt). I was feverish with mania. I was aggravated by random things and I would lash out at random people, even family and friends (perhaps especially family and friends). No one understood what I was going through, least of all myself.

Finally -- I don't even remember how I realized something was off since I was so far gone at that point -- a lightbulb went on in my head amidst the chaotic movie screen of jumbled thoughts and I realized: I'm not usually like this. I feel... sick. And when a quick Google search of my symptoms suggested "bipolar disorder," I knew I had to get help. One thing led to another, and in January 2019, I ended up moving back into my mom's house and taking medical leave from my job, the job that I loved, to do outpatient group therapy five times a week for several weeks at a nearby hospital… only to quit that job, the job that I loved, almost immediately upon returning to it because I didn't realize beforehand just how long it would take for me to recover.

I was so ashamed about quitting that job, and I still carry some of that shame around to this day, but the circumstances were completely untenable. I was on three different kinds of antipsychotics, which were expensive and caused me to gain close to 100 lbs during the time I was on them. The other side effects of those meds, like the drowsiness and the brain fog, were awful. After five-times-a-week group therapy, I graduated to once-a-week individual therapy (so proud, I know). It took me weeks to regain the ability to read more than a paragraph at a time, which was torture for me, an English major and avid reader. Television became a crutch, an easy way to pass the restless hours. I slept as much as possible during the day because I was so deeply ashamed of how far I'd fallen.

Eventually, I did recover. Considering the state I was in, I am *exceptionally lucky* and I think about that everyday. The meds, the therapy, and time did their job and helped me get back to myself. I still occasionally struggle with symptoms of depression and mania, and I always will. I'll never be the person I was before my diagnosis, but that's okay. I know who I am now, even the dark parts, and I know how to take care of all of me. That's the most important piece of the puzzle: self-awareness and self-care in equal measure.

Looking back, it truly feels like a different person inhabited my body during those awful months. An insane person, one I'd be embarrassed to know, let alone be. My brain became a snapping turtle, and no one was safe. I lost friends, people I trusted who just couldn't see past the actions and harsh words that my illness caused, even after I sought treatment and tried to make amends via heartfelt apology letters and frantic explanations. There is a fine line between accountability for past mistakes and reckoning with mental illness, and in some ways I still feel like I'm walking that line. But at least now I know I can let go some of that shame.

I am forever grateful to my wonderful network of family, friends, and mental health professionals who supported me every step of the way and saw me through to the other side. I love you. I wouldn't be myself without you. Thank you.

If you or someone you love struggle with mental illness, don't try to sweep it under the rug. Know the signs, and seek treatment. Help is available. Getting better is possible.

We all fight secret battles. Let's lead with compassion.

[danetobelieve]

Lessons In Intent || Ricky and Winston

While Ricky had many things about his home that he liked, he had to admit that his absolute favorite place was his workshop. The guest house that he lived in had a two stall garage out back, but he’d never parked his truck in there, instead opting to renovate it into a place where he could come, blast music, and work on his craft. Recently however, he’d done some more renovating inside of it, condensing his stuff and clearing up about a third of the space for Winston to use. Since they’d started really claiming their magical ability for their own, Ricky had wanted them to have a spot for alchemy or whatever else they were trying, someplace safely away from the home they both lived in. He hardly noticed the lessening of his workspace however, as he had been completely and utterly consumed with his latest project. The fact that Remmy had solved his puzzle box so effortlessly and quickly had cut him in a deep deep part of his soul, and almost all of his spare creative energies were being channelled into making a new one, a better one, a harder one. Taking inspiration from several episodes of a podcast he’d been listening to, this newest design was founded on fractals, and the strange branching paths they took. A dodecahedron by general shape, it was the designs on the sides, laid in white and stained-black wood, that had to be shifted and manipulated to cause the complex locking mechanism to release itself, revealing the velvet lined interior. It had been weeks he’d been working on it, and with the sheaves upon sheaves of schematics drawn in his loving hand laid out in front of him, only about 30% of the actual assembly had been completed. It was his rabid focus, coupled with the loud music playing from the stereo behind him, that caused him to completely not notice Winston entering their shared creative space until he looked up through his curls, “oh hey dude! Sup?” 

When Ricky had suggested that Winston use the space in the workshop as their own, they had been skeptical. But they’d had a spare rig that they’d finally moved from their parents house that they wanted to set up and it gave them a good excuse to spend time with Ricky. Their lives were so full of supernatural shit now that Winston struggled to see their friend regularly. Hanging out adjacent to one another was interesting and after Winston set up that space that had been dedicated to them, they elected to spend time working on a small project. They had some questions about the extents to which enchanting could go, however it seemed to them that the main thing they had to master was the form of the spell. They started with something simple, a locking enchantment on a small cardboard box that would in theory mean that only Winston could open it. They were deep within the prep phase and ready to test out their first time attempting an enchantment. Honestly they weren’t hopeful that it would happen. After all their magic was unreliable at the very best of times and getting it to cooperate in doing something more complex then spontaneous combustion left Winston feeling somewhat skeptical at best. Entering the workshop, they nodded to Ricky. “Not much, just working on this thing.” They nodded towards the shoe box that they were carrying. It seemed prudent not to use anything of sentimental value until they got more competent. 

Winston was a particularly calming influence in Ricky’s life; the young mage/wizard/arcanist always seemed cool and collected during even the most stressful of times, and some of that rubbed off on Ricky, who could veer into the borderline manic without much difficulty. Setting down the tweezers he was using to place tiny pieces of wood onto a purely decorative panel for the box, Ricky took a moment to retie his errant hair back, brushing stray sawdust out of the dark curls as he looked across the workshop at Winston, “On a shoebox? Do you have a dead pet in there? I’m not necessarily against necromancy but it seems like thats some upper tier magic that maybe you shouldn’t fuck around with until you get the basics down. Like time magic, probably should steer clear of that too.” He consulted the plans in front of him as he resumed assembling the panel; this particular face of the twelve-sided figure inspired by the fractal nature of fern fronds. One hand held the tweezers idly as the other traced over the design, muttering measurements and courses of action to himself under his breath, switching from spanish to gaelic to english and back again as his mind plotted out his next moves. He didn’t understand the magic Winston worked but, it seemed to be working out for his friend and that was really all that Ricky cared about, “If you want different music on or need it turned down lemme know. I’ve got earbuds I can put in.”

“The shoebox isn’t actually going to be anything, actually. I just wanted to practice on something without potentially enchanting it into something which isn’t usable again.” Winston replied as they set it down. They’d carried a laptop and a stack of wires for various peripherals they were installing in their work space. Their place of work was still a work in progress but they were beginning to get things closer to the way that they wanted them. Pulling down a screen that they’d mounted on an old adjustable arm they’d borrowed from the scrap pile at the station. The amount of old tech that they were able to salvage from broken or old units was mind blowing and Winston already had several boxes of scrap in their room. “I’m planning on learning how to enchant things, seems to be a lot of adding runes to stuff and then imbuing it with power but I’d be interested in looking at the potential power sources that could be involved and what that would change for the enchantment. But that’s all very theoretical because until I have been able to set up the enchantment, which I haven’t been able to do. The theory of it all is fascinating but actually getting it to work in real life has been more difficult.” Their magic was either feast or famine. They were either setting giant crabs on fire or they were struggling to cause flames to burst into existence. “You’re good dude, the music is fine. Although I think that chronomancy and necromancy are definitely beyond my scope and not something I want to fuck with.”

It had become very evident very early on in their friendship that Ricky and Winston’s minds worked in incredibly different ways, and listening to them talk about magic really drove that point home. Whereas Ricky’s mind dealt mainly in abstracts, thoughts ebbing and flowing as randomly and ephemerally as the waves that had birthed him, Winston’s was sharp and regimented, a cascading series of logical statements and hypotheses that marched onward toward practical solutions. It had never been a point of contention between the two of them, however. In fact Ricky thought that if anything it made them function better together, able to see various parts of problems the other’s mind didn’t arrive at naturally. “Well… that sounds complicated as fuck my dude. But…” the last piece of the panel slid softly into place, gentle susurration of wood on wood marking its arrival, and Ricky gently and carefully set it in front of a neatly labeled placard for the glue to dry before he varnished it, “It also sounds like you’re getting more confident in it all. Couple of weeks ago you didn’t believe your magic existed, let alone be able to spout magical theory like that. You’re coming a long ass way.” Picking up the next page of the schematic he started carefully pulling pieces towards him, humming under his breath as he did. “Work still going well?”

The separation of personality between Ricky and Winston had always had different ways of approaching the problem. They’d gone looking for roommates and found each other. At first there had been some conflict and disagreement as there was in any relationship such as theirs but they had worked through most of it and had found that they were able to live successfully in harmony. They’d learned their habits and moods, when someone needed company and when they just needed to be left alone. “Magic is complicated as fuck,” Winston still felt wildly out of their depth, they’d barely covered the rudimentary fundamentals since they’d began reading up on magic and though they had a basic understand of the core knowledge that they required they were yet to be truly an expert, “although I have made a lot of progress and I understand more, there is more then I would ever be able to cover and I’m quickly running out of resources that I can use to actually learn stuff.” They knew what world they lived in now and now that they did know they found themselves wanting to know more. “It might be new but it is fascinating, I can’t believe that I was ignorant for so long…” they trailed off and shrugged. “Works fine, it’s boring and honestly doesn’t seem valuable when I could be back here. But I still want to help people and this is how I would be able to do that, so gotta keep going.”

Ricky carefully set the tiny wooden gear he was carving before he allowed himself to laugh, “I think that might be the understatement of the century, my dude. Magic seems CRAZY complicated… and I am literally an animal that is sometimes a person. Your shit makes my shit look simple.” He resumed his work, leaning over the table-mounted magnifier that allowed even him, with his terrible vision, to do the tiny minute work this project required. “I’m crazy proud of you dude,” he kept his voice low, willing himself not to breathe too heavily as he talked, “I’m sure when you exhaust your resources here, there’re other places you can get stuff from. I’m sure there’s some like… dark web for magi. Mages? Spellsluts? I dunno what you magically self-identify as.” The music continued on around them as they both worked and as he set down the finished gear, Ricky picked up another piece of wood, its future form sketched on it in pencil, “Well I mean don’t be too hard on yourself, dude. A lot of the not-normal parts of White Crest work pretty hard to keep ourselves under wraps. You probs had to have some like… magical coming of age before you could even be ready to see the stuff that’s lurking behind the scenes here.” His hardened look of concentration softened slightly into a fraction of a smile as Winston kept talking, it was one of the many things that bonded them together, the need to help people and do good, “Life isn’t all magic and monsters. You gotta leave time for the normal stuff too. The helping people stuff.” 

“Magic is crazy complicated but it seems to be so inherent within our world now that I wonder if perhaps there have been examples of scientific observation that is actually just magic,” Winston replied quietly before shrugging, “Is shapeshifting not magic in someway?” They weren’t really expecting an answer but it didn’t exactly seem like it was a natural thing that had evolved. Though Winston was far from sure about that. Ricky's admission of pride made Winston feel happy, they hadn’t heard it like that before and a smile dragged across their face. “Thanks dude, I am crazy proud of you too, I know this has all been … something.” Skylar, magic, cursed chests on a beach, it was all a lot for them to deal with and Ricky has led the charge. “Exactly, I get the impression that we live in an area that has a lot to offer for this sort of thing and I guess I’d just call myself a spell caster for now. Though a spellslut is a good one.” They considered their past ignorance and shrugged. “It’s whatever, I don’t understand how anyone can live in denial about these things after having their first encounter with it, that makes no sense to me, if you’ve had a brush with this then how could you deny it?” Setting the box down, Winston began working on the enchanting circle that they would need to draw before they could do their magic. It was precise work but they had spent a long time practicing it. “Sure, but it is the magic and monsters that I find interesting…” 

“It is, and I’m there’s a lot of overlap between science and magic in ways that we don’t necessarily expect.” Ricky sent the small piece of wood down on the bench, replacing the thin file he’d been using to grind its teeth back in its spot on his tool tray, more engrossed in the conversation than the carving, “Oh it’s absolutely magic. But it’s…. Sorta a loose kind of magic? Like. It happens. It’s a thing. One moment there’s a man, the next there’s a seal, and the sort of in between is less regimented than some other kinds of magic I think. But yet it’s totes magic. Just… involuntary magic. Or at least it’s magic that exists in a way that encompasses me so fully it at least appears involuntary.” Pushing himself back from his work table he moseyed over to the electric kettle and flipped it on, dragging a mug down from the shelf, “You want some tea?” He shrugged as he listened to the water start to heat up, “Denial is a powerful thing,” an unmistakable air of bitterness crept into his voice, “Just look at Skylar. Demonstrably not a human, knows the solution to her problems, refuses to accept that or the fact that she has agency in the level of misery in her life.” Ricky idly watched as Winston started to draw something, that he assumed was in some way tied to the magic he was trying to work on a shoebox of all things, “They are interesting. You know, up until you’re cursed for a month or something wrecks your dining room or a hunter tries to kill you. But. I definitely think just plain old human life would be way too boring for me.” 

“I’m starting to see that a lot in everything that I read, this exchange of energy for magic is interesting, I wonder if it could be harnessed differently.” Winston was thinking out loud, they weren’t expecting an answer yet. There was a lot of hardwork that they still needed to do. “Nah I’m good man,” they said as they looked up at their friend. They moved the marker that they were using in a specific motion, marking the box in the way that they had memorised. “I wonder how that came about,” they said generally curious, “this is all so cool, is it evolution, was it magical, was it a mixture of the two, I doubt we’ll ever actually know but even the possibilities are completely fascinating.” They considered Skylar’s situation quietly, frowning to themselves and shifting somewhat uncomfortably at Ricky’s words. They knew that they were right, but that didn’t make it any less of a bitter pill to swallow. “I hope that she works it out, I’m getting really scared for her.” They paused for a second and gazed at their shoes. “Well, I don’t want to condemn or deny anything here, but I don’t think I would want to go back to not knowing. This is a world with so much potential and it’s almost being wasted by all these people who are too ignorant to engage with it.” 

As the kettle whistled, Ricky turned it off and filled his mug, plopping a tea bag in before moving back to his bench. “I think it’s one of those things where, if there was a distinct point where magic infected or changed evolution, it’s so far in the past and so buried in myth that short of legit time travel or oracular vision you’ll never find the clear point of separation. But it would be interesting, to know exactly how things like me came into being.” He pulled a trap full of tiny and well-labeled gears towards him, and set the schematic where he could easily read it. He’d checked a ton of books on locksmithing and clockwork out from the library, some of which they’d had to call in from other branches, and had given himself a series of progressively worse headaches trying to comprehend everything in them, but they’d all come together to make what he hoped was a diagram on paper that could be accurately mimicked in reality. “Mmmm.” he made a non-commital noise at Winston’s comments, retying his hair before bending to his intricate work, “Well. Me too. But also. Not my problem anymore. I tried being nice and supportive, I tried forcing her hand. She’ll figure it out or she’ll die and nothing I do will change that those are the only two outcomes.” He didn’t have the mental capacity to respond to the tail end of Winston’s comments, as he was entirely and wholly focused on the work of assembling one of the locking portions of the box, “Those people are dumb and will be purged by their own idiocy.”

Honestly, looking back at this with the blessing of hindsight, Winston would realise that things could’ve been left for a minute. Starting a semi complex incantation to enchant something, especially for the first time was a questionable move when you took into consideration the fact that Skylar might well play on their emotions. But they shrugged at Ricky and sat down in front of the box, shutting their eyes and slowly beginning to try and draw upon the well of power that they knew lived inside of them. They slowly and carefully began to chant in Latin, the incantation they had found was originally written in Latin and they’d spent all of their time committing it perfectly to memory. The tune that they had drawn onto the box began to glow faintly as they chanted and though they didn’t realise it at the time, the mixture of emotional turmoil at what could potentially be happening to their friend Skylar and what was some poor Latin pronunciation was enough to send things wrong. The rune glowed brightly and arch’s of arcane energy sparked from its surface. “Uh, Ricky,” Winston said having stopped chanting, “I might have fucked up.” 

Up until this moment, Ricky would have never known that magic had a smell. But it was there, over the smell of sawdust and wood varnish; acrid and ozone and pervasive. He hadn’t really been paying attention when Winston had started chanting, too engrossed in the minute trickery of his own projects. It wasn’t until that smell filled his sensitive nose and he heard them stop chanting that he noticed something was wrong. “Fucked up… how…?” He haltingly got up from his workbench, unable to look at the shoebox across the room, with how blindingly the arcane light sparked and flew off it. “That seems… very very bright. For a shoebox. Is uh…. is it dangerous?” It wasn’t long until Ricky had to press his hand to his eyes, the light too bright, stepping in front of Winston to shield them from… whatever might be about to happen. He could feel the light as an almost physical force, the magic pressing in on and against him and as it rose to a crescendo there was a brief moment where he wondered if he was about to die in a magical accident. Then. As suddenly as it had started it was finished, the room nearly pitch black after the incandescence Of magic gone wrong. “Win?”

“I don’t know how I fucked up, but it definitely is not meant to look anything like that,” Winston replied as they tried to draw the power back into themselves before realising that it was too far gone and whatever happened and they weren’t going to stop it right now. A bolt of arcane energy struck the panels of Ricky’s box and then the light exploded into the room and Winston was knocked off of their feet. Blinking, they managed to get rid of the spots on their eye and saw that the garage that they were in had been entirely encased with the various surfaces of Ricky’s puzzle box. “Uh, this apparently is how I’ve fucked up, I was just trying to put a locking enchantment on the box and it must’ve done something drastically wrong. Winston felt weak. Very weak. As if a good portion of their energy had been sucked from their body. 

“Okay I didn’t want to say anything because I don’t know shit about magic but that definitely didn’t seem like what you were trying to do.” Ricky reached down to offer his hand to Winston to help them up before he looked around at what…. He assumed… was still the garage. “Oh fuck.” Ricky didn’t see the carefully organized shelves and supplies that he was so proud of, instead he saw intricately carved pieces of wood arranged in a hauntingly familiar fractal pattern, and above where the door outside should have been was instead a very familiar set of initials; an R and C carved to look like a stylized wave. “So. Uh. Magic is uh…. About intent? Did I hear that somewhere? Maybe? Does uh… does it have to be your intent? Because… I might have been really fucking focused on the box. Like super focused on the box. Which… might be… why it looks like… the box maybe ate the garage? Or something like that. Either way. We might be in trouble. You’re smart right?”

Winston laughed. “Dude what gave it away that that wasn’t what I wanted to do…” they shook their head as they looked around them, “was it the flash of arcane light or the fact that I’ve turned our workshop into a giant version of your box… this is why you don’t fuck around with magic and I really should have known better but instead I fucked around with it, fuck fuck fuck fuck.” They looked around and moved over to the wall, placing their palms on the smooth surface of the wood. It was soft and well crafted beneath their touch. This was definitely something new. “Magic is definitely about intent and if you’re intent was to make a box and my intent was to lock that box then I am a little worried that we might well just be fucking locked in here,” they looked around the room, no doors or windows or even seams for them to pry open, “so we’ve got to find out a way out of a locked puzzle box.” They were well and truly fucked. They were going to die in here. Sweat beaded on their brow and Winston forced themselves to remain calm. They had to breath. There was a way out of here they just had to find it. “I am definitely not smart.” They looked around, what did they have to work with? 

“To be honest it was the blinding light and the almost 100% assuredness that I was going to die in a magical explosion. That pretty much made me confident that wasn’t your intended use of the spell. I’m pretty confident in the assessment that you don’t want to kill me.” Ricky scratched the back of his neck as he wandered around what was once his workshop. Whatever the spell had done with his box it hadn’t made a perfect copy. That would have been easy enough to solve; he’d spent so long drawing up the plans he could solve his own box in his sleep. But it had at the very least seemed to take the spirit of his box and transfer it into the prison cell they were now locked in “well I’m dumb as a box of bricks. So. That’s not great. But…” he trailed off a little as he looked at the walls, “okay okay okay. So. The original plan. Was about conversion. Take the original design and convert it in order of ascending scale into a different one.” Furrowing his brow he waved his hands around as he tried to explain. “I read a lot of books about fractals and clockwork and locksmithing in the last couple weeks. We just have to figure out what is the base pattern of the new design and that’s a good starting point.”

“I’ll be honest, there’s no way to know we aren’t dead but I plan to continue operating under the assumption I am still living until I know better.” Winston was starting to wonder if it was really safe for them to continue experimenting with magic in the house, they doubted that they had actually taken the proper precautions and if they made it out of this it was important that they took more steps to make sure that something like this didn’t happen again. “I don’t want to kill either of us if that makes you feel any better but of course there is apparently a limit to what I can handle.” They gazed at the array of shapes on the walls around them, they were trying to work out the shape from the lines facing everywhere. “Okay, so we solve the pattern, do you have any idea what the pattern might be?”

“Well… I’ve just been operating under the assumption that because I still have… you know… rational thought and understanding, we’re alive. I don’t believe in any sort of afterlife. But. I could be entirely talking out of my ass.. Because I’ve also never been magically bound in a facsimile of one of my projects before. So. brand new territory all around.” Ricky wandered around the border of the workshop, running his hands over the polished wooden pieces. “It would have been easier if your spell had directly copied my box. That would have been fine. But it just sorta picked up the vibe and went with it.” He pulled a piece of charcoal from a table and drew a box around a section of wood, “This looks like the fractal base. What all my schematics referred to as Pattern Prime. Original plan had three steps. Pattern Prime turns into Pattern Alpha, Pattern Alpha turns a larger section of the box into Pattern Beta, Pattern Beta turns a larger section of the box into Pattern Gamma, and then Pattern Gamma locks into the other panels of the box to finally make Pattern Omega. Only six of the twelve panels actually had moving pieces that connected to gears. The others were dummy panels meant to throw Remmy off the scent. So… yeah. That’s where we’re at with this. I mean I have axes in here. But somehow I think that’ll make it worse.” 

“Plato had a theory that when we die we as humans ascend to a plane of rationality and understanding, maybe we died and went there.” Winston wasn’t trying to be morbid. They didn’t really think that they were dead. But this situation was one of the more absurd ones that they had found themselves in. They couldn’t imagine the level of energy that it must have required for them to make this happen, even if it were accidental. They already felt exhausted. But they knew that it was possible that to resolve this they would have to expend more. Maybe they would have to start carrying an energy bar with them at all time in case they accidentally went too hard with the magic again. “It would have been easier if I could handle the most basic enchantments without locking us within a modified version of your puzzle box,” Winston was frustrated, apparently it didn’t matter what they did to learn they still were far from in control of their magic and there were very real consequences for their actions, “but also know I am judging you for calling them Pattern Prime, Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Omega. Wouldn’t it have been easier to call them pattern one, two, three, four or five?” They smiled gently despite the situation. “I wouldn’t advise axes either, I would like to keep as much of this intact because I don’t know what damaging an incorrect enchantment might do…” they shuddered to think, “Do you think that the actual mechanism could’ve been applied to this?” There was no physical mechanism in their garage normally.

“I’m sorry you’re gonna judge me for pattern prime and then sit here and Plato it up? You’re making it smell like nerd in here.” Ricky stuck his tongue out at his roommate and shrugged “that’s what some of the books called them so I just went with it. Also. I’m not human. So. I dunno if your Plato thing applies” seeing no other immediate recourse, Ricky wiped his charcoal covered fingers on a rag and set about making himself another cup of tea. “To be fair to you, dude, we don’t know how magic reacts to the presence of a non-human. I mean. I’m at least in some way magic, just not in any way with practical applications. That doesn’t seem like it’s setting up a good controlled environment for you to test your abilities in. You’re just starting out. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Looking around he idly bobbed the tea bag in his mug; sharp smell of citrus filling the air. “I mean. Confinement aside. This is honestly super fucking impressive. You turned a whole building into a magical prison! That’s awesome! If we weren’t inside it would be more awesome but hey. Beggars can’t be choosers.” Carrying his mug he moved to a section of the wall, pressing his ear against it as he attempted to slide a bit of paneling. “It doesn’t sound like there are gears behind it. This might just be a purely visual lock”

A wry smile danced its way across Winston’s face. “Yes that is exactly what I am going to do and if you have a problem with the stench of intellect then I can’t help you because that isn’t me.” At least they could still have a good time even if they were potentially going to die in this room. They looked at Ricky and nodded. “That is a very good point, I forgot that you were a seal, you look remarkably human for a seal you know that?” They looked around the room. They knew that Ricky was trying to make them feel a bit better by offering them the possibility of a way out of responsibility but they didn’t think that they could blame this on them. “I don’t think that the presence of a non human would have really affected it, maybe it did, but it might as likely been a problem with concentration or an error in the enchantment that I physically drew onto the box.” They would have to design a template to ensure that this was mitigated as much as possible in the future. They looked around the room as more energy drained from them and pulled open one of their draws and pulling out a protein bar in an attempt to refuel with something that would battle the energy drain they were experiencing. Rubbing their eyes free of tiredness, Winston adjusted their lenses. “Impressive sure, concerning that I am capable of doing either barely anything or fundamentally changing the reality of a situation… this is not what I had meant to do and honestly the fact that it turned out like this is somewhat worrying, although at least we know that we can create something like this in case we need it.” They reached out and placed their palm on the wall, and took a step back as they were staggered by the experience they felt. “I can’t find physical gears, but there seem to magical like, lines, almost as if we could line them up like the original puzzle box…” they looked at the panel Ricky was examining. “Turn that ninety degrees, that way the line will line up with the panel to the left and right and then turn the panel above it 270 degrees and that will complete a shape.” 

“It’s certainly not me. I am a confirmed and notorious moron. Any stench of intellect therefore has to be coming from you.” Winking, Ricky took another sip of his tea, “well that’s the point isn’t it. That I look human. Have to confuse all you landlubbers. Hide in plain site and all of that.” Being trapped in a magical box that may or may not contain just their souls since they may or may not have been dead already was surprisingly relaxing since he was stuck there with Winston. “If I ever need a magical prison, which, given the concentration of Hunters in town I might, I’m going to come to you because this is impressive.” He put his hands where Winston indicated and made the directed changes, watching as the dark and pale wood morphed into a different pattern “okay now you do to the same thing on the panel over there by the belt sander. The way mine worked you have to do each transformation on each panel as a group. So they all get the final switch at the same time.” Now that Winston had figured out the base pattern they were meant to be changing on the walls, Ricky felt a lot better about their chances. He was definitely more useful in the action portions of a plan, and now that he had action to do he could finally be helpful, “see. You’re the smart one.”

“You know that you’re quite literally studying art..” Winston pointed out with a frown, “I know that you don’t think you’re an intellectual or anything but you’re smart. I can’t do half of the things that you can…” they shrugged gently and nodded, “you do a very convincing job of looking human and acting human…” they smiled, “I was fooled for a long time and I lived with you. In hindsight the signs were all there.” They laughed and shook their head. “I wouldn’t expect anything more like this from me, this is something that is way beyond me, entirely accidental, not what I wanted at all and I wouldn’t want to even attempt something like this without more guarantees, this trial and effort escape isn’t something I ever want to risk repeating.” Winston followed Ricky’s instructions and began rearranging the panels of the walls. It was good that Ricky was there to help them otherwise the actual practical application of the changing of the panels would’ve certainly escaped them for much longer then it had Ricky. With their help however they were able to make the prescribed changes. “I’m the one who can cast spells, it is a little different.”

“I’m plenty talented, don’t get me wrong. I’m an incredibly skilled craftsman, as evidenced at least in part by this fucking prison we’re in. This spell is a little bit both of us I think. But one of my students explained it in a super nerdy dungeons and dragons way once. I’ve got shit intelligence, but plenty of points in wisdom. I’m not book smart for damn sure. But. I’m intelligent in other ways.” Ricky couldn’t help but laugh a little, “a lot of the supernatural is right there if you know what signs to look for. But.That’s the problem. Humans don’t know what to look for. So. It’s pretty easy for us to slip between the cracks” he vaulted a low bench to get to the other side of the shop and mimic the change they’d affected on the first two panels on a section half hidden behind a bookshelf. “Bah. That’s just you selling yourself short, draoi. It’s beyond you now. It’s accidental now. That does not mean it’ll be accidental or beyond you forever. You think I started out making boxes like this? Statues like that?” He gestured to the other side of the shop where a half-finished statue of icarus, wings melting as he fell, stood on a bench, “hours and hours and hours and hours of practice. Shitty duck after shitty duck until they became less shitty.” He stood on a bench to reach a higher portion of the wall, shifting and twisting panels until the second iteration of the design fell into place. “Mimic this on your wall. This is one of your shitty ducks. You just need to put in more hours. Don’t forget that you’re fundamentally altering the fabric of the universe. That’s gonna take some fucking practice.”

“Ricky, as much as this might amaze you, we don’t actually live within a dungeons and dragons game. Now I know that might indeed be somewhat mind blowing.” Winston laughed gently and shook their head. “I’m fucking with you, I think that you’re right. We don’t know what we’re looking for, but you guys seem to and that is where we compliment each other. But unfortunately I do think that you’re right and that this is an amalgamation of this stuff. A combination of both my magic and your magic too. Not necessarily in the most ta but it is still there.” They shrugged gently and sighed, feeling a little deflated. “I know that it is something that has to keep going, I know that it is something that is going to take time to learn, but I can see all of these amazing possibilities, I can see all of these amazing things and feats that I could be doing to help people and I can’t because I have only just found out about this.” They sometimes wished that they were like Penelope or Morgan, they both knew exactly what they were doing and how they were going to do it. Winston would give almost anything to have that kind of courage and confidence. 

“You know I really hope we’re not dead because this is a lot of sass to spend eternity with. If this was dnd I’d have some dope armor and as I currently don’t have dope armor I’m unfortunately very aware this isn’t a fun fantasy magical world.” Ricky looked at the walls, eyes following the patterns until he saw the crossroads he was looking for. Unfortunately they were nearly at the ceiling, which meant he was standing on his tiptoes on top of a workbench trying to shift the panels “you’ve got time dude. You’re 24. You’ve got years to get good and do all the amazing and helpful bits of magic you’re dreaming of. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll be capable of it one day.” He jumped to get the last piece in place before clambering down and moving to the other side of the workshop to do the same on another panel. “Just use them as stretch goals. Some people keep pictures of what they want to look like on the mirror. You can just keep spell descriptions.” Finishing the panel he was working on he looked around the prison, “there should just be one more mutation. Then we find out if we’re dead or not!”

“I really hope that we’re not dead because I’ve yet to fulfil my dream of actually owning dope D&D armour,” Winston quipped back in reply, “not to mention that dying in a bizarro prison box realm isn’t exactly my idea of fun.” Nervously, Winston watched Ricky stretch as they adjusted the ceiling panels and did their best to help out. Their balance was much less adept then Ricky’s so they took it much slower. But they were determined to help. “I know, I know, everyone always says that there is time for everything but inherently isn’t that a lie, there won’t be time for everything. There’ll definitely be time for new magic don’t get me wrong, but what if I don’t get to do everything I want?” It had always been a fear. They didn’t want to leave White Crest but they also knew that if they stayed forever they might miss out on some stuff. Looking around them, Winston looked for the final thing that they would have to change. “Any idea what we’re looking for?” they said as they scanned the room through their glasses. 

“I made a joke to Deidre about having cool ass armor and now I have the distinct impression it’s gonna show up at our door one day. I think she has entirely too much disposable income on her hands.” Ricky couldn’t help but grin as he looked around the room to try to figure out the last set of steps to unlock their magical prison. “Hey. This was a bizarro prison realm house but we made it a bizarro prison realm home.” Ricky let his eyes drift out of focus slightly as he wandered the room, trying not to see the details but only focus on the big picture, “well that’s just part of being alive. Not even human. Just alive and mortal. The fear that you won’t have time to do all the things you want to do, accomplish all the goals you want to accomplish. But there’s really no way to plan or prep for the great vastness of possibilities that life is. You can’t prepare for every outcome. So. I guess you just do what you can and try not to regret anything else.” His strange erratic orbit of the room stopped abruptly as he saw what he was looking for. “There!” He pushed a stack of notebooks aside and started to rearrange the pattern on one of the walls “it’s gotta be that. Do that on your wall and I’ll get the third one and that should, fingers crossed, be the final pattern.”

“Deirdre is weird, I don’t know why she would have an excess of income but she is definitely the type of person to spend an absurd amount of money on something like armour, but i think that fae cultures — which is a phrase I NEVER thought that I would say — anyway fae cultures are kind of different to ours, which is why Deirdre is y'know Deirdre.” Winston had a knot in their stomach and was far from convinced that they weren’t dead. But this was their mess to clean up and they were determined to do it. At least that way they would know about the fate of their own mortality. “There is no one that I wish I could get stuck in bizarro realms with more then you.” 

Winston was kind of curious as to what was real and what was fiction. How did you actually tell these things apart? It wasn’t like there was an encyclopedia monster book or anything. Ricky seemed to have spotted something that he thought was important and Winston was quick to follow his instructions, slotting his part of the wall into the allotted spot that Ricky had suggested. “Okay, it is in place, now we have to do the third one right?” 

“Oh thank god you know about her. It’s getting really hard to keep track of who knows who is what. But yes. If I remember stories my mom told me about them, bestowing favors upon mere mortals… like me and you… in the form of spectacular armor is right up her alley, as a fae.” He cast his gaze around the room as Winston moved and changed the wall they were near to align the patterns into what Ricky hoped was the final and correct position, “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in awhile, dude. I appreciate that. We’re bizarro prison realm buddies for… well… I sure as fuck hope not for life but for as long as it takes to get out of there.” Finding the last spot on the wall behind a bench, Ricky dragged the heavy set of shelves laboriously out of the way, fingers shaking slightly as he moved the wall into the final piece of the puzzle. As the last piece slid into place he heard, and felt in the pit of his chest, a click, and turned to see exactly what he had hoped for; a panel sliding back onto itself, revealing a button on the wall roughly where the door should have been, “That… should, and I”m really going out on a hopeful limb here, be the button to unlock this enchantment. We did everything like the box operates, and it revealed a button like the box does. So. It’s your spell dude… you wanna do the honors?”

“Honestly, I know exactly what you mean, the number of times I’ve almost ‘outted’ someone in a supernatural sense is ridiculous. And it’s not like you can act as if you know or it’s a normal thing because then all the normies will get their pitchforks and torches out and I can’t be bothered with a literal witch hunt.” Winston laughed at their own comment before continuing their train of thought. “Though I will admit that I’m hopeful for the armour, for your sake. Not that you’d ever use it. It’d be good furniture.” Winston turned and looked at Ricky before shrugging. “I mean it dude, I don’t know that there are many people that I would happily keep living with, ironically you being a seal hasn’t really changed that.” Looking as Ricky activated the next section, Winston was amazed as a panel of the wall slid backwards and revealed a button. “Well,” Winston replied swallowing nervously, “I guess here goes nothing.” They took a step forward and pressed the button on the wall, watching it compress and click into place and nervously waiting for their potential and inevitable death as the room was enveloped in a bright magic light.

“God I know exactly what you mean. I’m always just like… oh god…. Who knows what. I feel like I need a super complicated spreadsheet just to try to keep track of who knows what identity, my own included.” Ricky beamed over at his roommate, “Oh come on man. You know I would wear that shit all the time at home. Making brunch? Wearing my armor. Sorting the mail? Wearing the armor. Vacuuming? Wearing the armor.” Ricky couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking his head, “At least with a seal man hybrid I’m not leaving fish guts around. I’ve got some human sensibilities.” Ricky would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t shaking a little as Winston approached the button and pressed it, another blinding flash of magic he could feel in his bones filling his field of vision as he hoped the spell that bound them in the garage was unravelling. When the bright light faded he was overjoyed to see the garage back to its normal state, and the door showed the trees outside the garage, “FUCK YES!!!!” He shouted, vaulting a table and throwing the door open, “We’re not dead!! We solved the puzzle spell and we’re not fucking dead!!!!”

“I’ve just resorted to always being incredibly vague and hoping that I never say anything that needs too much explaining. It’s like living a million falsehoods all at once and not knowing which one you have to resort to next.” Winston was pleased that they weren’t the only one struggling with it. “That seems like it would be incredibly inconvenient and potentially uncomfortable to be constantly wearing a suit of armour. Especially whilst vacuuming.” They paused and shrugged. “I can deal.” Winston blinked several times at the light as it enveloped them and then as quickly as it had come it was gone. Winston stood there for a moment, dazed and confused by the entire situation. Then they realised that they had made it and for the moment were in fact very much alive. Sighing a very deep relief, Winston slumped backwards into their desk chair and grinned. “Ahaha!” they hooted with glee, “Fuck dude we actually solved it, I don’t think your puzzle box is hard enough dude.” They grinned and looked at the very mundane shoe box that they had failed to enchant, pulling their glasses off and rubbing their eyes exhaustedly. “I think I’m done with enchanting shit for today.” 

[scripttorture]

I'm working on something set in the Star Wars universe. The charcter I'm writing with is being stalked by someone using the Force to induce nightmares, soon after he first hits REM sleep, leaving my character with about 90 to 120 minutes of anxiety spiked sleep a night for over six months. I know short term what this does to a person's body and mind, but long term, less so. Can you help me out with sleep deprivation as torture?

Iam very glad I invested in those new books on sleep. :)

Partof why this one (and the other ask focused on sleep deprivation) tookso long is because I felt I needed to do more reading in order toaddress them properly. And having done at least some of that extrareading- I think this is a good idea in terms of story potential butI think this scenario might be too extreme for the time frame you'reproposing.

BothNREM and REM sleep are necessary for continued health and well being.As well as, well life.

Bycutting off sleep at 90-120 minutes the body is being deprived ofhuge chunks of both.It’salso worth noting that the patterns of NREM and REM sleep atdifferent times of the night might well be doing different things.Experiments where researchers have interrupted particular chunks ofsleep at particular times seem to suggest different effects.

Allthe experiments I’m aware of that do that with people have beenpretty short term (the longest I’ve seen was a few days) andtorture/abuse scenarios don’t generally tend to focus on oneparticular type of sleep.  

Therearesome experiments on rats from uh- the days before ethics committeescared about rats. Researchers deprived rats of sleep until they died.Then they tried depriving rats of particular kinds of sleep to see ifthat makes a difference. Deprived of REM sleep rats die as quickly asthey do from total sleep deprivation. Deprived of NREM sleep ratsstill die, but it takes three times longer. Around 15 days and around45 days if you’re interested, (please be kind to rats).

Forhopefully obvious ethical reasons I’ve got no idea how this maps onto humans.

Myinstinct here is that the 6 month time frame is probably going to bemore important to the story then where exactly in the sleep cycle thecharacter wakes. I can see exactly where you’ve got the 90-120minutes from, it’s the first cycle of REM sleep. It’s alsotypically one of the shorter periods of REM sleep.

ButI’m not sure how survivable 6 months on 2 hours of sleep is.

Unlessthe character was already ill, injured or immuno-compromised then I'mnot sure it would be directly fatal. By which I mean- I don't thinkthey'd be dying from the kind of gut bacteria rapidly infecting theentire body in a lethal way that killed those experimental rats. Butthere's still a lot of ways that this extreme state of sleepdeprivation could more indirectly lead to death.

Forinstance it massively increases the chances of a heart attack orstroke in adults. And that chance rises still further the longer aperson is sleep deprived. The drop in reaction speed, processinginformation, working memory and coordination can all lead to seriousaccidents. Combined over the long term accidents are almostguaranteed.

I'vefound individual cases of real people surviving periods similar toyour character on similar amounts of sleep. But every case I've foundseemed to involve someone who was hospitalised for most of that time.

Youcouldplausibly have the character live but he’d need some prettyintensive care. Because of how agitated and emotionally volatilesleep deprived people can be (coupled with the memory loss it causes)I think he’d need to be watched round the clock. He’d need peoplethere to tell him where he was and why occasionally. He’d needpeople who could persuade him not to leave the sick room, not to dodangerous things or to just calm him down.

Thislevel of sleep deprivation for this time would effectively take himout of the story. If that’s what you want and the story is centredon other characters saving him, that’s absolutely fine. But if youwant this character playing a more active role then I thinkincreasing the length of time he’s sleeping nightly is going to benecessary.

I’vegot some suggestions for that I think could fit with the story idea,first I think I should talk about the likely effects of what you’vegot.

Ithink the first thing to really grasp is that there isn’t really aleveling out effect with sleep deprivation. There isn’t a pointwhen any of these factors stop getting worse. Not until the charactergets some sleep. In that sense it’s very much like starvation:there’s only one way to treat the problem and even then there’s arisk the damage already caused is too great for total recovery.

Inthe long term, ie after he’s able to sleep normally again and pastimmediate recovery, this character will still have a hugely increasedrisk of a whole host of problems. Cancer, virtually every sort, seemsto become more likely with sleep deprivation. Heart attacks, strokes,diabetes. Vaccines become less effective (sometimes ineffective) ifthey’re administered when someone is sleep deprived. Which can leadto problems later. There’s a decrease in fertility for both men andwomen. Increased risk of Alzheimer’s. There are also effects on theDNA some of which may be permanent. Most of the effects I’ve readabout are effectively ‘ageing’ the DNA, shortening the protectivetelomere caps on chromosomes. This means that changes may not bepassed on to children but I’ve not seen an epigenetic study on thesubject.

Theremight well be generational effects.

He’dcertainly be looking at a shorter life span generally.

Interms of when he’s actually being deprived of sleep. Well over thistime frame with this extent of sleep deprivation it would be prettycatastrophic.

Hismemory would… probably pretty much fail from a functionalstandpoint. He’d very quickly reach a point where he’s forgettingmost of the time he’s awake.

He'dbecome extremely emotionally unbalanced. Depressive symptoms, extremeagitation, aggression and anxiety are all common. Highs of positiveemotions are possible too, technically. But I've only ever seen thatdescribed in cases where sleep deprivation was voluntary. Sleepdeprived people don't tend to stay in one of these moods but havepretty severe mood swings between them. Unless they're alreadysuffering from a condition effecting mood.

Ifthe character has a pre-existing mental health problem this willprobably set it off. Sleep deprivation for one night has been shownto knock people with manic depression from a 'stable' emotional stateinto either a depressive episode or a manic episode. Sleepdeprivation has also been linked with increased suicide attemptsacross a variety of mental health problems.

Thelack of REM sleep in particular would effect his ability to processemotions. It stops us from...decoupling intense emotion from memory.That doesn’t just mean that negative experiences feel moreintensely negative for longer. It more broadly effects emotions and aperson’s ability to navigate them.

Italso interferes with our ability to accurately recognise otherpeople’s emotions. And when sleep deprived we tend to err towardsseeing other people as threatening.So we don’t just misread their emotions but we tend to read theworst possible intent.

Lackof REM sleep also effects creativity and problem solving. Buthonestly, given the extent of sleep deprivation here generally Idon’t think that would be distinguishable from the character’sother symptoms. His memory would likely be so bad that creativeproblem solving would be impossible anyway.

He’dprobably talk nonsense pretty regularly and he’d hallucinate. Mostsleep deprivation hallucinations I’ve heard of have been eitherneutral or negative. A lot of them sound pretty threatening andfrightening. And they’re likely to further feed into negativeemotional states.

Physicallyspeaking he’d have extremely slow reaction times. He’d sometimesfail to react completely. Within the first week I think he’dstruggle with fine motor control, things like doing up buttons. He’dget shakes. By the first month I’m not sure he’d be able to walk.

He’dget sick much more easily and even simple colds would have a muchbigger impact on him. He’d take longer to recover. Wounds wouldtake longer to heal and infections would be more likely.

He’dfeel more hungry and a lot of the food he’d crave would be fattyand sugary.

Ontop of all this sleep deprived people have been consistently shown tounderestimate the effect of not having enough sleep. Like drunks whoinsist they’re sober sleep deprived people thinktheyare capable of doing things they’re in no state to attempt.

AndI feel like it’s worth stressing that this ispainful. It’s a kind of pain that’s difficult to describe becauseit’s not really associated with anything other than lack of sleep.But it is pain. It is the marked lack of something essential to oursurvival.

Maybe this is exactly what you’re going for; it would be a good way totake a character out of the plot for a while. However if you want thecharacter playing a more active role then I think allowing him moresleep is essential.

Obviouslyyou want to keep the connection to REM sleep and dreaming (it’sgenius, you want to keep it). So I’d suggest rather than cuttingoff sleep at 90-120 minutes during the first short period of REMsleep at ‘cycle 1’, do so during the longer period of REM sleepat around 5-5 ½ hours in ‘cycle 4’.

Theselater cycles of REM sleep are longer and may be more intense. Easilydouble the length of time of the first REM sleep cycle. They’realso the periods of REM sleep that currently seem to be judged asmost significant.

Andthis would stillleave your character on death’s door in the time frame you’vegot, he’d just have a longer period where he could play a moreactive role in the plot.

Fivehours sleep a night, rather like some of the crazily extreme dietsout there, is incredibly damaging and very much normalised.

Forinstance, sleeping about 6 hours a night rather than about 8 raisesthe risk of serious injury in professional athletes from about 35% (8hours) to about 75% (six hours). That’s not ‘over a prolongedperiod’. That’s one night of missed sleep.

Aftersix nights the response time of someone who is regularly sleeping forabout 4 hours is at the same level as someone who didn’t sleep atall for a night. That’s an average drop of 400%. (From separatetests, someone driving on 4-5 hours sleep is almost four and a halftimes more likely to crash).

There’sa delightfulexperiment where a scientist squirted live cold viruses up the nosesof volunteers. Which showed that if someone slept an average of fivehours over the week before their infection rate was around 50%,whereas at seven hours or more the infection rate is around 18%. Asimilar level of sleep restriction (4-6 hours a night for a week)leads to a 50% drop in immune response to vaccines. And a singlenight on four hours sleep leads to a 70% drop in natural killercells.

Ander- testosterone levels fall to a degree that effectively ‘ages’men by 10-15 years.  

Practicallyspeaking what this wall of statistics means for your character isthat he’d be able to functionfor a good period of that six months. Perhaps as long as 3-4 months.But he’d show a noticeable drop in ability across- basicallyeverything.

It’sa drop that he’d gradually become acclimatised too. He’d probablyclaim that he’s ‘used to it’ and can do things again. Eventhough his actual performance would say otherwise. He’d also besubject to the same intense emotions and mood swings and significantmemory problems.  

Andas with the more extreme scenario every aspect would be getting worseevery day. Neither scenario has a 'leveling out' affect where he'sat a steady physical/mental performance. A long term sleepdeprivation story is about decline. What I'm suggesting here ismaking the decline less steep. Because the original scenario wouldvery quickly rob the character of his ability to remember, physicallyperform tasks, think coherently, communicate and survive.

Someoneon five hours of sleep for six months is probably also going to behallucinating, occasionally incoherent, unable to concentrate andparanoid by the end. But I think someone who was only sleeping fortwo hours a night could get to that stage in the first or secondmonth. One of the sleep scientists I've been reading compares theemotional and mental effects of sleep deprivation to severe mentalillness and from everything I can see he isn't wrong. The paranoiaand hallucinations are reminiscent of psychosis, the extreme moodswings are reminiscent of manic-depression. The upswing in suicideattempts is frankly terrifying, especially when put into the largersocial context encouraging long term lack of sleep. Sleepdeprivation, even in the relatively short term, causes structuralchanges in the brain.

Iwant to leave you with both options because I think that the'appropriate' level of sleep for this character is really dependenton your story and what you want the character to do. If you want thecharacter to be active in fixing the problem and able to communicatehis situation with any coherency beyond the first few days then Ithink you need to change how long he's asleep for. If on the otherhand you need him out of the story for a period of time and you wantother characters to fix the situation for him then the first scenarioworks perfectly well.

Ofall the books I've read on sleep and the lack of it recently, I thinkthe one most relevant to this ask (and most readable) is M Walker'sWhyWe Sleep(Penguin 2017). He doesn't explicitly reference every study he quotesbut he does give credit to the scientists who conducted the work andfurther details can be found by looking up their universities in mostcases. I think you'd also benefit from taking a look at some survivoraccounts of sleep deprivation. So far as I can tell none of thesurvivors in Monroe's book were sleep deprived and Alleg doesn'treally describe it in 'TheQuestion'.

Ithink the best book you could get hold of is an old Russian one byMenachem Begin called WhiteNights.I haven’t gotten hold of a decent copy yet but it’s one of thesurvivor accounts of sleep deprivation everyone references. For aninside view of what it feels like I think you should give it a look.

Ihope this helps. :)

Disclaimer

[dunntown]

SuperUnKnown - R.I.P. Chris Cornell

“I woke the same as any other day

except a voice was in my head

it said, “Seize the day, pull the trigger

Drop the blade and watch the rolling heads.”

A BiPolar perspective to Chris Cornell’s death.

Thursday, May 18th, 2017 - It was around 7:45 in the morning. I silenced the alarm on my phone, hushing the soothing sounds of Fat Mike from NoFx’s voice as he wakes me most mornings lately with the lyrics “One morning I woke up, scratched my balls and eyes..” This being the opening lines to the song “I don’t like me anymore.”, It’s sort of appropriate for a guy who struggles with bipolar disorder and depression. I decided to go about my morning routine of scrolling through and deleting the massive amounts of spam mail I seem to get while I sleep. The first thing I saw, however, was a newsletter from my local rock station. “BREAKING: Chris Cornell Dead”. I just sort of sat there for a moment, wondering what kind of dead celebrity hoax this was. Chris Cornell, the guy who was a monstrous part of my musical adventure as a teen was dead. It was so strange, he seemed so healthy. He didn’t seem to have any real drug or alcohol problems that I ever recall reading or hearing about. It was a bit jarring. 

I proceeded to flip through the various news sites, sort of exposing myself to as much input as possible into how one of my favorite songwriters had met his demise at the age of 52. It’s important to note something to those reading this who may not realize what it was like for those of us on April 8th, 1994. I was in 6th grade. My childhood friend Lonzo Jones, a guy who sadly is no longer with us, rushed up to me as I left a class and said “Dude, did you hear? Kurt Cobain is dead!” I was really confused then, and I had to wait all day to hear more when MTV delivered updates via the broadcasting of Kurt Loder. I think it’s important to explain why that moment is so memorable because I feel like May 18th will always be the day that Chris Cornell died for me. (I’m aware Joy Division’s Ian Curtis lost his battle with depression on this day 37-years ago as well). 

Chris Cornell, the powerful, dynamic singer whose band Soundgarden was one of the architects of grunge music, died on Wednesday night in Detroit hours after the band had performed there. He was 52.

The death was a suicide by hanging, the Wayne County medical examiner’s office said in a statement released on Thursday afternoon. It said a full autopsy had not yet been completed.

Mr. Cornell’s representative, Brian Bumbery, said in a statement that the death was “sudden and unexpected.”

I read this and many other write-ups like it. “Suicide” and “Sudden and Unexpected” are the two things that stand out to a guy like me the most. I haven’t been one to shy away from the fact I suffer from mental illness. (more on this in a moment.) The stories kept coming in that Chris had hung himself and almost immediately the internet was awash with more commentary and the gushing of fans. I wasn’t aware I knew so many fans of his work. It’s strange how that happens. It’s even stranger than that as I sat and went over some comic work I am trying to catch up on, the one person I kept thinking about was a friend I had in middle school named Gary Gilbert. Gary was without a doubt the biggest Soundgarden fan. We used to have weird “grunge rock wars” about who was better as I was a devout Nirvana fan and he was all Soundgarden. I almost immediately thought about “I wonder how Gary is taking it?”. This led me to do something I haven’t ever done in my life. I searched for him and sent him a friend request on facebook. So, here I am, wondering about how a guy I haven’t spoken to in 20-years at least is feeling about the death of Chris Cornell. 

I guess this history lesson wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t explain one of the things about why I loved and adored the grunge scene so much. I missed the punk scene. However, I totally would never have known about punk music if not for bands like Nirvana, Mudhoney, and Soundgarden. I didn’t learn about the Sex Pistols until I heard Kurt Cobain talk about them in an interview in 1992. Grunge was my gateway drug backward into my obsession with Punk and Hardcore. 

So, I now come to the first real part of this blog. Grief is weird. I believe a big part of the process is trying to reconcile to yourself that this is a permanent fixture in your life. You go your whole life taking advantage of these artists and actors and musicians... Then, poof!

I loved Chris Cornell’s work. I personally believe out of every grunge era musician, he was probably the most well rounded of all of them. His voice is capable of giving me goosebumps and some songs will forever resonate with me. Soundgarden was the middle man of Grunge. It bridged the gap between Punk/Sludge/Noise rock from bands like The Melvins and Sonic Youth to the more commercially recognized bands of Nirvana, Alice in Chains and Pearl Jam. Soundgarden plays loud, hard, yet poetic rock. Their music was built on Led Zeppelin, Hardcore Punk, and Black Sabbath. They defied the expectation of what a “Grunge” band was and stood out among their Seattle scene as the toughest machine in town. Chris Cornell’s thunderous, multi-octave vocals pierced the souls of all of the angst-ridden and angry youth who also weren’t finding solace in the nonsensical poetries of other bands at that time. Cornell’s lyricism is some of the most well-versed poetry I’ve ever heard. Cornell spoke to kids with depression through experience, and told stories of sardonic nihilism, inner torment and defined the battles of depression as beautifully catatonic waves of torment. 

Cornell spoke to me... 

"Whatsoever I've feared has come to life. Whatsoever I've fought off became my life. Just when every day seemed to greet me with a smile sunspots have faded. And now I'm doing time 'cause I fell on black days."

When I was in high school, I thought there was something wrong with me. It was always a roller coaster ride of emotion. I’d always suppress it and I got really good at it. In 10th grade, a good friend of mine named Robert Patton killed himself. It really shook our school, and today, when I read the report about Chris Cornell’s suicide. I immediately remembered what our Principal had said to us about Robert’s death. 

“sudden and unexpected.”

Robert was a fun kid. We laughed and talked about all kinds of crap. I never saw it coming. He seemed so happy... He didn’t seem damaged or broken, not like how I felt. However, I bet you not many of my friends knew I was depressed back then either. I am bipolar and suffer from bouts of depression and mania. I also suffer from clinical anxiety and have ADHD. I’m a cocktail of neuroticism and to this day can’t believe my current and/or ex Wife/Girlfriends haven’t murdered me in my sleep. 

One of the things I decided this morning was that if the facts came out and they said he had indeed committed suicide, I’d write this version of the blog. I wanted to make sure it held a clear message about mental illness and hopefully could help someone. 

I always get asked, “What’s it like?”

So, here is the best way to explain how it all works. Mania is sort of this awesome high. You have energy and motivation, and you just don’t want to stop. Couple that up with ADHD and sometimes it creates severe problems. You’ve now lost your impulse control, so for example. I wanted to find a particular record. (Led Zeppelin 4) I decided to hit a pawn shop and a couple thrift shops. Waste a couple hours and get home for dinner. I was severely manic that day though and my ADHD coupled with it made me hit every thrift shop, pawnshop, and anywhere else I thought I might find it. I searched for 6-hours before Aly (wife) made me buy it offline. 

The best part of mania is the optimism, you could literally burn down your home and just go “We can rebuild it and make it better too!”. I’m also much more on point creatively. I get so many ideas, so many great moments of artistic expression. Sometimes being manic is like a comic creator's super power. When Mania strikes, I do as much as possible to capitalize on it. 

I feel more outgoing, charismatic, secure in who I am and what I am doing. I feel like I can do anything. I wake up with a drive and determination to get things done, and I just go and go and GO. I am way more sociable, I talk too much, I dominate conversations, I interject when I don’t need to. I can’t keep on topic cause my brain is working faster than the conversation that is happening. I sometimes depress myself thinking back on these times as well. Sometimes, you just can't recognize when you’re being “TOO MUCH” for some people.  During manic spells, I feel like Superman. I can do anything, my self-esteem is up, I can conquer the world. However, the major dread of anyone who recognizes their mania is that we know it’s only a matter of time before we crash. The thing about mania that is so appealing is that without the highs of manic episodes, I don’t think I could tolerate the lows of depression.

I've givin' everything I need. I'd give you everything I own. I'd give in if it could at least be ours alone. I've given everything I could to blow it to hell and gone. Burrow down and blow up the outside world."

The point of this is to discuss why Chris Cornell could have been suicidal, depressed, and mentally ill... and no one would have known. In the song “Fell on Black Days” he basically defines what it feels like to fall into depression from a manic episode. 

When my depression kicks in, I am just intolerable. I want to be left alone, but not too alone. I want to not exist, but I fear not being remembered. I don’t want to go anywhere, but I don’t want to be here. When people talk to me, I feel they are judging me, chastising me, making me feel like I am incapable of doing anything right. It becomes really easy to hide.  Seeing people be happy is the worst, It annoys me and makes me angry. It reminds me that I am broken and that my bipolar disorder is always there. I’ll always have instability and the most annoying part is the people who tell me “Cheer up!” as if it was that easy. The nuances of daily life also begin to start dragging my mood deeper into the void. This is where suicide becomes... endearing.  I’ve contemplated suicide pretty much during every depressive state. I have tricks, mechanisms to break my thought process. My kids. Music. Art. Comics. Writing. Sex. All of these are ways I trick my brain into walking away from the ledge. If I feel I am not able to do it alone, I’ll sometimes text, message or call a friend. This is that exposing my own personal life part. If any of my friends read this and you ever complain to yourself. “Why does Martin call me and just not have anything to say?” It’s because if I'm on the phone with you, I'm not self-harming. I am very cognitive of my mental state and I am very good at keeping it in check. Sadly, some are not. Some fight for a very long time and some give up. Robin Williams comes to mind. 

"Boiling heat, summer stench 'neath the black. The sky looks dead. Call my name through the cream. And I'll hear you. Scream again. Black hole sun won't you come and wash away the rain? Black hole sun won't you come? Won't you come?"

I sometimes imagine what it’s like for normal people. I imagine they deal with stress and anger and anxiety in a much different way. If I told you that I sometimes have gotten so angry I’ve punched myself in the face, causing damage to my teeth... Would that make sense? I have bad teeth, and some people have asked me why. Why are they chipped? Why are you missing one? They don’t look unbrushed. It’s because I used to punch myself in the face. It was reactionary and really destructive and thankfully, I’ve not done that in a very long time. Don’t get me wrong, I totally do have my “normal” days. I get to have them every so often. I think it’s why I take so much pleasure in the little things.  I think Chris Cornell gave into his depression. I think he let go of his fight because like anyone who suffers from clinical depression will tell you. Sometimes, when you look into the future, you can’t see anything but a cold, dead, blackness. 

The night before his death, Cornell performed in front of a sold-out show in front of a legion of fans. He lasted longer than his grunge brethren like Kurt Cobain, Layne Staley, Shannon Hoon, and most recently Scott Weiland. Cornell experienced almost 2x the life as some of these tragic artists. He was very much alive to all that looked upon him that night as he played them out to a cover of Led Zeppelin’s “In My Time of Dying”. His haunting words catching me in the heart were “I feel bad for the next city.”. I would have bought every album as I always did of Cornell’s work until he hung it up. His future was to be that of an aged and grizzled rock vet, strumming an acoustic guitar and telling us more stories about his inner battle with his own demons. I always envisioned Chris Cornell being my generations Jonny Cash. That, sadly, will never be the case. 

A lot of you, my fellow fans have been asking “why?”. 

You will never truly understand the answers to that question if you do not grasp the silent killer that is mental illness. Chris Conell will go down in legend as one of the best singers and songwriters of Rock & Roll. 

"I got up feeling so down. I got off being sold out. I've kept the movie rolling. But the story's getting old now. I just looked in the mirror. Things aren't looking so good. I'm looking California and feeling Minnesota. So now you know, who gets mystified. Show me the power child. I'd like to say that I'm down on my knees today. It gives me the butterflies, gives me away till I'm up on my feet again. I'm feeling outshined."

RIP

Chris Cornell

If you’re ever struggling emotionally or going through a tough time, you can always call Call 1-800-273-8255 Available 24 hours everyday! National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

- Martin Dunn

[l0serz]

ah ha lets try this

So for creative writing we are starting to move on from poetry to journaling. I came home high and kind of tipsy (which is when i am at my most creative) and i sat down to do the assignment “write about the people who have hurt you the most and journal one best memory and one worst memory” and i didnt think of my ex or my dad lmao i thought of you and its bothering me cause i have to filter your memory for the assignment. I barely think about you. Like the fact is I don't miss any single part of you and I will never regret not having you in my life anymore. Maybe like once a month I'm like "remember this dumbass..". But somehow you have inspired an angry reaction for this assignment so im going to try to write about it without a filter to finally get you the fuck out of my system. I shouldn’t have to write about you but to be fair i never have so lets goo. 

H: When I first met you, two whole years ago, I thought I was unstoppable. I thought the world could hit me at any moment and I would continue flying. I was fifteen and very naive. I was insecure about my sexuality and you knew that the second your eyes set on mine. Our friendship was one of the most beautiful bonds I have ever invested in. You knew every single little detail about me in a matter of a month. You memorized my favorite nouns, verbs, and adjectives. You knew where my scars are and my freckles are set into my skin. You understood and embraced the way I saw the world. We spent every single day together and wanted to spend as many minutes together as much as possible. We even started using the bathroom in front of each other. After two months, I realized every single moment we were apart you were the only thing I ever thought about. You drove my healthy friendships out of my life because you felt “attacked”. I chose you over them. I thought I would die without hearing your bad dad jokes or your uncontrollable laugh. I felt as if the end of the world could come but it would be okay because we had each other. But that is where we started crossing the line. You knew my feelings for you was more than a friendship. Each time I tried to distance myself in order to be able to feel normal, you would come back and pull me in with your emotional ropes. You would cuddle with me at moments and kiss me. Each time giving me a little bit more so I could hold on to the idea of an “us”. We spent every night together during July and August. Rotating from your house, to my house, to his house, to her house, to any house we could find a room at. We spent most of those nights drinking and smoking. I spent most of those nights taunting away your demons. I spent most of those nights holding on to any embrace I could. I spent most of those nights comforting you and embracing YOU. I would drop anything for you. It was insanely toxic. To make me reach a point where I would breath and feel like I was suffocating cause we weren’t sharing the same air was simply and painfully abusive. You were the first person I ever fell in love with. I fell in love with your flaws, your eyes, your lies, the way you would wash your face, the way your dimples grew  every time you yawned, the way you said good morning, the way you would call me over to hug me goodnight, the way you would wake up and immediately laugh when you saw in what positioned i slept in (even if it was normal), the way you curved your lips when you’d say “dammit”, the way your tears fell, every single fucking thing about you. I loved. The night I realized I needed to get away from you was halloween. You had just fucked her in the other room and I had left my brother alone a week after my mom left us. I sat there on the couch realizing that you did not give two shits about me. You did not care that I quit my job to spend the last week with my mom with her, you cared that I quit my job and we weren’t going to work together anymore. I sat on that red couch in a room full of strangers. I refused to drink that night. When you came out of the room you saw me upset. You panicked. So the thing you did next was you sat on top of me, hugged me, and started playing with my hair. You whispered “we’ve never kissed before” and you kissed me. A real kiss. Not the pecks you gave me before. You saw that you were losing me and you knew what would have worked if I was still enchanted by you. But I wasn’t. So the next morning, I left without you. The first time we ever left without each other. I left you there. Now you are in two of my classes. I see you every day and I thank fucking god that I didn’t let you back into my life. You have taken the good out of so many people. I see the way these people were left like a war-zone. You destroyed their ability to trust themselves. It pains me to see that you are still continuing to do this to yourself. I won’t lie, sometimes I see that you are upset and I want to run back to you. Tell you that everything is okay. But I’ve heard you laugh when you see someone in pain. You dont deserve it. I may not have chosen someone 100% better than you to love the next time I decided to love again but it was never that bad as it was with you. She did cheat on me and she did lie a lot. But she never once manipulated me and intoxicated me like you did. I will never go through that again. At least 98% of her “I love you’s” were honest and raw. Yours were always “I love you, can you —”. It was always so you could end up gaining something. 

Best memory with you: We were in New York City for my 16th birthday and my mom was done having a manic episode. You were the only person who ever saw her like that besides my father, my brother, and I. I was scared you were going to want to leave after that. But we went out to dinner and then we got coffee and we sat at a coffee table outside of GreenWhich Village. There were brick buildings illuminated by lights that looked like snowflakes in July. You grabbed my hand and you just smiled. It was exactly what I needed. Later that night at the hotel we stole some booze and I swear on my life I have never laughed as much. We stayed up all night listening to really bad disco music and dancing. I remember every single word spoken that night. I remember every single body movement, every sound of laughter, and every breath. 

Worst memory: We were getting drunk off of bailey’s and smoking cigarettes. You looked over at me and said “Carla, I am in love with her” I remember feeling so much sadness and betrayal. I just started crying. We sat on top of the kitchen counter and you just sat there grinning while I cried. You took a swing of the bailey’s and started laughing. I told you I wanted to go home and you said “IF you leave, you will never see me ever again. You can’t come back.”. So I left the room and locked myself in an upstairs room. The next morning you woke me up and pretended nothing happened.