#breaking my silence: i think wuthering heights is one of the most romantic books of all time lol

[mermaidsirennikita]

Sadly, the Wuthering Heights furor has also led to people (many of whom, let us be real, simply dislike the book or otherwise only think of it when it's brought up) to discourse about the content of the novel versus the wrongness of Emerald Fennell's choices with regards to the movie, which of course, has opened up the classic "IT'S NOT A ROMANCE! IT'S NOT A LOVE STORY! BAD PEOPLE! HATE STORY!"

... Which is... also a bad take.

First off, to be very clear, "Romance" is not inherently "genre romance", which is the thing I blog a lot about that was solidified in the latter half of the twentieth century (and which, no doubt, was influenced on some level by WH as much as Jane Eyre, Austen novels and so on). Wuthering Heights is a romance, it's just not a genre romance/romance novel. And indisputably, Wuthering Heights is a love story.

It may not be a love story you like. It may not be a love story with a happily ever after (though I will say—this is one of the few books where I think it's pretty debatable, as "wandering the moors as ghosts", if that is what happened, is kind of... what Cathy and Heathcliff would've wanted... and their ultimate desire was to be TOGETHER, regardless of whether or not it damned them, so is it an HEA in their freaky minds? Maybe so lol). It may ALSO be an abuse story in which the lovers act horribly to each other.... though, I gotta say, MUCH WORSE to literally everyone else in their lives than they do to each other...

But it's a love story. That is one of several things it happens to be. The entire novel is driven by this central love story between Heathcliff and Cathy—a love that is, contrary to what a surface-level reading or reading by word of mouth would imply... very much mutual. I've already gone on about how Cathy Earnshaw is not Heathcliff's victim the way Isabella Linton is, and how Cathy is very much as involved in the love affair as he is. But truly, while their individual internal struggles are the framework and what keeps them apart in many ways—Heathcliff being a man of color and subject to racist abuse, Cathy conforming to society and classist pressures when her natural temperament is very much not of society—what propels the story is this romance.

Because they are supposed to be read as extremely similar, and as two people who do not truly identify with anyone but one another. They're supposed to be read as like minds. They're supposed to be read as thwarted. Some of the things those two say about each other and to each other are legitimately some of the most romantic lines I've ever read.

I mean, are they also kind of sick and wrong? Sure! But I do find it kind of rich to see people who are totally fine with reading dark romance wring their hands over the public at large interpreting Heathcliff and Cathy's relationship as an epic romance. I don't have an issue with anyone enjoying either! But. Let us be real. Part of why y'all are even enjoying work like that is the standard that books like WH set, and the fact that WH does speak to the lure of the dark and the tragedy of people who are super imperfect... and also super in love... continuously fucking up their own lives (and the lives of basically everyone around them) in this push-pull of denial and desire.

When people say "HOW COULD ANYONE EVER INTERPRET THIS AS ROMANTIC?" I just have to question... did you read the book? Because even if it's not for YOU, if it's not romantic TO YOU, surely you can see why other people (me and mine lol) read lines like these and go, "Wow, romantic":

“Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living. You said I killed you--haunt me then. The murdered do haunt their murderers. I believe--I know that ghosts have wandered the earth. Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad. Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! It is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!”

(fun fact: I do have a part of the above quote tattooed on my body and I'm very happy about it)

"My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it."

"Hush, my darling! Hush, hush, Catherine! I'll stay. If he shot me so, I'd expire with a blessing on my lips."

[said when her damn husband is almost at the door lol]

"I’m not wishing you greater torment than I have, Heathcliff. I only wish us never to be parted: and should a word of mine distress you hereafter, think I feel the same distress underground, and for my own sake, forgive me!"

"'Heathcliff, dear! you should not be sullen now. Do come to me, Heathcliff.’

In her eagerness she rose and supported herself on the arm of the chair. At that earnest appeal he turned to her, looking absolutely desperate. His eyes, wide and wet, at last flashed fiercely on her; his breast heaved convulsively. An instant they held asunder, and then how they met I hardly saw, but Catherine made a spring, and he caught her, and they were locked in an embrace from which I thought my mistress would never be released alive..."

"Kiss me again; and don’t let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer—but yours! How can I?"

[Read: she is the murderer he is talking about. He's saying she doomed herself to death a long time ago, and he hates her for it. While also crying and kissing her lmao]

They're sickos! Nobody can argue otherwise. But that does not mean they're not in love, and it doesn't mean this isn't a love story, and wagging your fingers at people who read this as the obviously destructive love story this is and find it romantic... doesn't change that.

And the thing is that the book makes it pretttyyyy clear that even if Heathcliff and Cathy has assholery programed into their personalities, WITHOUT the contexts of how they were raised and the society that expects them both to conform to prescribed roles, they would probably just... be together. Like, they victimize people, especially Heathcliff. But they are also victims. The book isn't about a critique of two people Emily Bronte dreamed up; it's a critique of the CIRCUMSTANCES by way of Gothic, subversive melodrama. At the end of the day, their feelings, however passionate they are, are not inherently subversive. Their feelings are NATURAL. But they're twisted and contorted into something ugly through circumstance and the characters' responses to those circumstances.

For Heathcliff, A LOT of those circumstances that did twist him are in fact out of his control. Which is why we hate that casting, right?

But all that said, a love story being dirtybadwrong and about Bad People doesn't mean it isn't a love story, lol. Again—we don't even expect genre romance to be about good people.

Like. Yeah. We know Heathcliff and Cathy are assholes. You're not breaking new ground with that take. The book is still, in many ways, about those assholes being in love.

[hxlyhead-harpies]

The Last Dream of My Soul part 2. (R.L.)

This part is a bit short but I hope that’s okay with you all! Any feedback is appreciated and message me or comment if you want to be tagged! My requests are also open. Enjoy!

Pairing: Young!Remus Lupin x Reader

Summary: The very bookish (Y/n) has spent most of her life alone, aside from her best friend Lily and her beloved books. But when the infamous Marauders get thrust into her life, how could she resist the beautiful and unattainable Remus?

Warnings: none

Word count: 1.8k

Part one

By your second week eating breakfast with the Marauders you were starting to feel like you really belonged with them. James was extremely funny, in your opinion the funniest of the group. He never failed to make you laugh when you sat near him in the common room and once he made you laugh so hard in the Great Hall that you had almost choked on your toast. Sirius was also funny but in a different way. He playfully flirted with anything that moved, something that would normally make you scoff, but with him it just made you laugh. You weren’t as close with Peter, though you helped him with his transfiguration homework and he occasionally shared his sweets with you. And then, of course, there was Remus. Remus was by far your favorite of the group, though it was for reasons you’d never dare disclose to anyone but Lily. He was sweet, sending you reassuring smiles when you’d muster up the bravery to tell a story to the group. He’d slip you chocolates when you were studying late at night and fostered the same love for muggle literature as you. Every little thing he did only added to your attraction to him. In your eyes, he was absolutely perfect

You looked forward to the evenings in the common room, sitting next to the crackling fire with the marauders and Lily. Laughing at James and Sirius’s jokes and stealing glances at Remus’s face, seemingly glowing the light of the fire. You finally felt as if you had found your place at Hogwarts.

“Hey (Y/n),” Remus said, startling you out of your thoughts. You turned to look at him.

“Yeah?” you replied. He shifted in his spot on the floor, next to the couch where Lily sat with James.

“I just finished Crime and Punishment,” he said. You turned in the large armchair where you sat to fully face him.

“Oh really? How did you like it?” you asked.

“I liked it, though I have to digress- you were right- it is a bit dense,” he answered. You smiled at his from your seat, quickly looking down at your hands.

“Well of course. I told you so,” you responded. You heard him laugh lightly from the floor.

“I was wondering though if I could borrow your book? The one you talked about at breakfast the other week,” he inquired.

“Oh of course!” you said. “I can go fetch it for you right now.” You gestured towards the stairs that led to the girl’s dormitory.

“Oh you don’t have to get it right now,” Remus said. You smiled and shook your head.

“It’s no trouble. I’ll be right back,” you replied, pushing yourself up from the armchair. He thanked you as you made your way towards the staircase, but you just smiled and waved him off.

When you got to your room you rifled through your bag, attempting to locate the book. You searched for a moment to no avail, before realizing that you had left it on your bedside table. After you retrieved it you turned to head back downstairs, only to almost run directly into Lily.

“Oh my goodness Lils! You scared me,” you said, clutching your chest.

“Oh I’m sorry,” she replied.

“What are you doing up here?” you inquired. Mere minutes ago she was downstairs in the middle of a conversation. You wondered what had brought her upstairs so early. She usually didn’t leave the common room for at least another hour.

“It was getting late and I’m tired,” she replied, shrugging. “Plus James and everyone else decided to go up to bed,” she continued. You felt yourself deflate.

“Oh,” you said. “I was supposed to bring this down to Remus. I guess I took too long,” you said, holding up the book. You felt embarrassed that you had gone all the way upstairs to retrieve him the book when he had just decided to go to be without waiting for you.

“Don’t be silly,” Lily said with a smirk. “He’s still waiting for you downstairs.”

“Oh,” you responded.

“Yes he’s waiting for you all alone in the empty common room,” Lily said in a teasing sing-song voice. You felt yourself blush.

“Lily, I’m going down there to lend him a book. What do you think is going to happen?” you said. Lily just laughed, wiggling her eyebrows at you. You shook your head and headed down towards the common room, now feeling slightly nervous. When you got to the bottom of the stairs you saw Remus’s head pop up. He had moved from his spot on the floor to the now vacant couch. He shot you a smile as you walked over to him.

“Here it is,” you said, handing the book to him. “Sorry I kept you down here waiting for me, I didn’t know everyone was planning on turning in so early.”

“Oh it’s no problem,” he replied, taking the book from you. He quickly flipped through the pages, feeling the worn parchment against his fingers.

“Wow, Lily wasn’t kidding. You really have marked this thing up,” he said, chuckling. You ducked your head in embarrassment.

“Yeah… Sorry about that,” you responded sheepishly. Remus looked up at you, his eyes sparkling in the dim light.

“Oh don’t worry about it. I can tell that you really love the book,” he said. You nodded silently, averting your eyes to your shoes. A silence fell between you as Remus turned the book over in his hands. You were debating whether to bid him goodnight and go upstairs or attempt to start a conversation with him. Luckily, he made the decision for you.

“At the risk of sounding like a complete idiot, what is this book about?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. You giggle softly before sitting down next to him on the sofa.

“Well,” you began. “It’s the story of the muggle French revolution. It follows a man who was kept as a political prisoner, his daughter, a French aristocrat, and a drunken lawyer. It’s full of intrigue and espionage, and while not a romance, it contains what I consider to be the most romantic scene ever written,” you said, catching yourself before you continued to ramble. You look up to meet Remus’s eyes to see that he’s smiling.

“That sounds incredibly interesting,” he said after a moment. You smiled and nodded.

“What qualifies it to be the most romantic scene ever written?” he asked in an almost teasing, yet earnest tone.

“I’m not sure exactly. Something about the words is just perfect. I guess it’s just the kind of thing I wish someone would say to me,” you answered shyly. You saw him nod in your peripheral vision.

“Are you a fan of romances then?” he inquired.

“Yes, I am. They might be my favorite type of book to read,” you answered abashedly. You had always loved the allure of romance novels; Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights, and Jane Eyre had been your go-to reads throughout your adolescence. You longed for a romance of your own, and since that seemed unattainable, you lived vicariously through your books.

“I don’t think that’s anything to be ashamed of,” Remus said, “Though I can’t say they’re my favorite types of books.” You laughed.

“That doesn’t exactly surprise me, Remus. You are a boy after all,” you said jokingly, nudging his shoulder with your own.

“Hey! That’s an unfair stereotype. I’m sure plenty of boys enjoy romance novels. I am just not one of them,” he said with a smile, nudging you back.

“Why don’t you like them?” you asked. He shrugged, his joking demeanor morphing into a more uncomfortable one.

“I don’t know exactly… I just don’t picture myself wanting a real-life romance, so why would I want to read about a fictional one?” he elaborated. You felt your stomach drop.

“Oh,” you said, attempting to keep your voice even, “so you just don’t want to fall in love?”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s it. I don’t think the whole falling in love and marriage thing is for me,” he responded. You hoped that you appeared to have an unbothered demeanor because it felt as if your heart was breaking.

“That sounds a little sad, don’t you think?” you asked. Remus shook his head, still appearing a tad uncomfortable.

“Not to me. Besides, loneliness isn’t the worst type of pain that one can feel,” he replied. You frowned.

“I’m not sure about that. For me, the pain of loneliness seems unparalleled. I want nothing more than to fall in love,” You took a deep breathe, playing with the hem of your sweater. From the corner of your eye, you saw Remus shrug.

“I guess that’s where you and I differ,” he said after a beat. You nodded quietly. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, you stood up from your seat on the couch and dusted off your skirt.

“Well, I best be off to bed,” you said. Remus looked up at you quickly. He gave you a small smile before bidding you goodnight. You quickly turned around and rushed up the stairs.

By the time you got to your dorm, your body felt heavy with disappointment. You closed the door hurriedly behind you before flopping onto your bed. You let out a sad sigh, looking up at the ceiling, After a minute you felt the bed dip beside you and you look up to see Lily grinning down at you.

“So how’d it go?” the redhead asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Fine,” was your response. Lily groaned before laying down next to you in the bed.

“Come on (Y/n). Please just tell me what happened,” she begged.

“Nothing happened,” you said simply, “and it’s been made clear to me that nothing ever will happen.” Lily looked at you, clearly confused.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I have been informed that Remus Lupin is not one for romance. He doesn’t want it now, and he doesn’t want it ever,” you replied, wiping away the tears that were threatening to fall.

“Oh,” Lily said softly. “That was not how I expected that to go.” She turned her head to look up at the ceiling.

“It’s fine,” you said. “I’ve gone seven years without needing a boyfriend. I certainly don’t need one now,” you said defiantly, getting up to begin getting ready for bed. You saw Lily frown.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t want one. You’re allowed to be sad you know?” she says, propping herself up on her elbows.

“Lily, if I let myself be sad over every boyfriend that I never had then I would have been sad for the last seven years,” you replied. Lily began playing with the threads of the quilt that was splayed across your bed.

“I guess.” She got up quickly and went to join you by your dresser. “Well even if Remus Lupin is too daft to realize it, you’re quite a catch,” she said reassuringly. You giggled quietly.

“Thank you, Lils,” you responded.

“Don’t worry someday you will meet your Mr. Heathcliff,” she reassured you, patting you on the shoulder, before skipping off to her own bed. You run your brush through your hair, desperately hoping that she was right.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist:

@goosegorl​ @serenefreakgeek​

[cosmicbug379]

Reading Habits

tagged by @opheliaelysia thank you darling!!

1. Do you have a certain place at home for reading?

Not really. I usually read in bed, mostly because I’m usually in my room, but if I’m upstairs in the living room I’ll read there. I’ll read pretty much anywhere

2. Do you use bookmarks? If so, what kind?

SO. I usually read on my Kindle because of the convenience or I read fanfic on my phone and I haven’t read a physical book in years lmao. If I am reading a physical book though, I will use a book mark, I’m not a monster. I usually just use a scrap of paper. When I was in Jr. High and High School I used to fold up pieces of paper and draw on them so they matched whatever book I was reading though. 

3. Can you stop reading or do you have to make it to the end of the chapter?

I don’t have to get to the end of the chapter, but I do have to at least get to the end of the paragraph. I can’t stop in the middle like that.

4. Do you eat or drink while reading?

I mean, I have my water bottle near me like 24/7, and if I’m already snacking I’ll keep eating, but I don’t actively go get something to eat or drink before reading.

5. Music or tv while reading?

Oh yeah. I have to have background noise or my brain makes background noise. It’s actually harder for me to focus if it’s completely silent. I won’t like turn on a tv show or movie I actually care about, but like when I’m getting ready to go to bed and settling down to read some fanfics or something I’ll usually turn on Community or another sitcom I’ve seen 800 times just so I don’t have to sit in complete silence. Or I’ll turn on music that has the right vibe. I have playlists on youtube and spotify that are specifically like LotR music, Star Wars music, disney music, music that makes me happy, love songs, etc.

6. One book at a time or multiple.

Multiple, mostly because between my ADHD and my depression, my mood shifts so constantly, I can’t read a book if I’m not in the right mood. I’ve been trying to read Pride and Prejudice (I love the movie but still haven’t finished the book) for like two months, but if I’m not in the right mood I can’t focus. But my copy of The Silmarillion is looking real good right now, because I’m in a fantasy mood and I can’t find my copy of the Hobbit or Two Towers. (I have Fellowship and RotK, but the others are missing. This is why I don’t let people borrow books)

7. Reading at home or while out?

Mostly at home just because that’s where I spend a majority of my time. But I like to carry my Kindle with me, (when I was a teenager people made fun of me for it so I don’t do it as much anymore) and I always have my phone with me, so if I’m out and I feel like, I’ll read fanfiction or something.

8. Reading out loud or silently?

Silently for the most part. But sometimes dialogue is so dramatic or romantic or intense that I feel a need to read it out loud as if I’m speaking it, and pretty much always with a British accent.

9. Do you read ahead or skip pages?

NEVER. My friend does this and it drives me fucking crazy. Someone I was friends with in High School refused to finish a book I really wanted her to read because she skipped to the end and found out a character she liked died and I was so mad at her.

10. Breaking the spine?

I mean, not on purpose. But sometimes you really love a book and read it a lot and eventually the natural wear and tear of reading it so often happens

11. Do you write in your books?

FUCK NO. I hate it. I was forced to do it in high school and I think that’s why I hated english class so much and I almost never read for fun in high school. Being forced to read shitty books and annotate them killed reading for me for a long time and I wouldn’t read anything but fanfics and I’m still kind of getting over that. I had to like write a certain amount and certain things and I hated it. I gained nothing from the experience, and it made me not want to read stuff. I’ve been assigned to read Wuthering Heights like 4 times between High School and Jr High and I still haven’t read the last few chapters and just bs-d my way through. (partly for that and also because it’s a god awful book. it’s not fucking romantic they just make each other miserable constantly it’s a shitty book and you’ll never convince me otherwise.)

Tagging: @rzrcrst @beskars @hdlynn @princessbatears @duamuteffe and anyone else who wants to! Also if I tagged you or you’ve already done it, don’t feel like you have to!

[cyanpeacock]

Realtalk(tm): Living With Ada Doom

ALRIGHT. so. those of you who have read Cold Comfort Farm know exactly where this is going.

so, when I was a kid, my mum would get drunk, and sad, and tell me about how awful her mum was, all the depressing shit, and she’d cry on me, you know, the works, the kind that should go down with a counsellor, or therapist.

I don’t remember it clearly. I had to like, switch off, you know? Mummy’s sad. I’m sad too. It’s going to be okay. Stroking her hair. That’s about all I remember, apart from the pain I had to hide to make everything better.

Except, it totally wasn’t okay, because I was giving my drunken mother comfort, and the next day she was giving me smacks, and isolation as punishment, and denying me food when I was rowdy, as children are. 

Later, she’d give me a book to read, called Cold Comfort Farm.

It’s a good book. It’s a parody of things along the lines of Wuthering Heights, you know, mopey miserable out-in-the-countryside romance novels where everyone is abusive, but That’s The Way It’s Always Been, Out Here. 

Flora comes along and fixes everything right up.

Some part of her wanted me to be Flora. 

A good, proper, refined young woman. Stately. Observant. Academic. Very sporting. 

I am not Flora.

I was very nearly Ada Doom, the woman who saw something nasty in the woodshed. Well - for a while, I thought I was her, but I didn’t have control over a farm/family. I wasn’t holding all the books. 

This phrase got used against me a lot - “something nasty in the woodshed.” It translated to, “you’re overreacting, be quiet,” in the circles I moved in. Often delivered as a joke, but actually, a warning.

Flora was not, actually, a very nice woman, and she was not, actually, very nice to Ada Doom. 

“Did it see you?”

The point I’m continually making, is.

I didn’t see something nasty in the woodshed, once, when I was a child.

I saw a whole fucking lot of nasty things, all around me, in my own home, that chased me into my bedroom, that physically, verbally, and emotionally abused me, for over a decade. I heard other nasty things going on, in rooms I wasn’t in, but sound carries. I saw and heard even nastier things happening between the only Adult Role Models I had.

This all seemed very normal, until I had an assembly on abuse in primary school, and recognized myself in it.

I told myself, “mummy loves me. It’s not really abuse. Is it?” 

I told myself this for years.

Skip to the future. It’s easier for me.

Later I ran away somewhere a bit cleaner, to live with a racist opioid addict. It was fucking awesome, for a while, but yeah, that’s another post. He’d also use “something nasty in the woodshed” against me, or just say “Ada Doom.”

My mother would chatter things about “he’s brainwashing you! Mind control!” when I did see her at the same time as him, separately. It’s like she didn’t realize he was only using things he’d seen her use on me. She probably didn’t, because they’d probably been used on her, and she hadn’t spotted the conditioning.

So, in this story, what did “Flora” turn out to be?

An angry, inhibited, explosive, snappy, hungry young man, who just wanted to get high, forget about the past, and go to lesson, so he could learn something that would get him out of this shithole, and into a decent home, with a car that runs and a job that pays in the wallet, mind, and heart. 

I hid so much of the pain I was in, because when it was actually expressed, I’d get dismissed, belittled, or outright yelled at, even after the physical hitting had stopped. 

She always said, “you know you can talk to me about anything, don’t you?”

So I’d try, like a kid, who desperately wanted to believe that his mother did “love him” - that is, knew how to give emotionally healthy and nourishing expressions of love. 

And time and time again, I’d get, “I think you’re overreacting.” “Isn’t that a bit extreme?” “It doesn’t mean anything.” “They’re just jealous.” “You’re imagining things.” Or, you know, “I think you’re being selfish.” “Selfish little cow!”

So there I was, my self harm getting worse and worse, the pressure my piece of shit school placed on me getting worse and worse, hearing Mark fucking cussing me out again, becoming increasingly abusive towards myself and people I really, deeply cared about, because I had literally no understanding, no framework for internally and mutually rewarding loving interaction. 

I don’t even remember what happened. Shit went down, mother had got a “boyfriend,” they were going to get married, they split up, I was caught in the middle because I was a kid who never really had a dad and desperately wanted one, I got used as a pawn in a game of chess between two emotionally unwell adults who couldn’t agree to break up without causing an enormous fight and dragging their entire circle of Facebook friends into it. It was really ugly. Like, one of the friends died, and shit like “good riddance” was getting thrown about. It was really ugly. I wanted so badly to get involved and break it all up, but yeah, fuck Facebook, I didn’t use it, still don’t.

So, I ran away to live with the one who’d caused me less hurt, the racist opioid addict, because at least he could see me as a son, while the drunk was still transphobic as hell. That’s the other post, for the future. 

But yes, Ada Doom followed me there, and according to them, I was still living in the woodshed.

But I was supposed to be Flora. I was supposed to be good, nice, and orderly, and I was accepted while I was these things. If I wasn’t, I’d get a verbal slap in the right direction, through this insidious fucking phrasology tied in with a long, long history of emotional manipulation.

This all started with my mother, and her mother, and probably her mother before her, and a whole line of absent fathers. 

I’m the one who noticed this, and decided, “no more of this shit. No more of this shit. I am never bringing a child into this world so full of pain, and I have no idea how to fix any of this on my own, and the people who are supposed to help me don’t, and I don’t fucking trust anybody enough to let them in.”

I’m the one who noticed this was abuse. I’m the one who started reading, trying to understand the inside of my head, getting it wrong, getting it right-ish, doubting myself, always coming back and really thinking “fuck, that is so much like me” to conditions that arise as a result of complex, long-term trauma. 

I’m the one who made the jump into homelessness when the racist opioid addict became unbearable. I’m the one who went into a hostel while I was doing my A-Levels. I’m the one who passed them. I’m the one who saw a counsellor every week and just fucking sobbed because there was nowhere else I could cry like that without killing myself. 

I’m the one who read about psychodynamic theory, and fundamental interpretations of the structures of psyche, and thought about it all myself, how it might apply to my brain in particular. I’m the one who read intently about complex trauma, and healing from it. I’m the one who learned about EMDR, and figured out I could do that with good stereo music, and tapping my hands and feet on the bus. I’m the one who studied very specific parts of the DSM V, over and over, circling and circling until I zeroed in on the places that fit well enough to help me understand, find resources, and recover. 

I’m the one who read very, very, very closely about marijuana, the endocannabinoid system, and its relation to trauma. I understood this was drug abuse, and dependency, and that dependency and addiction are almost interchangeable. I’m the one who knew I didn’t really want to smoke until my mind burned away, unless I couldn’t Make It at university. I’m the one who smashed my pipe in July, and hasn’t wanted to smoke again since, and doesn’t really want to go back, but will if he falls/fails. 

I’m the one who learned to meditate, just drop out into a trance, for minutes or hours, with and without drugs in my system, with silence or with music, and now increasingly with background noise, although that one is REALLY difficult for me. I’m the one who learned all those weird skills like “noting” and “radical acceptance” and other things I’ve forgotten the name of but notice as different states of consciousness. 

I’m the one who knew all this psych work was supposed to be very dangerous, you shouldn’t do this if you aren’t A Professional(tm), but I’m also the one who knew I didn’t trust a single fucking “Professional” to do the right thing, make the right referrals, administer the treatment properly, after being betrayed and forced and dismissed by so many so-called Professionals.

I’m the one who decided, in not so many words: well, fuck, it’s less dangerous for me to do all these things, and make mistakes trying, than it is for me to let somebody in, and receive another injury, at my most vulnerable. 

The thing about Ada Doom is, she’s a character in a fucking parody novel. 

You’re not Ada Doom. You’re not Catherine Earnshaw. 

You can’t live your whole life making sad allegories through books that dig up your old pain without actually resolving any of it, because you’re reading ahead and projecting the romantic, ugly, fantasy conclusion onto what really happened, to your body.

It’s really useful! It’s really useful, for a long time, to connect with your pain through fiction. Forever, actually.

But I’ve got to get angry about being expected to be a character from a fucking parody novel.

“You’ll understand later.”

I understand. I understand why you did what you did. I understand you couldn’t control it. I understand why you showed me this book.

It cannot negate, diminish, or remove any of my anger. 

I had to go to a counsellor, for years, research, for years, think and feel, for years, to find the right language and tone to communicate my experiences. I’m still learning. I’m especially still talking, because I haven’t been able to talk about any of this, because my mother wouldn’t let me. All she did was give me strange, roundabout books, that were good, and annoyingly on the nose, and say “You’ll understand later.”

If you’re saying that, if they’re asking the question isn’t it about time you explained?

Isn’t it about time you realized you need help explaining? 

I can’t keep going back to a sad fucking house full of hurting fucking children. It drags me down again every time, although I really do cherish the moments where I could just pretend it was all normal and painless and easy to be a family. I really do. 

And yes, I know, it’s circular, it’s not that fucking easy, because I couldn’t let anybody in, because I was “normal,” as far as my mother was concerned. I know I’m lucky I’m very quick, I learn well, and I’m completely fucking invested in research and execution. 

I had to become these things for a sick, sick woman, who wanted a kid who would save/change her life. 

It’s not a fairytale. I know it feels like one. I know it feels like Prince Charming is just around the corner, it must be soon, just one more page! The Big Bad Wolf is still lurking!

You gotta make Prince Charming. You have to make the person you want to marry inside your head. I’m getting there. There’s no ring on it. That might be the total illusion of self. It might not be. I don’t know what’s happening to my system, yet. 

That voice in your head who yells at you, but isn’t you, but won’t tell you their name? Give them a fucking name. Think them up a face and a body. Go and learn some emotional regulation skills, slowly, because it’s really difficult. Revise them. Pass them along. Talk to them. They’ll stop yelling at you. You’ll be able to turn to them for comfort, and they’ll get all your jokes, because you’re sharing a brain, and the connections do keep coming your entire life/lives. They can be your partner, if you like, and they do too. 

I don’t know what happens after that, and that is just this body/me/us/the irrelevancy of pronouns astounds me. 

So, I’m very stupid.

I really did take the hood off my car at the side of the road with smoke pouring out. I didn’t know anything about what colour meant “get the hell away” or “it’s fine, just call the recovery van.” I just knew there was a problem, it needed fixing, and I didn’t have insurance.

I did it the stupid way. I touched it while it was hot. I tried using stuff I had in the back of the car. I walked to the garage, and they rang my mum? I walked back to the car and slept in it for a while, resolute in my decision not to go back to the garage again. I walked to the tool shop, and bought something to take that bit on the top off. I walked to the library and borrowed a book on cars. I bought more tools. I borrowed more books, this time on engines, because the car book was only about cars, and I had a problem with the engine. 

I kept getting the wrong fucking tools, and the wrong fucking books, because all engines are different, and different tools fit different engines. I just compared what I had to what was in there, then threw the wrong crap into the boot in a huff, or whacked the engine with whatever size spanner I had at hand.

I went back to the garage. They didn’t know what to do, they couldn’t see the car, just somebody who read too many manuals, and was on drugs. I still knew I didn’t have insurance. 

More tools, more books, still showing up at the garage, still getting dismissed, hating them more every time, them getting more and more bored of me. I was getting closer to fixing the car, but still making mistakes.

I found a mechanic, one who didn’t work with the garage. He let me tell him about the car, slowly, the way I’d figured it out. 

He knew a few things about engines. We spoke about the garage. He was very sympathetic. We spoke a lot about the car. He knew more than a few things about engines, actually.

I got better at fixing the car on my own.

Unfortunately, all this walking was fucking my legs. I’d really like to get back in the car again, and go places quicker. All this work is really slowing me down from what I’d like to be doing. It’s also getting me to a point where I can do what I’d like to.

The car still isn’t fixed. I’m not sure what goes where next, or if this is actually the same engine I started with at all, but I have an idea what might work, and a mechanic who knows he doesn’t know the problem, but actually lets me tell him, unlike the garage. 

So yes. Ada Doom is and is not dead to me. 

The fairytale thing is great, but at some point, you gotta stop reading other people’s, and start reading/writing your own. But only if you’re that way inclined, and I said the bit before in a rude tone because I’m frustrated. 

Long post. That’s enough.

I’m not Flora Poste.