#chronic pain is hitting me again but being in pain cannot stop me from being very normal about Evil x and their angsty ass lore B)

[awoart114253]

I think we need to talk about the implications of Ex eating silverfish out of hunger and later on keeping one as a pet, while sleep deprived, might I add (_)

[clownery-and-fuckery]

Headcannons for you and this one is super personal but hey its disability pride month and I figured I'd give you a taste of my tism ok? ok don't look at me.

Tech doesn't enjoy affection. At all. Unless it's him that offers it.

^ what I mean by this is that he'll offer Omega his hand while they walk for her to hold, he'll pat Hunter's arm when he's stressed/thinking hard and he'll lean on Wrecker while he works, he'll seek out Echo after nightmares for affection. But he will never, ever accept affection that isn't initiated by himself

he'll squirm out of hugs from Wrecker/Omega, he'll twist his hands out and away from Hunter and Echo, he will shrug you off if you touch him. he will push you. the only one who won't touch him is Crosshair

Hunter and Tech have very different kinds of sensory overloads. Hunter's are fast and hit hard but only once. He needs to decompress for a few hours or so, in the dark and quiet, and will mostly sleep through things, unless he gets a migraine, then he'll just be slow and sluggish for the day.

Tech, however? His are slow building and hurt. His whole body itches from the inside, to the point of burning him, and his skin is suddenly uncomfortable on his bones, his back sweats, his eyes hurt. Everything sounds wrong, even the quiet. His clothes hurt, but so does the air against his bear skin. He often needs to walk away, rip off everything, and more often than not his stimming becomes harmful. He'll pull his hair until it rips, he'll slam his fists against his head, scratch at his skin until it bleeds, bite himself to try catch the itch he can't find. They last hours, and they're exhausting. And he cannot, CANNOT, stand being around people before, during, or after. It takes a while to get used to being around people again.

Apart of Crosshair's mutation is an addiction gene- one that ran in Jango's bloodline, that was originally altered and erased in other clones, but not in Crosshair. He stims to stop it, picking at his nails and the skin around it, his lips, chewing on toothpicks, but he can't get away from it. He smoked, drank, he has many needle tracks close to his wrist so he can pick at those, too. He can't help it. He's addicted to it.

Tech has a lot of vocal stims. So does Wrecker and Hunter, often they'll repeat each other for hours, latching onto a phrase, an accent, a sound, and copy it for hours. It can get tiring. Wrecker clicks his tongue when he's working on bombs, mimicking the ticking.

Hunter clicks his fingers while he walks in crowded spots, to match his heartbeat. It's more grounding than trying to stretch his senses

Echo has phantom pains, but his bones also click and crack constantly, they sound painful, but he really doesn't feel a thing. Wrecker, Hunter and Tech latch onto the sounds sometimes, he laughs about it

Tech has headphones that he has for his s2 outfit, to replace his helmet. They muffle the sounds just fine, and he's rarely seen without them (one time, a group asked for a holo because they had "never seen an autistic person before")

^ speaking of, many people speak down around Tech once they find out he's autistic. They don't call him "normal", they instead take on that condensing tone and speak slower and start explaining things unnecessarily to him, which Tech never knows how to respond to, because he's always taken by surprise (his go-to is to just go quiet)

Hunter goes nonverbal much more often than Tech, but it's not as noticed because Tech talks so often, the silence left once he does is always picked up on

Wrecker has chronic pain, but he never mentions it. He and Echo will often rival in terms of where they are on the pain scale, but they keep that to themselves. It's something they share that no one else really goes through. It's nice that they have that.

The yellow in Tech's goggles are very soothing, to him. They keep sensory input low, and at one point, he chose to have that comfort over his own sight, until he found a way to combine them

Hunter has the perfect balance of eye contact/no eye contact. He mastered it because he's always talking to superiors

Wrecker makes too little eye contact. He tends to wander, attention wise, and he has a lot to think about

Crosshair makes too much eye contact. He's trying to kill you with his mind. He wants you to explode. He thinks he can do it if he starts at your eyes long enough. Also, it's a trained habit.

Tech makes too much or too little eye contact. Like Crosshair, eye contact is a trained habit. However. He gets told his staring is creepy. So he's very focused on timing how long he's "allowed" to look away. He tends to not listen that way. He listens better when he's not looking.

Tech can be very thrown off by a change in routine, despite their lives. If Hunter has made a plan, and changes it without warning, there's a 70% chance Tech will botch his job because he's off kilter. He gets very overwhelmed and distressed. He has a list, he has to stick to it.

Wrecker is the same, but instead of becoming distressed, he gets angry. He doesn't understand why the plan has to change immediately, its very frustrating because often times there will be no immediate explanation

I have more, but that's a look into my experience with autism through the boys. there's a few other hcs that don't really apply to the specific autism experience but that's ok. again. don't look at me.

[vtforpedro]

long life update - TWs in tags

It feels like it's been ages. I'm so exhausted and in a lot of physical pain. Going on two months of it being the worst it's been right after a couple of months of the best it's been. Chronic pain + grief + trying to get help from doctors who should have their licenses revoked + dealing with a shit relationship with my mom + a good, decades-long friendship ending + the ongoing disability process with the SSA + LAW FIRMS.

I'm so fucking tired. I don't remember if I updated that the appeals council decided not to review my case because the 'judge followed the law' except that he didn't. So, as it turns out, my original attorney (and he did not tell me this) before he left, wrote that if they denied me, it should go to federal district court.

I'm now working with a NY law firm to take my case to federal court because my current law firm believes it has merit, and I guess they do, too. That's how fucked the decision was, and I'm glad my initial reaction of bewilderment and anger was spot on lol

The good news is, it should only take another year! ._.

My neurologist is the worst doctor I have ever come across and I'm quite literally stuck with him with nowhere else to go. I wish him upon no one. I'm so tired of calling the SSA, getting documents to them, signing things for law firms, contacting law firms, getting no responses, and contacting them all over and over again. I am in incredible physical pain, like this actively makes my neuro stuff worse. Everything makes it worse. I have autonomic testing in a few days, and idk if I'll get through it b/c I have to stop the meds that keep me out of the ER two days prior, and it scares me.

My relationship with my mom is fractured and I don't feel like family therapy is actually helping. I had to end a friendship with someone I love and care very much about but who was growing too comfortable mistreating me and I was giving them too many passes 😞 I've known them for the better part of two decades.

It's been over seven months since my cat Isis died. I don't know how. It feels like she was here just yesterday. Yet, all the nights I've sat and talked to her and wept are all too real. I miss her more than I can say. She was my soul cat. I keep thinking about tomorrow and how she'd be so nosy getting into EVERYthing when gifts are opened at Christmas. Having to stop her, move her, laugh because she was just so n o s y and it was hilarious. And she's not gonna be here for that ever again.

I'm having a really fucking hard time tonight. It's just hitting me how god-awful this year has been and how I have a bad week to look forward to before even getting to the new year lmao I have to stop taking so many of my medications 48hrs before 1.5-2hrs of testing to see if we can find out Yet Another Thing Wrong With Me but knowing my luck it'll be 'no findings' and the mystery of why my core body temp plummets to 93.9 in the blink of an eye won't be solved until I have suffered juuuuust enough.

It never ends. Never. I want to give up. I'm so tired of doing this. I don't want to anymore. It never. fucking. ends.

I absolutely cannot say it's all been bad, though. I've met incredible, warm, welcoming, giving, kind people this year. Y'all have helped me more than you know and I'm so so so lucky to be able to call you my friends. This year has sucked for so many of us, but I want to say I'm proud of you, and I love you all very much.

My fic is gonna be printed in a hardcover zine early next year. I participated in a Big Bang for the first time and that'll also go out early next year. I'm hosting a tiny event in my tiny fandom server that I'm super excited about. I have a raffle prize to write (bagginshield !!!! SO EXCITED to revisit the og otp) and a Valentine's gift to write for another fandom.

I posted 401,000 words this year and wrote many more unfinished wips, plus a long one (90k) that I am very invested in finishing.

I painted and drew so much this year. I improved a lot, too! I got a couple of portraits printed from inprnt to see how they looked, and it was MY art, and they were GORGEOUS. I thought I would hate seeing my art professionally printed, but no! I almost cried. They looked so lovely.

My cat Lilly had health issues almost immediately following Isis's passing, but she is doing so well right now. She's blossomed into another cat, and while she's not my constant companion, she is with me so much more than she used to be. When she walks onto my desk I am to stop everything and hold her like baby in my arms until she decides that's enough (or I really need to move) lmaaao she's such a goober. My heart cat. <3

I'm not doing well right now--my MH is bad. Especially tonight. But it felt good to write the good things.

I'm sorry for my lack of replies and kinda disappearing. I'm running on fumes. I hope next year will bring physical relief so emotional relief can happen.

For those of you facing difficulties of any kind, I am holding your hand in spirit.

[thessalian]

Thess vs Work Ethic

Sometimes I just really wish I didn’t have the work ethic I do.

See, while I appreciate that almost every working person in the world, myself included, is overworked and underpaid, and should therefore not be giving any more than what one’s job description details as one’s responsibility in the office, here’s the thing - one should give no more than one’s job description ... but no less, either. And the job is simple, in this case. There are reports. We type them.

The job description on their contracts might be different, but mine didn’t say a damn thing about “but only when the manager’s not in the office, at which point you can slack off all you want because there’s no one to reprimand you”.

Yeah, Scruffman was at another site that was hella backlogged and having some understaffing issues today. Thank the gods he’s back in the office tomorrow because they cleared the other site’s backlog faster than expected. I can take or leave him as a person, but I’m not in the office anyway. The only reason I’m glad is because of what I went through today, which was basically being the only one spending the majority of the workday actually working. I mean, yes, we’re not doing as badly with the typing queue as we had been. Hell, it hit mid double figures today! And I kind of want to keep it that way, but apparently the other girls don’t agree because things ground to a standstill mid-afternoon. That whole thing where Violet does the long complicated dictations doesn’t really happen when Violet isn’t typing at all, or is doing so at such a slow pace that she might as well not be. Temp stopped working almost entirely around 4pm, and I got the reason for that right up in my face when I went to get a last couple of things with seven minutes on the clock: she’d picked up one four-ish minute dictation, apparently to show willing, then dawdled over the shorter ones she’d picked up and left that longer one for last so that when her time in the office was ... well, almost up (I think she also works until 5:30), she dumped that one four-ish minute one back in the queue and left. If I had time to type it (and I did), so the fuck did she. But nope. Just “Oops, almost out of time, back in the queue it goes...”

So the queue’s going to be back in the 150s, probably, by the time people turn up at the office tomorrow. I was actually trying to work at a moderate pace for once because I know I’ve been dancing on the precipice of epic burnout (because, you know, the disability that comes with chronic pain and fatigue?), but by mid-afternoon I was back at breakneck pace and doing the long ones that nobody else seemed keen to touch on top of everything else. I mean, it could have been worse, but everybody knows that the techs crank to high gear after 5pm; the decks should be as clear as possible before then. And nobody should require the manager’s presence to do some fucking work once in awhile. If I can do it from home, with all the temptations of faff to distract me, they can do it in the office.

It’s people like them who lend those stupid articles about how much better working in the office is for productivity any kind of weight whatsoever, you know. Though it’d be entirely the reverse in my case either way; not only does not having to commute help me actually be able to work better, but when shit like this happens, I only fume about the work not being done instead of fuming over the work not being done and grinding my teeth in rage because I’m having to try to do my own work through the distraction of their chatter.

(To some people, noise is noise is noise. I cannot explain to those people the difference between chosen background noise, like music, and not-chosen background noise, for instance chattering colleagues - or, here at home, construction work going on nearby and the neighbour’s kids using the corridor as their personal playground. Again. It’s a beautiful day and there’s a lawn right out back, and they’re using our hallway, with its grubby carpet, as a place to play. I DO NOT GET IT. Anyway.)

So here’s me being grumpy and fed right the fuck up. Huzzah. I will veg a little, take my meds, and gear myself up for the preparation of dinner. I don’t really want to cook but I want to get ahead of the curve on ready-to-eat meals, and also I did a lot of walking for some of those ingredients I got yesterday and am keen to enjoy them and not procrastinate on cooking until they’re kind of skanky.

[johannestevans]

OKAY this is a thing that impacts me a lot and I wanted to speak about it a bit

i drink a lot of pepsi bc i don't medicate my ADHD, and i made the choice not to stick with ADHD meds even before the shortage hit - i don't really drink coffee or tea, so my primary source of caffeine is in drinking pepsi. i'm very picky about my brown soda brands, and while i can drink a bit of coca cola classic, if i drink too much of it it fucks my guts up and gives me bad stomach aches that pepsi max does not

so for the past year or two I've been going between four places of residence as i sorted out buying my new place - my many-years home in Galway City, Ireland, where I was a 15 minute walk from the nearest shop, and a 20 minute walk from the nearest shop that sold pepsi max

and then my parents home, which is a 3 minute walk from a regular shop and a chip shop, and a 7 minute walk from a LIDL; one boyfriend's home, which is a 5 minute walk to a sainsbury's and like a 2 minute walk to a chip shop; and my boyfriend in bristol's place, which is literally across the road from a corner shop and a chip shop

in ireland, i could arrange a tesco home delivery of groceries, but it would have to be a decently big grocery shop of like €40+ to justify the cost of it - I would normally buy pepsi max in bulk while doing this, but, i often would have to wait a few days to get a slot. bc my apartment was a flat and post-covid delivery ppl were no longer coming into the house, this would mean several trips up and down the stairs to put my groceries away

to get into town to an actual supermarket, i would have to walk 5-10 minutes, wait for a bus that was often late, get on a bus for half an hour, do the shopping, and then do the same coming back while carrying the shopping, which my fucked up body cannot always do

and certainly cannot do while buying large bottles of anything, whether that's soda, olive oil, wine, other alcohol, etc

for me, it's so often like, a numbers game. if i can do one trip today, and i'm expecting to be fucked up as i am for several days, i want that one trip to mean something. i want to get everything i can in that trip bc i almost certainly won't be able to do it again

but if it's 20 minutes to get to a place? if it's a 30 minute walk to the supermarket? when there isn't a takeaway in walking distance, and/or many takeaways won't deliver to where i am, or not for a significant premium? i am fucked.

one of the biggest things that was important in looking at the place i was buying for myself now was that it was within easy walking distance of a corner shop and a supermarket, not to mention a variety of takeaways - and it's easy to get grocery deliveries, so i'm not gonna have to get stuck

bc regularly in galway i'd basically be in the position of having almost nothing left in the house, of craving x or y, and not being able to get a grocery delivery for several days, let alone on the same day, not being able to get my brain to work bc i had no caffeine and couldn't even get that delivered - and none of this to mention the sheer fucking expense of same-day deliveries or reliance on taxis etc, bc i don't drive and was living in a suburb basically intended only for drivers w shit buses

when i'm relying on my cane, i can't carry shopping bags. even when i'm not using my cane and my hips are okay, i have to stop every few minutes bc i simply cannot carry the shopping bags very far. and after making a trip like this, my body will be fucked for days.

and the thing is like, if from a pit of exhaustion and chronic pain i have to go out to get stuff, i don't then have the energy, mental finish, or straight up physical ability to then cook. i need stuff i can eat cold or that i can get delivered already cooked, or buy hot and good, and if there's nowhere nearby, or if it's another 20 fucking minutes away, that becomes impossible to sustain

as my pain and my disability gets worse i'm getting a lot better at planning my meals, my trips, etc, to accommodate the extent to which i will sometimes just be unpredictably out of action, but the extent to which having even a shitty overpriced corner shop right next to you is an accessibility measure cannot be overstated, and to my frustration is why i could never live out in the middle of nowhere, bc even living in the suburbs fucked me up

obviously living with other people helps, and like, speaking as a disabled man in relationship with other nearby disabled ppl, community and network-building (including polyamory!) is invaluable in this regard, bc you can rely on doing stuff for each other more and it's important to be able to do that when none of us is like. Rich, but yeah

I have a theory that my inability to get to the store when I want to go has a serious impact on my quality of life, so here's a question

If you needed something unexpectedly, can you get to the store without help? Does that matter to your quality of life?

Help is whatever makes you feel not independent - ie. i consider a taxi help, but not a bus because i retain my independence when taking a bus but feel like i'm asking for help when i taxi. It might be different for you.

also if anyone has any info on this, like essays or articles by disabled authors or academics I'd love to hear about it.

please share I want a lot of data!

[coridallasmultipass]

Vent/endometriosis/on mobile idk/suicide mention

There's seriously something really ironic in the most fucked up ways about being a guy, but being trans, but also having endometriosis that has caused lifelong trauma, but getting a hysterectomy and feeling better, but then the pain comes back, but going on meds that make it better, but then the meds stop working.

There is literally nothing I can do to escape the presence of uterine tissue in my body. I literally have a piece of my uterus framed on my wall to be like, "I survived, mothafucka." And yet, somehow, it keeps coming back like a fucking slasher movie villain. No one wants to see this sequel. Especially not me. I just want to be a normal dude, and not internally bleed from God knows where my body decided to start regrowing a uterus literally just to spite me.

I fucking hate this shit so much. I literally JUST got over the trauma of the last episode that happened just over a year ago. I can't go back to daily panic attacks again, but I do not know how I am supposed to survive when my body pain is at an 11/10. Menstual/cramping is literally the only pain I cannot tolerate. I have broken a toe and gone out to go dancing right after. I've torn the padding in my shoulder and kept lifting weights. I have arthritis and fibromyalgia and tmj problems and chronic headaches. But cramping? I almost kmsed during the last episode, but I was in too much pain to move and find anything to do it with.

How the fuck am I supposed to live with this curse for the rest of my life?? Because guess what, menopause isn't even a way out - people with endo can still have endo problems even after going through menopause. I can say I'll probably be in that camp because the meds I've been on simulate menopause and here I am suffering yet again.

I looked it up whether starting T would do anything and the only answers I got were 'there's no data available' (lmao why does society hate trans people), or 'your body still produces some estrogen while on T, so you could technically still grow endometrial tissue.' Like thanks, that was like my one and only hope that, if I just come out to my family and start T maybe it would get my body to shut up about uteruses, but apparently that's not a solution.

I don't even know what to fucking do right now. I know my doctor isn't gonna have a solution either, because this med was supposed to be a 'fix' and when I come off it later this year, it was supposed to last me a while until the pain comes back, BUT I HAVEN'T EVEN STOPPED TAKING THE MED YET AND ALREADY I'M SUFFERING. I can't fucking do this. Lmao, okay I'm panicking. Stop thinking about dying lmao.

I hate this so much. I'm a guy, and then it's like I'm being punished with woman disease. Can't look up anything about endometriosis without being reminded that 'endometriosis is a condition that affects WOMEN.' Literally the only thing I have serious dysphoria about was having a uterus (and my voice), everything else I could manage or just accept even if I didn't like it. And of course, I'm stuck with a body that's gradually growing me more uteruses. 'Oh, hey, you dropped your uterus, have another. Wait, I hit ctrl+V a thousand times, sorry, bro.'

Brb gonna go die of internal bleeding, I guess?? Where does the blood even go?? I don't have a uterus, and IDK where the fuck the cells are. I swear it feels like they're growing on my pelvis and intestines. I don't even want to know if endometrial cells can grow on bones. That knowledge would devastate me.

I wish I could have enjoyed 2020 more. After I healed from the hysto, it was like, the best time of my life. No more pain during penetration, no fear of period blood, no worries about getting pregnant, no cramps at all, I felt so free.

Now, I feel like I don't even have a life to look forward to. I literally just started turning things around with a new psych med and taking up drawing and writing again. And now I'm gonna constantly be on edge waiting for the next episode to rip its way through my body. I don't want to do this.

[bots-and-cons]

Hello! I'd like to request Ratchet, Soundwave, and Knockout responding to their human who's suffering severe burnout after a string of really bad luck; they canNOT catch a break and haven't felt rested in months due to their situation, the autistic burnout, and chronic pain problems flaring up due to the stress that's been dogging them relentlessly. Tysm I really love your blog. 💕

I don't really know about how autistic burnout is/how it feels, but I tried. If I wrote something bad, please tell me, I have very little experience with people with autism and most of it is kinda negative. Also thank you <3

~Knockout~

•Knockout hates seeing you so upset and stressed, and he also hates the fact that he doesn't know how to help

•He tries to be as supportive as possible but sometimes you get very frustrated and just kinda snap at him

•He doesn’t take it badly, he knows you’re having a hard time and you’re not being mean on purpose

•Knockout gets you your medication if you have some and makes sure you’re as comfortable as possible, as much of the time as possible

•He knows he can’t make all the stress go away, but he would like to help as much as he can

•You have some bad nights, crying and being really upset in general, and he is there to listen if you want to vent and blow off some steam

~Ratchet~

•He might not notice when you first start getting really stressed, but one evening he finds you hitting one of the couch pillows, when no one else was around

•He asks if you want to talk about something and you just pretty much break down 

•You tell him that life has been hard lately and your chronic pain has been flaring up too and you feel like everything is going to shit

•Ratchet listens, and he offers advice the best he can

•He doesn’t know much about chronic pain, but he does understand stress and life being shit

•Maybe you listen to some of his troubles if you’re up to it, but he wouldn’t demand it, because he knows you’re not always well enough

~Soundwave~

•He is very perceptive and when he notices things getting bad again

•He tries to alleviate your stress and make things easier right away, but things still end up getting pretty bad for you

•You go into an anxious state and kinda shut down, you don’t want to talk or be touched you’re just rocking back and forth, trying not to have a panic attack

•Soundwave stops working immediately and just stays close to you incase you need something from him

•Or if you want to be left alone he can do that too, but he doesn’t really like leaving you alone like that

•After you have your anxiety session, and are back to functioning at least semi normally, he tries to make you smile and feel better

[mimzy-writing-online]

How do you handle casual ableism especially ableism that’s said to be “a joke”? I am blind and I get this all the time and it’s so annoying because I can’t win.

If it’s said by someone I know I probably won’t talk to much, if ever again, I just grin and bear it. If I’m invested in this friendship or know I’ll be working with them a lot, then I’ll say something. But I do have some personal pet-peeves.

“Oh, so you’re blind, but not like, blind-blind.” 

Whenever I explain to someone new that I’m visually impaired and what I see, I sometimes get the “oh, so you’re blind, but not like, blind-blind.” and I just... *internal screaming*

I hate it because it reinforces this hierarchy of “who has it worst in the world” that abled society has. It’s like saying, “oh, you’re blind, but at least you don’t have cancer.” That is insensitive to both people who are blind, people who have cancer, and people who have both. 

Everyone is going through their own stuff, and sometimes it feels debilitating and sometimes it feels normal. Undermining someone’s experiences by saying/implying someone has it worse is terrible and even worse is using that idea to say “oh, then you don’t need this accommodation that badly, you’re not disabled-disabled.”

I am blind. Just blind. I have a condition that highly affects my life and just because there are a few settings where I can pass for sighted, does not mean that I am not blind.

And those people feed my internalized ableism and imposter syndrome so that I begin to think “I’m not that blind, people have so much less sight than me” and begin to feel like I don’t deserve any of my accommodations, even my cane when my worst days hit. My cane, that thing I bought myself that affects no one apart from warning them I can’t see them, but means everything to me.

What I would like to say: “I am blind. What I’m describing might sound like no big deal to you, but it affects my life every day and I will never, under any circumstances, see as much as a sighted person. Please stop comparing my disability to other disabilities.”

“Can you use your cane as a weapon?”

It was funny the first 3-4 times I heard it, but strangers say it to me constantly and it’s just like... “oh, them Lakers” or “How’s the weather up there” or some other cliché joke that has been told to death. And these strangers don’t realize how unoriginal it is because they probably never interact with other blind people, but I hear it all the fricken time.

I’ve explained to friends that I don’t like this joke. And I have an example of it in A Witch’s Memory, specifically Ulric’s second chapter. But like, I cannot control what strangers think is funny.

What I would like to say: “I cannot. Canes are much more fragile than you think, and each one has cost me $50 each. And I’ve had... six? Over the years. And they take weeks to ship to me. I would be terrified of my cane getting damaged.”

“I bet you’re looking forward to robot eyes.”

No. I’m not. I’m really not. Leave my eyes the fuck alone.

This was waaaaaay before I was diagnosed with Visual Snow Syndrome, which is a neurological problem, not an eye problem, even if the symptoms that affect me most are visual.

And as for the ableism, there’s soooo so much in that statement:

“Oh, I bet you’re looking forward to getting cured”

“I think being blind is terrible, I would want robot eyes immediately”

And if I said that I didn’t want robot eyes ever, I’d almost always get:

“I bet it wouldn’t be that bad, you’d be a cyborg. How cool is that?”

I said no the first time. Respect that answer. It’s my body, my eyes. I’m so tired of this debate.

The only form of this conversation I will ever accept is from my best friend who admitted that he personally would jump at the chance for cybernetic enhancements, especially something that reduced chronic pain. There are some more personal issues I won’t disclose, but from his perspective I understood and we came to the acceptance that we had very different stances and that was okay so long as we respected each other’s choices.

What I would like to say: “I have considered this and personally decided that under no circumstances would I ever want this kind of surgery done to me. Please respect that choice and don’t joke about experimental surgeries with me.”

“Just consider me your personal human guide dog.”

Only one person has ever said this to me, but he’s said it several times while acting as my sighted guide and I hate it, not because there is any ableism directed at me, but because he’s calling himself less than human and I wish he treated himself better. He deserves better. My solution is just saying nice things to him every chance I get about how much I care about him and how he is good.

“Fuck you! I love you! Don’t you dare call yourself a dog. You’re amazing and I love you.”

“Well you’re able-bodied.”

Said to me by another person with a disability, specifically a chronic illness, while complaining about why I couldn’t do something for him.

It was my father.

and I just...

I have literally never not been disabled in some capacity.

I remember my ADHD affected me from the early age of six years old and how much that affected my self esteem. I started having chronic health problems (mostly due to anxiety) as soon as I entered my teenage years. The worst was when I was 19. And then I went blind.

I am in no way able-bodied. Do not throw this hierarchy of who’s more disabled at me. I physically cannot handle the task you asked me to do without physical pain following me for the rest of the day. It’s either going to have to get done by someone else, or I’m going to need help. Why do I need to be in pain all day for this?

You’re young, therefore you are able-bodied.

You means nothing in terms of disability! Lots of people are disabled, visibly and invisibly. And if your kid needs disability aids to perform normal tasks like walking safely outside, you shouldn’t be calling them able bodied.

What I would like to say: “I am not able bodied. I am far from it. What you’re asking me to do will either risk serious injury to me or will cause me serious, lasting pain. Please respect my physical limitations.”

“And on your right you and hear, smell, taste, touch the ocean.”

It was a joke by a close friend when we were on a road trip. Also, we were in a car on the freeway, literally, none of those things would be possible from that distance because all I would hear and smell would be car fumes. 

Like, okay, I know I can’t enjoy the scenic view the way sighted people can, but I am enjoying this drive in my own way. Even the visuals I can see are nice(ish). It’s stimulation, something different for my brain. I’m having fun listening to the music and your story while we move and there are shapes and faded colors passing us.

I’m experiencing this amazing road trip.

Maybe it’s not the way you would experience or best enjoy it, but I am having fun, don’t spoil it by reminding me that I’m different from you and that my experience “must be less enjoyable.”

I told him: “I don’t like those jokes. They aren’t funny to me. I don’t need to see it to enjoy it.” And he stopped. He never made another one after that drive.

(He’s also one of those people who has serious anxiety around making someone uncomfortable, and me telling him “hey I don’t like this, can we do this instead” actually helps us both, because I’m no longer uncomfortable and he can trust that I would immediately tell him if he ever did something I didn’t like. If I’m not speaking up, then I am good. And I can trust that he will stop as soon as I tell him to, and that I can always speak up if I need to.)

[delicioussshame]

Posting next part of sugar AU before going to bed; we’ll see if I still hate it tomorrow.

Luo Binghe had always hoped for this, had always known he’d have it some day, but all his waiting couldn’t prepare him for how happy having Shen-laoshi makes him.

It does make his mornings even harder. He had grown to resent Shen-laoshi’s tendency to rise late, but now that waking him up with wandering hands or a ravenous mouth could be on the table, it’s even worse. Luo Binghe would love to start his day with the taste of Shen Yuan lingering in his mouth and his moans fresh in his mind. Sadly, Shen Yuan doesn’t quite approve. The one time Luo Binghe tried, Shen Yuan had barely managed to keep his eyes open for a few seconds before falling back to sleep. Really, how had he managed to go to work like this?

By suffering from chronic lack of sleep. The lifestyle definitely hadn’t suited him. His current situation is just so much better in every way. Luo Binghe will certainly relish watching students return to class, knowing his laoshi won’t be accompanying them.

Not for now, at least. He’s not quite sure what Shen Yuan is planning for his own future. He doesn’t think his teacher has accepted him fully yet. Shen-laoshi is probably still thinking things through, considering whether to look for another job or returning to school.

Since Luo Binghe himself now has Shen Yuan in his house, in his bed and away from the high school he refuses to call his, he finds himself willing to be patient on this particular aspect. He will, instead, focus his campaign on another, probably more delicate, front. “The literature division is holding its executive retreat in two weeks. I’m expected to show up for a formal dinner.”

Shen Yuan lifts his eyes from the book he’s reading and winces. “I’m sorry Binghe has to deal with this.”

Shen-laoshi, thank you for the hook. “It would be much easier if Shen-laoshi were to accompany me.”

“No it wouldn’t. The pain of trying to explain away my presence would far outweigh its benefits.”

“What is there to explain? Executives are allowed to bring their significant other. So would I.”

Shen Yuan returns to his book. “Very funny.”

There is nothing funny with his request? “How is it funny?”

“Like Binghe could introduce me as his significant other.”

“Why not?”

Shen Yuan puts the book down on the table and gives him an incredulous look. “Do you want to tear your reputation to shreds? I don’t have anything against you being attracted to men, but I’m not the majority. It will hurt your business, and by extension, your employees’ livelihood. Not to mention any chance of me working in education ever again. It’s unfair, I know, but Binghe cannot make his preference public.”

Luo Binghe blinks, confused. “I don’t care about any of this? My first priority will always be Laoshi. Why would I care about how he affects the conglomerate? As long as it still generates enough money to support Shen-laoshi as he should be supported, which it will, even a huge hit would still leave me with more money than anyone would ever need, I don’t care what happens to it.”

“Binghe, you’d be the front page of every magazine, every website, every news show. Your life would be exposed to the public, every single moment scrutinised and published for all to see. So would mine, and that’s if someone doesn’t get into their head that I must have abused you when you were a minor, in which case I could be jailed. It’s not a question of caring. You cannot do this.”

“Shen-laoshi would never have taken advantage of me! He couldn’t even tell I had a crush on him!” No one would ever believe something this ridiculous!

“That doesn’t matter. Binghe, I gave you a lot of attention. You remained after class so many times I cannot remember all of them. Everyone knew you were my favorite student. Look at it from the outside. How could you explain you, stunningly handsome and just as rich, choosing me, a no-name teacher with neither of those qualities, beside the fact that I groomed you? At best, I’ll be labelled a pervert and a degenerate. You can’t tell anyone you don’t trust. You’d be ruining your life.”

Luo Binghe had always known that their marriage might not ever be recognised. He had been fine with going abroad to get married, and had already set up a few shell corporations to finance legal challenges to the current definition of marriage, but he knew the chances of those challenges succeeding were slim.

In the end, it didn’t really matter. The commitment did. He had lawyers ready to set up the legal situation as close to marriage as it could be as soon as Shen Yuan agreed to it.

He’d never considered he would have to keep their relationship private, especially not forever. He has nothing to be ashamed of. If anything, he wants to brag! Who wouldn’t be jealous of him?

But if it’s going to make his laoshi’s life this much harder, to the point that prison was a possibility…

The prospect is too terrifying to contemplate. “We can move.”

“I’m sorry?”

That’s a good idea! “If we live elsewhere, somewhere where it’s not an issue, it wouldn’t matter as much!” And it’s not like another country would care that Shen-Yuan used to be his teacher! How would they know?

“And you would manage your inherited, incredibly complex conglomerate from there? Your board is going to love this.”

“And I should care because?”

“This is ridiculous. Binghe needs to think those things through instead of living in a fantasy where everything works out perfectly! He needs to think about his position before he jeopardises it! And he needs to think about his legacy before throwing everything away for a man! Don’t you want children?”

“If Laoshi wants some, we can adopt or arrange for a surrogate. It’s not an issue.” He bets Shen-laoshi’s children would be adorable. Luo Binghe would never leave them alone.

“Your fellow socialites would never accept it!”

This is really quite a pointless fight. “Again, I could not care less. I’ve never wanted their approval, and I don’t need it. The only approval I’ve ever wanted is yours. You must have felt something similar, since you gave this world up to work the job you wanted.”

“It’s not the same thing! I didn’t, nor would I ever have, your status! I wasn’t even my parents’ heir! I have three other siblings! They didn’t need me around. Your corporation has no one but you to rely on.”

“It’s just a corporation. If it bothers you so much, I could easily sell all my shares, step down from my post and live off the wealth for the rest of our life.” It would have the advantage of leaving him with nothing but time to take care of his laoshi.

It would also feel like failure. He worked so hard to make himself into the kind of man his laoshi could be proud of, the result of his constant efforts. Giving it all up would leave a bad taste in his mouth.

He would still do it in a heartbeat if his laoshi requested it of him.

“That’s not what I…” Shen Yuan rises from the couch, walking around the room hurriedly. “I think I’ll never understand why you do what you do. Surely I’m not worth it. My family certainly wouldn’t think so.”

He wouldn’t say it, because he knows it wouldn’t go down well, but one of the reasons Luo Binghe had looked forward to going public had been to rub in said family’s face their abandoned son’s success.

Now, he just wants to do it more. “For myself, I’ll never understand why Shen-laoshi cannot see his own worth when it’s so evident to me.”

Shen Yuan stops, a barely visible embarrassed flush on his face that instantly distracts Luo Binghe from this unpleasant conversation. “Binghe can’t say things like that just to change the subject.”

He snorts. “I wasn’t. It’s just true. Maybe if I keep telling Shen-laoshi what a wonderful person he is, he will start believing it.”

He sees Shen Yuan shutting up as he grows more embarrassed.

Luo Binghe goes to pull him into his arms. “I just want Shen-laoshi to be happy. If he wants to remain private, that’s what we’ll do. Just give me some time to figure it out.” It’s not what he wanted, but it can’t all be what he wants all the time, can it? If anything, it might be a good sign. Shen Yuan barely implied the situation was his fault, and didn’t offer to leave to take care of it.

Shen-laoshi appears to melt into his embrace, hiding his face into his neck.

Luo Binghe still hasn’t developed a resistance to Shen-laoshi showing him any form of vulnerability or affection, not that he thinks he ever will. He discards the conversation for now in favor of returning said affection in the way he’s still getting used to.

[stealth-liberal]

So my hair started going grey REALLY early, how early? 13 years old. My mother's family goes grey young and once it starts it happens fast. I am no exception.

I dyed it for YEARS, I am a natural redhead and for a while, especially while I was in the Marine Corps, I dyed it to my natural colour. Then I got out and started dying it any colour I wanted. Blue, purple, black, pink, stripes, a very misguided moment with green. You name the colour, I slapped it on my head.

As I am a married Jewish woman, I also covered my hair with fabric in a hair covering known as a tichel or a michpat. Then a neck injury made that too painful.

So now, my hair is bare to the world. No fabric covering, no hair dye, just me. No more hair dye as it is now headache inducing and since I get migraines, it's not worth the pain. Just me and my hair.

So how grey is my hair? 65% of my hair is grey, well, more like white, but you get the picture. My hair has far more grey in it's natural state then anyone else my age that I know has. I expected to feel old and ugly when I went natural and I'll be honest, it was because of neck pain and chronic headaches that I chose to reveal my uncovered and undyed hair. I would love to say I had an epiphany of self love or something, but I didn't. It was just me wanting to live with less chronic pain in my life.

So how do I feel on a daily basis now that my hair is out and grey? Free, honestly I feel free. No more expensive hair dye, I have SO MUCH hair that it was extremely costly to dye it all the time. My neck feels better without all my hair piled on top of my head and covered. I just feel free.

*Important* I am not saying that I felt caged by my religious hair covering. I very much enjoyed the tradition of wearing a tichel, but my neck cannot take the weight. If my neck injury vanished tomorrow, I would cover my hair again. However, that is not my reality so I have moved on.

Are there stupid comments, sure. Here are a sampling:

"Your husband lets you keep your hair like that?"

Oh boy, let me laugh in your face till I wet myself. You obviously don't know me or my husband very well at all. He supports me not being in pain because he is a good man. And I am a grown ass woman who makes her own choices about her own hair.

"You look nice for an old woman." / "I've never seen someone in their 60's look so good."

Um, thanks for that EXTREMELY backhanded compliment. Also I am nowhere NEAR my 60's but thank you for making an ageist comment about my looks. This is always said by dudes because men always feel entitled to comment in how women look right to their face. No woman has ever said anything like this to me.

"It looks good on you but I would be too afraid to do it."/ "Aren't you afraid to be seen as older than you are?"

This category of remarks are said to me by women of all races, ethnicities, you name it. Which tells me something. We punish the fuck out of women for daring to exist past the age of 29. A woman hits 30 and immediately begins a paranoid and terrified relationship to her age and how society and men view her. It takes the joy from her life and diminishes the rest of her days.

Do we punish men this way? No, this is female specific. And it needs to stop.

I am not old, I'm not elderly, I just went grey really fucking early because genetics. But I'm glad I did because it gave me an early window on a toxic experience and I think it gave me the spine to speak out on our Western culture's entirely sexist and misogynistic approach to aging. Teen girls and young ladies in their 20's don't like to see it, but unless you tragically check out right before you turn 30, this is the bullshit you'll have to deal with. So fight back against it now, refuse to participate in it and when you hit 30 through death at a hopefully elderly age (after a long and awesome life) continue to live and take up space in this world.

Besides, I've been told on more than one occasion that I have "sexy witch hair" and that makes me feel like I could burn anyone's shitty kingdom down.

[samstree]

You are too well tangled in my soul (2/4)

Inspired by The Time-Traveler's Wife.  

Pairing:  Geralt x Jaskier

Geralt is a time-traveler, and Jaskier falls in love in a slightly misplaced order.

Warnings: referenced child abuse and mentions of chronic pain

Read on AO3

Calling the Witcher ‘old friend’ at the tavern was probably a mistake. The Geralt walking in front of Jaskier looks exactly the same as he remembers: golden eyes and rugged jawline. And yet, this is the furthest Jaskier has ever felt from him ever since the first sunset at the lake.

There is no warmth to greet him, no knowing smile or softness, only indifference that bleeds into annoyance. The gut-punch is as loud a declaration as it gets. This Geralt is the youngest Jaskier has ever seen him, hardened with weary travels and open night skies, and yet seasoned enough to have settled into distrust and isolation.

As they trudge through Dol Blathanna, the notebook filled with their encounters sits in Jaskier’s pocket, every date recorded with the utmost carefulness, burning a hole onto his mind. How does he explain it? How does he explain that he’s been friends with the Witcher for eight years while he only glares at Jaskier with derision? No, that is too unfair.

Besides, even if he dumps it all out, Geralt is unlikely to just…transform into the person in Jaskier’s memory. This Witcher is not the ever-present friend of Jaskier’s childhood, not yet. He knows better than most that you can’t force people into becoming someone they are not.

Jaskier leaves the notebook at the bottom of his pack.

At the edge of the world, he witnesses the heartbreaks of an elf king. The second-hand stories he knows by heart now pale in comparison. A taste of the real world, of the real pain humans have been ignoring is all it takes for Jaskier to be sure of his path. He is a storyteller. Destiny has decided that when it brought the amber eyes into his life at the age of eleven, so he tells the story. He writes the song.

Jaskier starts following Geralt.

They settle into a routine: monsters, songs, and nothing more. There are no mythical powers that can bring his best friend to him anymore, only the newly acquainted Wolf Witcher who now tolerates him with glowers.

It shouldn’t sting when Jaskier sings their adventures at taverns and Geralt only grunts as feedback. It shouldn’t sting when his chatter is only answered with silence or an absent-minded hum. It shouldn’t sting when Geralt flinches upon hearing Jaskier refer to him as friend while begging to see the hunt himself.

“We are not friends, Jaskier.”

It shouldn’t because it is where their story begins, properly this time. And yet it does.

Seasons pass. Jaskier cannot stop searching for recognition in those amber eyes. Nothing comes up. Still, he searches.

  Geralt notices.

Of course. As subtle as Jaskier would like to believe he is, his companion is too perceptive. We can tell by the heartbeat when someone is lying or hiding something. He learned this long ago by the lakeside, when Geralt indulged his curiosity by debunking all the Witcher myths. No, Julian. We cannot read minds.

His excitement that day reflected in the Witcher’s eyes that were amused by a child’s wonderment.

Can he tell what Jaskier is hiding now?

Jaskier stares long at his form on Roach when a throw-away comment from the Witcher brings him right back to the lake, all the words stuck at his throat.

“You’ve been quiet, bard.”

“What? Miss my lovely voice?”

“Glad for the silence.” Geralt drops it, but his gaze lingers for a moment.

At night, Jaskier helps the Witcher remove his armours, a newly formed habit as their travels settle into a familiar rhythm. His fingers untie the complicated knots. Geralt’s breaths brush by his ear.

A warm hand comes up to steady Jaskier by the elbow, the thumb drawing small circles on his chemise. It’s a comfort that he has received so many times before, a reassurance that he can trace by heart. And yet, Geralt is unaware.

Jaskier’s breath hitches in his chest, his heartbeat suddenly rabbiting.

“Alright?”

He cannot acknowledge the concern, scared that more will be revealed. Muttering something about being late, he fumbles away to his bedroll and burrows deep. As the churning in his mind subsides, Jaskier falls asleep hoping that it never comes up again.

  It comes up again.

They sit by the glowing campfire, Geralt having just returned from a hunt in the forest. Despite the Witcher’s reluctance, Jaskier nudges him to spill the details and takes them down for new songs. The scratching of his quill fills Geralt’s contemplative pauses.

“This is all very good, Geralt. It’d make a great song. But what was the wyvern like? Come on, help me paint the picture.”

“It was…big, and green.”

Jaskier chuckles, his quill hovering mid-air. So many times before has Geralt only described a monster as ‘big’ or ‘fast’, even the older, more mature Witcher he met in his teenage years sometimes struggled with more adjectives. Being the curious child he was, Jaskier pestered incessantly for more during their short encounters. At night, he would lie in bed, playing out the scene in his head, clashes of magic and steel lulling him into sleep. Now, almost a decade later, he sits in the exact same spot in front of the Witcher, desperate to learn anything from a quest, just to be stunted by Geralt’s inability to form words.

“Some things never change.”

Jaskier smiles to himself and continues to fill in the blanks with more theatrical touches. A song does not become the greatest hit on the Continent just with plain facts and verbs. Chewing on the quill, he barely notices that Geralt’s posture has stiffened.

“Why do you say that?”

“What?” Still distracted with composing a melody for the words, Jaskier looks up at Geralt, whose expression now full of alert.

“What never changes?”

“Um…Just you?” Jaskier stammers, “Stingy on the details, as usual.”

“It’s not just today.” Geralt scowls and stands, pacing around camp irritated. “You talk as if… as if you know me a great deal, Jaskier. You look at me as if you see an old friend. You were familiar with me from the very first day. You didn’t run away in fear like so many others.”

Oh well, subtlety is not exactly Jaskier’s forte.

“You know me,” He tries to gloss it over. “the ever so friendly bard.”

Geralt considers him skeptically. Under the intense scrutiny, Jaskier swallows a lump in his throat. The Witcher finally relents.

“Whatever you see in me, bard,” Geralt lets out a resigned sigh, “it’s not there. So stop looking.”

It’s too late for that, Jaskier thinks. Or too early.

  “I mean, why can’t I just tell you everything?”

Geralt walks beside Jaskier, his hair in a simple pony. A long scar runs down his left eye, barely missing it.

That one’s new.

It’s so jarring that Jaskier cannot stop staring at it from time to time. Added with the well-trimmed beard, framing his rugged face, Jaskier is almost looking at someone else. Witchers don’t age like the rest of them do, but the years are clearly showing on Geralt’s face, giving him more gravitas. The White Wolf, indeed.

He has a slight limp in one of his legs, also something new. The breastplate of his armour is worn and beat after what looks like decades of use.

A strange sight. Jaskier has only witnessed the man’s younger counterpart buy the same plate a week ago at a market in Cidaris, brand new and shiny. It was right before Jaskier decided to stay and perform at the local court and Geralt traveled on by himself.

The small garden behind the main hall is where he has found the older Witcher, who embraced Jaskier immediately without a beat. It is when Jaskier breathes in the familiar pine and leather that he realizes how much he’s missed his old friend, even though he’s been traveling with the same person for the past year.

Keeping the secret has taken a toll on Jaskier, as he only notices now that he is completely relaxed. He desperately wishes to unload it.

“You are going to know anyway. When you inevitably end up in Lettenhove, pimpled teenage me in front of you.”

“Jask,” The endearment comes out of the older Witcher so naturally, his voice deep and rich as wine. “You have seen me in my younger days. I was quite…let’s say, untrusting. I was determined to be alone. Telling me that destiny has bound me to a bard with no self-preservation instincts would only send me running away screaming.”

Jaskier teases, “Now that’s something I’d like to see. The mighty Witcher running and screaming because of a bard.”

“Hmm,” Geralt smiles in return, “There are things that we have to experience for ourselves. Just wait a bit longer. I’m unlikely to be pulled away when we are together. It’ll have to be when we part ways. As I said, it’s like a homing beacon.”

An anchor.

“And now, you are only here when Geralt is gone. I mean, you. The younger you.” Jaskier muses, “Destiny has a way of keeping you from running into yourself. Hah! Probably a good idea. Imagine the brooding doubled.”

Geralt stays oddly silent and guides them both to sit on one of the benches, his knee stiff and slow to bend. It slipped Jaskier’s notice that now there is a sheen of sweat on Geralt’s forehead, his brows furrowing in pain. He starts rubbing at the knee with a wince, breathing through the discomfort. His right elbow also creaks like an old ship, followed by a pained gasp.

With the fast healing, it must be a particularly bad injury for it to affect Geralt this much. Jaskier rubs his hands together to warm them up and places them on the Witcher’s elbow, slowly massaging it to ease out the tension. He’s quite unsure of his touches but judging from Geralt’s gradually relaxing posture, it is working nonetheless.

“What kind of beast hurt you like this? Can I warn you when the day comes?” Jaskier’s worry clenches in his chest. After a moment, Geralt places his larger hand on top of Jaskier’s, an unvoiced thanks. So Jaskier lets go.

They are sitting too closely together. Jaskier can see the tiny scars on Geralt’s face, thin lines that disappear into the thick beard. Leather and pine, the most reassuring scents in the world, overwhelm his senses and draw him closer.

“I wish we could take away all the hurt that will happen.” Geralt says with regret, “But no, Jask, I’d rather not. Some things need to happen for us both to be here today. Not to mentions many others.”

“I can just warn you about this one thing.”

Geralt’s gaze meets Jaskier’s, the long scar prominent. “Some things are too important to risk. I now have people who are dear to me. They – they’ve all come a long way. I wouldn’t change it for the world if it means they are safe. Even if I have to go through this.” He rubs at his knee again.

The wight behind the words settles in Jaskier’s chest.

The Geralt he has been traveling with is so determined on isolation and detachment, rejecting even simple friendship. He cares, in his own silent, brooding way. Jaskier sees it when he refuses payment from people who are struggling to make ends meet. He sees it when he buys Jaskier new boots when a pair has worn out. And He sees it when Roach’s coat is always kept pristine when the Witcher cannot afford new clothing for himself.

But the man in front of Jaskier speaks of people in his life with love and openness, all his rough edges softened and smoothed. Whatever happened in the years in between, Jaskier is eager to learn.

“You are a self-sacrificing idiot as usual.” He jokes.

The adoration in Jaskier’s heart unfurls into something more, something he does not dare to name. The same something, he realizes, is the gravity behind Geralt’s golden eyes that he’s been unable to name.

  Jaskier is twenty-four when Geralt finds out.

He has just spent a winter at Oxenfurt after being offered a teaching post while Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen as usual. The job is exciting and the students cannot be more pleasant. Adding the occasional visits from Essi and Shani, Jaskier doesn’t have many complaints.

And if he lingers too long in the greenhouse, standing wishfully for something to happen, that’s no one else’s business.

Usually Jaskier waits until the ground begins to thaw before departing for Kaedwen, where he will continue to roam and perform in major cities and possibly run into Geralt. Their shared journeys are never planned and they never agreed upon any meeting places, but somehow the bard can always find the Witcher in the springtime, so that they may resume their on-and-off travels.

This spring, however, an unexpected cold spell hits Oxenfurt after buds have sprouted from bald branches. A blanket of snow covers the cobblestone streets overnight, driving students and staff alike indoors with sniffles and shudders.

Jaskier is intending to retreat into his bedroom with a cup of steaming ginger tea, when he hears of two professors talking about the famous White Wolf being stopped at the city gate. Perplexed, he puts on a heavy coat and walks across town, blowing at his frozen fingers to desperately warm them up.

Geralt never seeks him out when the season turns, despite Jaskier’s attempt at hinting at his wintering plans multiple times every fall. If the Witcher is here this early in the spring, he must have left the Blue Mountains when the howling wind of winter was still raging. Traveling across the continent in the cold cannot be easy even for the Witcher, especially when contracts are still scarce.

Jaskier’s boots crunch the snow beneath them, his vision filled with the clear, grey sky and snowflakes scatted in the air. Outside the city gate, a tall, cloaked figure is being told off by a guard. A chestnut mare waits loyally in the distance.

Geralt is right there, snowflakes peppering his dark cloak. His complexion is sour as ever.

Gods, Jaskier has missed him.

“Geralt! What brings you here?” Jaskier shouts to get his attention and jogs on the slippery road to embrace the Witcher. The hug is brief and impersonal, and when he steps back the misery is still present.

“Aren’t you happy to see your best friend? After all, you’re the one who traveled in this sodding weather just to see me.”

Jaskier expects a rebuttal of the claim ‘best friend’, but it never comes. The Witcher’s comprehension is mixed with travel-weary, souring him even further.

“I have something of great importance to discuss with you, Jaskier.” Geralt gestures to the guard. “But this man won’t let me into the city.”

Jaskier turns to the guard and explains that the Witcher is an esteemed guest of the university, before they are both let in with Roach in tow.

The walk to Jaskier’s lodging is silent with a tension in the air. The Witcher looks tired, disheveled from the wind and cold. Jaskier will warm them both up with a fire and ginger tea then.

“So,” Jaskier tries to make conversation, “Before we discuss the thing of ‘great importance’, how was Kaer Morhen? You know, the mythical Witcher keep nobody knows anything about.”

“It was…fine.”

“Masterful conversationalist as ever.” Jaskier takes in the curt response and fills the silence with stories of his winter at the university. He chuckles at the funny bits himself when Geralt seems deep in thoughts the entire time.

Once they have put Roach in the university’s stable and entered Jaskier’s warm bedroom, the tension can be cut by a knife. An inexplicable nervousness bobbles up in Jaskier’s throat as Geralt puts down his pack by the door and begins to speak.

“Jaskier –”

“Before you say anything,” he interrupts, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. It seems that ginger tea might not be enough to get him through this conversation. “We should warm up a little. Can you believe the weather!”

He puts one glass on the table near Geralt and downs the other in one go.

“Jaskier,” Geralt reasserts himself, the golden eyes determined. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve met me before?”

Jaskier studies his glass as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. The Witcher continues.

“There was a lake, in the woods. You were young, and you…you greeted me by name. You knew me.” Geralt’s brows scrunch up in confusion. “You knew me before we met.”

“Um…yes?” Jaskier grimaces.

“Why haven’t you told me before? Damn it, Jaskier. You knew this whole time that I –”

“That you can magically time travel to my childhood?” Jaskier puts down his empty glass next to Geralt’s untouched one. “What was I supposed to say back then, Geralt? ‘Hello, you don’t know me but I know everything about you. And that includes your secret power because I’ve met you twenty times before –’”

“Twenty times?”

“Well I haven’t counted in a while so I could be off.”

Geralt sighs, palming his face. They both look away. The weighted silence in the room is only interrupted by the occasional crackling in the fireplace.

“Twenty times.” Geralt mutters to himself. “How – why?”

Jaskier tries, “You told me yourself. Your powers have this…pull. It’s like –”

“Gravity.”

“It pulls you to certain places or certain people.” Jaskier vaguely gestures around himself.

Realization dawns on Geralt’s face.

“That’s why you followed me. That’s why you weren’t scared of me, why you look at me…” He trails off. “Because destiny already forced me into your life.”

Geralt’s features morph into a stoic resignation, something Jaskier is too familiar with. It’s what Geralt looks like when someone chases him out of an inn or throws things at him, or when mothers yell at their children to get away from him.

No. Jaskier won’t allow it now.

“No,” His voice is desperate, “It was because you were my best friend. You are my best friend. You were there for me by the lake when no one else was. I followed you because you are kind and brave –”

“Because destiny already decided for you.”

“No –”

“Gods, Jaskier. You were so young. You shouldn’t be bound to me by something I cannot even control.”

Jaskier takes in a shuddering breath. “It’s too late for that.”

He doesn’t know how to convince Geralt, who looks so guilty through Jaskier’s blurred vision. He feels weak and hollow.

The conversation continues but Jaskier pays no attention. Geralt says something about traveling separately for a while and begins to leave. Golden eyes meet Jaskier one last time before the door clicks shut.

Running away while screaming indeed.

Sagging into a chair, Jaskier remembers the worn-out notebook sitting on the shelf, untouched.

Once again, Jaskier is left alone, his best friend disappearing right in front of his eyes.

  Jaskier tries to find Geralt but always falls a step behind.

He travels and plays, pleasing tavern audiences so he may get a place to sleep. He asks about the white-haired Witcher everywhere he goes, hoping he can catch up with him just like so many other times. But the Witcher is gone whenever Jaskier sets foot into a town, as if sensing his presence.

“Isn’t that your Witcher? The one from your songs?”

Jaskier tries not to wince.

“He was here days ago, but I heard he left for Novigrad.” The innkeeper says in confusion, “Why aren’t you with him?”

Putting on a bright smile, Jaskier answers, “Even the most talented artist cannot stay with his muse at all times. Lest the creativity runs dry too soon.”

He sets out for Novigrad, but never reaches it.

Jaskier does not see the bandits coming, nor is he capable of fending off all five of them. The dagger he hides in his boot and the sword fighting lessons that tutors once forced upon him can only do so much against these fully armed men.

After stabbing one of them in the shoulder, causing the man to yell and cuss, Jaskier is knocked out from behind.

Jaskier wakes up flung across the back of a dark horse. The pain at the back of his head throbs with every step it takes, the moving ground makes bile rise in his throat. The men talk about ransom from the Count de Lettenhove for his only son.

Oh, dear.

There is no way to tell how they learned, since Jaskier is gagged and tied to a tree when they set camp. He doubts his kidnappers are willing to indulge his curiosity anyway. A growl comes from his stomach. The fire and roasted dinner warm in the distance but clearly these men are not the sharing type.

Frustrated, Jaskier dozes off as night falls, listening to their constant chatter about how to spend the ransom. Too bad for them, Jaskier thinks half-asleep, they are not getting any money. Father will probably thank them for stopping the family embarrassment from tarnishing the Pankratz name any further.

Jaskier wakes up again, to the sound of yelling and weapons clash.

Bodies are flung across the campsite; his captors scream in pain and scatter. The startles horses gallop away with some of them on top. A flash of black and silver moves with an elegance that can inspire songs after songs.

A hand comes to remove the gag in Jaskier’s mouth and continues to undo the ropes around his wrists. Concern sparks in the gold, the softness overlapping with Jaskier’s distant memories. He should greet an old friend, or it’ll seem rude –

“Julian,” Geralt says, “That’s a terrible name for you.”

Jaskier blinks. Now Geralt is reaching to untie the knot behind Jaskier, their breaths only inches away. No scar. These are the same eyes that left him in Oxenfurt months ago, with the click of a door.

Not an old friend, then.

“That’s why I changed it.” The rope burns on Jaskier’s wrists sting when he tries to flex them. He states the obvious, “I see my Witcher in shining armor has come back to save me, again.”

“It’s like you are looking for trouble, bard.”

“Not like it was my fault.” Well, only a little bit his fault.

“Hmm.”

“I was looking for you.”

“I know.”

Of course, he was avoiding Jaskier on purpose.

“Why did you have a change of heart then? Missed my charming personalities?” Jaskier intends a joke, but the old name reminds him. “Wait. You were at the lake again?”

Geralt hums as Jaskier gets up to rummage through what his kidnappers left. Thank the gods they thought his lute and bags might be worth something and didn’t chuck them in a ditch.

Neither the lute case nor the instrument inside received much damage, to Jaskier’s relief. He should check for his bags as well –

“You kept asking when I would be back.”

Jaskier pauses. “And you couldn’t answer.”

“You asked me not to leave. You cried.”

Yes, he desperately grasped for any semblance of certainty as a child, and when he couldn’t get it young Julian spiraled into a panic, begging the Witcher not to leave. He remembers trying to hold back the tears but it came out with snot and hiccups. The embarrassment is still fresh after a decade.

“Well, there’s no need to remind me.”

“No, I –” Geralt struggles with words, “You said you kept records for me. I don’t want to disappoint you again, if I go back there. When I go back.”

The leather-bound notebook is still sitting at the bottom of Jaskier’s bag. He can feel the shape of it through the fabric. It is what Geralt came back for, just so he can have an answer for that child, so he will not disappoint him next time.

“That’s sweet.”

“Jaskier. I would never choose to entangle your life with mine, a Witcher’s. It’s –” Geralt breathes, “You were so young.”

So he said, months ago. Jaskier digs into the bag and retrieves the notebook, walks up to Geralt, and presses it on his chest. Geralt catches it, his gaze never leaving Jaskier’s.

“I wrote down the dates after each of your visits. All you need should be in there.” Jaskier suddenly notices how tired and hungry he is, the headache flaring up once he’s upright. He sways as a clink of metal hits the ground and Geralt’s strong hand steadies him at the elbow. “Oh, thanks.”

Geralt only hums, but his amber eyes keep studying Jaskier.

“You said you didn’t want me bound to your life.” Jaskier tries again, “But Geralt, you were the best part of my childhood. You were the reason I could leave that wretched place. You were the only person who saw me when no one paid any attention. I – I cannot imagine my life if you weren’t in it, if you hadn’t shown up by that lake in Lettenhove. So please…don’t turn away from me.”

He’s begging again, just like ten years ago. He’s begging for the little boy waiting by the water. He’s begging for himself now. It doesn’t matter that it’s embarrassing because after a beat, Geralt nods.

“Okay.”

“What?”

“I said okay,” Geralt’s expression sags with softness. “I – You were so excited to see me. You asked about my hunts. And Jaskier, you were so unhappy in your own home, but my stories – There was a spark in your eyes when you listened to them.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches. He looks into the sunlight gold boring into his with warmth.

“Does that mean you’ll stop running from me?”

“I would never want to snuff it out. That spark.” Geralt sounds apologetic, “I see now that you decided this life by yourself. Travelling and adventures. They suit you well, Jaskier. So yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Because there is a boy in Lettenhove, and he really, really looks forward to seeing you. In fact, he is counting the days right now, for your next return.”

Geralt chuckles, “That’s not how this works.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jaskier grins in return, patting the Witcher on the arm. Geralt looks at the notebook in his hand and says solemnly, “I won’t disappoint him again.”

  The door of their shared inn room creaks open and it sounds like a bag of coin is dropped on the table.

“Ah. I see you collected payment for the Griffin.” Jaskier looks up from the music sheets spread out on the bed.

“I was at the lake with you.”

Jaskier feels a big grin spread across his face.

“You made me tell you about the hunt.” Geralt says.

“Yes, I remember. And I composed my very first Witcher song two days later. Well, only in my head and it lacked a bit polish, but you know, I was eleven.”

“Does that mean I’m spared now?”

“Yes, my dear. You may be spared of recounting your mighty battles for now. I still remember it quite vividly. Did you tell me you bit feathers off its wing and choked?”

“Fuck off, bard.”

Jaskier chuckles and gets back to his composing. It might be time to revisit an old song yet.

  “I was at the lake with you.”

“When?”

“Last month, when we were apart.”

“No, when for me?”

Geralt looks down at Jaskier, who is lying in the meadow of wildflowers next to the Witcher’s crossed legs, trying and failing to braid a flower crown of dandelions. The afternoon heat is relentless, drenching them both in sweat before they have to take a break.

Tall shrubs cast down a cool shade where they are sitting, shielding away the scorch. Roach is nibbling at some flowers in the distance, the same flowers that Jaskier cannot seem to bend into shape without crushing.

“You were…older.” Geralt says after considering, “You braided flowers into my hair.”

“Oh yeah. That day. Can I do it now?”

“You are not a child anymore.”

“No, but this is not working.” Jaskier throws away the dandelions that are now in pieces, pouting. He lies back on the grass, inhaling the fresh smell of grass and letting the breeze cool him down a little. Above him, Geralt looks refreshed after a short meditation.

“You were getting restless. In your own home, about your own future. You kept asking me if you were going to leave Lettenhove.”

“And you distracted me by letting me braid your hair. I totally forgot about pestering you for the rest of the day.”

“It worked.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier is almost impressed.

Geralt pauses for a moment. “You were so unhappy, Jaskier. You couldn’t see a future for yourself.”

“Well, that’s why I left. It’s all fine now. I’m living my best life with my favorite time traveler. Don’t worry, dear.” With his forearm placed on his eyes, Jaskier is completely relaxed.

“Should I have told you, just so you had an idea?”

Sometimes Jaskier still thinks about his childhood in Lettenhove, how miserable he was under all the expectations that he was never going to meet. No, he couldn’t see a future for himself as the Viscount, neither did his father, as the falling of canes and sticks proved. Sometimes Jaskier still wakes up from nightmares rehashing those beatings.

Would it have been better if his younger self had known what the future had in store?

“No,” He says, “Don’t tell me anything. What I went through put me here. It made me what I am. Telling me the future might change things, and I would never take that risk.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sounds apprehensive. “I’ll have to keep you in the dark.”

Sitting up, Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s knee, the one that’s going to retain an injury that doesn’t heal well, the one that’s going to creak and spasm on a rainy day. Geralt from the future is willing to endure the hurt just to make sure everything goes right, young Julian will have to as well.

“I wish there’s another way. Believe me, I do. But…it’s too much at risk.” He squeezes, hoping it’s reassuring. “I know you don’t like this, Geralt. But time is too tricky, you can’t tell me anything about my future. That’s the rule.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“It might be the first rule anyone’s had about time travels.”

“Right,” Jaskier smiles tightly, “The very first one.”

They go back to cooling off in a companionable silence before moving on again. Geralt rides on Roach’s back while Jaskier strums his lute on the ground, playing a song in Elder absent-mindedly.

For what it is worth, Jaskier’s past is already too well tangled with this beautiful Witcher in front of him. There is no changing his fate now.

A comforting weight unfurls in his heart whenever Geralt is near, regardless of which version of him it is. It unfurls even further with each step they take together over the years. In the blazing afternoon sun, it blooms into something else.

Oh.

He loves him.

He loves him with all he is, was, and ever will be.

No matter. Their days ahead will be just as entwined as the past.

Jaskier strums his lute again, the song turns into something bawdy. The amber looks back at him with mirth and a mirrored smile.

[wersoverytired]

Watching the Supernatural finale hours after almost dying is, well. Different.

I cannot stress this enough: MAJOR triggers for frank discussion of a recent suicide attempt (no, not because SPN ended). Steer clear if this might hit too close to home. I'm no longer at risk, this happened a while ago and is over, and my care manager is aware.

Right, and spoilers for the series finale.

_____ _____ _____

I'm old enough to have been a fan of SPN since 2005. And considering the fact that childhood abuse had me suicidal at around age 12, probably earlier, it's safe to say that I have never watched the show without that constant battle going on in the background, unrelated.

When Dean said he was tired, that he was done, I got it. When Sam asked in that abandoned chapel what the upside was to him being alive, or when he confided in his brother in a hotel hallway that he had always felt unclean somehow, I could relate. There was more to the show than that, of course -- the love, the loyalty, the humor -- but the struggle was another point of connection.

As both the show and I grew long in the tooth, and my life circumstances were progressive getting worse (as they sometimes do when you carry untreated trauma), I used SPN and the fandom as a comfort. And increasingly, living to see how the Winchester story ends became one of those grappling hooks you latch on to when you look for reasons to keep going just a little longer.

Naturally, that didn't (and couldn't) arm me against the waves of acute, hope-obliterating, soul-sucking despair that can routinely crash on your head when you're dealing with poverty, chronic physical illness and disability -- and in a harsh country, too -- as well as being severely post traumatic and dissociative. Saving me was never the show's job, nor should it have been. I used it as much as I could, though.

The more I felt like I had to die, the more I tried. Dying hardly ever comes naturally, not even when you feel like there's no other way. Painfully isolated and increasingly bedridden, I watched convention panels and smiled so hard my face hurt. Other times I cried. And I made online friends, often through the fandom, who made life less empty. Who loved and laughed and cried with me from afar. It's hard to overstate the effect that can have when you're trapped in a body that's pretty much your cage, with a mind that's wounded and struggling.

I kept fighting. But I also kept finding myself, over and over again, faced with the reality that most people who are deeply traumatized, certainly those who are also severely dissociative, get to know early on: the world excels at letting many of us know that there's no place for us. Fighting hard to survive with about 10% of what I need to live, I sometimes find it hard not to listen to that toxic message that many survivors and disabled folks hear and feel coming at them over and over: you're too broken to justify the cost and effort of keeping you alive.

It's been an especially hard couple of years in that sense. And as the finale was months, then weeks, then days away, I kept telling myself to wait. Wait for that. Decide later. "Deciding later" is a survival technique I've been using for decades now whenever I get actively suicidal. It's not a bad one.

So that very last Thursday evening (or very late night, where I live) came around. And it so happens that I was at the very end of my rope. Again, for unrelated reasons to the show ending, obviously. And I couldn't go on.

The finale was hours away, and off I went on that same journey. Wait. Wait just long enough to see how it ends. It's been 15 years. You've survived so far, and that bit of closure, at least, is within reach. Just fucking wait to watch that last episode; see how they go before you do. Let that be the one last kind thing you do for yourself.

I kept telling myself that even as I numbly went through my final checklist.

I know it hurts so much. I know this damn body is tortured beyond what you can stand, I know we've been told it's about to get even worse. And hours more of this seem like an eternity. Watching anything seems impossible. I know the PTSD is intolerable, I know you can't sleep, you live in constant fear and rage and exhaustion; I know you're alone in this.

I know you live in a place that has made its peace with people like you dying of Covid, and finds it a small price to pay for refusing to wear masks. I know how that makes you feel, to be told that your life is worth that little because you're disabled. I know 9 months of what amounts to house arrest, while living alone, have made everything so much worse. I know you just want to go.

But wait to watch how it ends. And decide later. You can go later. You can.

And I almost made it. I mean, I'm obviously still here, so I eventually survived. But I tried not to. I couldn't wait.

Sometimes, when you get to the lowest low point, when you are in all-encompassing agony, when your circumstances leave no room for hope even though you desperately want to live -- and I do, I so want to live -- no show, no fandom, no unfinished story can keep you from taking that step over the edge. Many times it can, but there are places where nothing has any meaning. Thursday night became one of those. Watching the finale was a faded notion in the background of all that agony, and then it was nothing at all.

I only managed to write one goodbye letter. Hard to be as organized as you imagined you would be, hard not to leave unforgivable loose ends. I have no memory of what the letter said, and I can't look at it, not yet. It's tucked away now, just out of view.

And then I went about doing the only thing that I felt could be done.

I didn't get to go away. Both because I couldn't stand the torment of the only method I had handy, though I sure gave it my best efforts -- two more minutes would have sealed the deal -- and because I was fucking afraid to die. All the way through, until I gave up and stopped what I was doing.

Fear of dying when you're your own executioner is an odd thing. Your body wants out of this plan you've made for you both. It responds like you'd expect when someone's life in under threat. It makes you have to run to the bathroom over and over, it makes your heart hammer in your chest and your ears ring.

There was no crying. Not at that point. I don't think there was crying when I gave up and accepted that I was staying alive, either. But I can't remember.

I don't know what I did during the few hours after that. The physical consequences of what I did were gone within half an hour or so -- being so ill, I knew not to try something that would land me in the ER during COVID, should I not complete the plan. I'd also be on my own there, and most likely dissociated to such a degree that I wouldn't be able to move or speak. That's not something I ever wanted to experience again, and a fucking horrible starting point if I survived.

Anyway, I was okay physically soon enough, which is not how it usually goes. I just remember being fuzzy and distant and alone. There was no one to call, and I also thought about how it would feel to get a call like that. I considered a crisis hotline, but didn't have the energy to explain my messy, complicated circumstances. I probably just lay there.

A few hours later, I was present enough to watch the finale. Still don't know how. Dissociation has it occasional advantages, one of which is being disconnected from certain things when it's all too much. And so I watched the final episode in bed, with the aftermath of that suicide attempt still all around me.

I watched Dean die the way he did. I watched Sam die. I watched them both being given the pained, tearful reassurance that it was okay to go. Watched them being held, watched those two strong, kindhearted, emotional, loyal men crying as they breathed their last. Dean's death, especially, broke my heart. He so clearly did not want to die. Was afraid, more than ever before.

I did cry then. I sobbed. I could cry for them. Hell, I could cry for that dog, wandering with Sam through the empty halls of the bunker. I cried as that dog looked up, with all that trust and love, at the only human he had left. I cried for Sam, sitting drained and aching in the dark library. Saying "I know, me too" on the unmade bed in Dean's cold, empty room.

Before that, back in the barn, I watched Dean not want to go. Sam begging him not to go, then forcing himself to tell his older brother what he needed, what he begged to hear. That he wasn't abandoning the one person he had spent his life looking out for. That Sam would survive him going, now that he had to go.

I never saved the world, and there's nothing heroic about me. But so much of what went on around those characters' deaths echoed what I had felt hours earlier, what I still was feeling. It gave me a safe way to cry for that, too.

I will always be grateful to the show for that small mercy. And grateful to Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki, whom I've never met and never will, and have given such phenomenal performances here that they reached through all that distance, to unknowingly touch an ache that I could not cry for. They'll never know that. I imagine there are so many people like me who feel the same gratefulness, too, for their own similar moments of human connection.

The show is over now, and I try not to be sad about that, and I'm sure I will be. It would be sadder if I didn't feel a loss. Meanwhile, life doesn't stall just because you tried to stop your own. It's around two weeks later now, bright and loud outside my window in a world that's not safe for me to go out in, and I am lying in bed in a half-lit room trying to manage my pain. I didn't die. I'm still here.

I can't pretend I'm glad that I am, but I also know that I'm not ready to go yet. I'm just not. I have no good reason for that; sometimes you're just too afraid to die. And so I can't see myself trying to go away again any time soon. My health might take care of that for me anyway, but otherwise, looks like I'm stuck on this ride.

I'm very grateful that I've had SPN and its people for so long through this battle, to give me and the rest of the fandom so much more than meets the eye. And I'm grateful for that last, good cry, too.

Well, not the last cry, for sure. There's always rewatch #475783. 

[velvetv0nblack]

An open letter;

(Possible trigger warning)

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this, maybe because this theme of abuse has be something I’ve been experiencing as a third party, the person removing the victim this time, you know the role many of my friends filled within our tumultuous relationship... maybe it’s because my friends abuser is now threatening and harassing me for helpingher leave... maybe it’s because I’ve finally found my therapeutic dosage of lithium, am in a clear mind and are therefore able to reflect properly for the first time in my life... or maybe it’s because this is not an apology, I mean maybe it is if you had only been a serial cheat, but the truth is you fractured my skull and cut me open with a knife, so this is not a fucking apology. Also I’d rather rip my own eyes out of my skull, smash them with a hammer, and then inject the liquid into my ass than actually engage you in any kind of conversation, so knowing that this is the one platform you can still check for me on, I’m going to post this here... Its about time I had my say without putting myself in physical danger.

You would think I wouldn’t have an essay to correct your 3 lines of a nothing apology, but here we are I guess.

This kind of self deprecating “I wasn’t good enough for you” narrative is truly infuriating, and not because you were actually good enough for me but because of the very reasons you proved yourself not be “not good enough”. You weren’t undeserving of me because you didn’t work, I am physically incapable of doing so myself and I didn’t fall in love with you because you came across mad motivated. You weren’t undeserving of me because you took drugs, drank like a fish or smoked like a chimney, we were both purposefully killing our selves in the same way. You weren’t undeserving of me at all, until you fucked my best friend in the bathroom and collectively gaslit me into wondering if I was imagining the whole thing, and slowly but systematically broke down my confidence and support network away from me. I want this to be very clear; the reason you do not deserve me or any other decent human being is because, you are an abuser, you abuse people.

I was barely a whole person when I met you. I was barely an adult. I had lived through so much already, and had been abused in every area of my existence. I was easy pickings to you. The issue was you were not a pawn to me, a player in any game, or any of that. To me you were this fascinating, beautiful soul, to me you were someone who needed my love who needed someone to support you and I couldn’t believe that you chose me to fill that role. I was freshly 18 that month, and I had just had a flat mate steal £3k and kill my kitten.

I weighed all of 63lbs that night you lost the plot on me because I didn’t want to go to Big Red to watch that actual cunt of a waitress smile at me as she gave you lap dances, it’s not even a dance joint it was a fucking bar. You allowed other people to emotionally abuse me with you for months up until this point and I just didn’t want to go, all I wanted was the keys and I would of gone home alone and gone to bed. Why you feel the need to publicly humiliate me again instead of just leaving it? You couldn’t just go be adulterous without me watching and hurting, so you followed me home, screaming at me the whole time. You told me I was pathetic, you hated me, I should just kill myself- on a bus on a Saturday night, from the bar I worked in, in soho, back to our place near Caledonian Road. I was so unstable anyway, undiagnosed autism, misdiagnosed mental health issues, on the wrong if any medication, deep within the throws of an addiction and eating disorder... you. I couldn’t take you verbally ripping my heart out anymore when I decided that throwing myself from our 3rd story window would hurt less. The fact I could of died isn’t what made you grab me and stop me jumping, no in fact you told me you don’t care if I kill my self as long as it’s not in the flat, you were much more concerned with the amount of drugs in the flat and the prison opposite our window. At that point you threw me full pelt across the other side of the room, all 63lbs of me flew through the air like a paper aeroplane and smashed directly into your guitar. You know your beloved custom Les Paul? The headstock came off, and at that very moment despite the fact you were the one who threw me, my life was the one in danger. You started strangling me and threatening to have men come down to London to gang rape my then 14 year old sister. It gets a little fuzzy, that’s what your brain does when you experience potentially life ending trauma. I do know I ended up with stitches in my lips and hands, that you fractured my right eye socket- that I still suffer issues with to this day- and had black bruising covering my entire body like a bus had hit me.

For a couple of years there my brain completely blocked out important details of that night, and a lot of our relationship. Don’t worry though periodically I have the real type of flashback where I relive these events and I come back to reality remembering more than I ever wanted to. I’m yet to even touch on the fact that whilst I may of been able to escape you in waking life, my dreams are perpetually stuck in this horrific PTSD dream land, a town that is a mash up of all the places I’ve been traumatised in my life, the place you eternally reside inside my head to traumatise me whilst I desperately need to rest. You haven’t really left my life despite the efforts I have made to avoid you (I think I’ve seen you once, from a distance once at Download 2 years ago, my heart fell out my ass, and I dragged Camilla in another direction) I have only 2 dreams in 6 years that haven’t included you chasing me down to finish what you started and kill me or keep me captive. But that’s what trauma does, and oh how you traumatised me.

I really loved you though, that’s why I stayed, and those couple times I tried to leave before I came back. I loved you so unconditionally that it took me realising that everyone else around us was so complicit that they’d help you hide by body. To this very day I cannot believe a man, a male roommate, walked in on you pinning me into a sofa by my neck, with both your planted knees on top of my chest, full weight suffocating me, biting the end of my nose until it was blackened and he had the audacity me I needed to calm down. I have to label the guy the world biggest pussy in my head so I don’t get wound up about it.

I wasn’t perfect, I can never be perfect, I have more imperfections than most. I am severely mentally and physically unwell- I sure as hell am a pain in the ass to love- however I cannot actually think of a damn thing I did to deserve constant unending emotional abuse, threatens and follow through of physical abuse and then after I left stalking and harassment. I am difficult but I am not deserving of abuse and that’s all you gave me in the end... unless of course you “needed your baby girl to suck your dick” - that was the only time you were ever nice to me, and I know because I recently read back a bunch of our texts and you flipped between “I hate you, I’m gonna kill you/kill your self” to “I need my beautiful girl to come and suck my dick I love you so much” is actually fucking insane. - Should I bring up the fact you would bang pathetic girls on the scene and then dicknotise them into stalking and harassing me with you? Because... what I had the audacity to leave a man, of over 6ft tall, who would become violent to my 5ft 63lbs self?

So yeah, you didn’t deserve me, but not because of any self deprecating attention seeking reason but because you’re a sociopath, who seems to take pleasure in fucking with vulnerable women.

Am I happy? Now that’s a fucking difficult one to answer.

I ended up homeless on and off for a year. Despite the homelessness I had suffered before this was worse because of the place I was in mentally.

You caused me to develop complex PTSD.

You caused me to have a 3 year long psychotic break.

You caused me to live in secure supported housing, where I was prayed upon by other residents.

You caused me to fall victim to abuse within the system

Not sure if you know this but our mental health services sucks ass, after leaving you I had a delightful therapist that would text me telling to kill my self and would tell me you were right to abuse me.

But I got one thing from our relationship, I fine tuned my “four Fs” ...I no longer freeze or fight in the face of difficulty... I developed an ability to fawn.

Dead ends are no longer in my eyeline, I will metaphorically straight on walk through someone else’s house to get where I need to be, I will jump the fence, break the locks and out run any guard dog. I may fall down but I’m never out.

When I was diagnosed with multiple chronic illnesses and essentially lived in hospital for 3 years, even when I thought to end my life it was weighed out by the thought of “how do I get to a place we’re I can do even 5% of what I want? What do I have to change, manifest?”.

You see if you could only temporarily break me but not stop me then why the hell would I let my own mind and body do that? That ability to fawn came with an ability to find a middle path, to be diplomatic. That ability to fawn gave me the patience to understand medical text and use that to access the right care. ~ I am actually thinking of starting a medical degree just to prove I can ~ I am now 98lbs and healthy for my size and stature, I now have a home with a housing association who like me so much they have me a lifetime partner agreement, meaning I will never be homeless again. I have been clean 7 whole goddamn years and 2 months. I have the most beautiful empathic cat, 2 foster dogs and an incredibly patient partner, who has known me before you had ever entered my life. I am as healthy as someone in my position can be, I still struggle with the anorexic thoughts but I eat everyday of the fucking week now.

I am not “happy” as happy is an emotion and emotions are fleeting but I am content in living for the simple life I have fought ever so hard for. I am strong, and determined and constantly fucking working on making more for myself. I’m proud of myself.

All I have to say is get therapy. If you’re really sorry work on yourself enough to be able to apologise properly before you fuck my day up by rising your head again for this weakness. I can’t say I don’t have morbid curiosity, because that’s me all over, however I’m much more determined to keep all that I have work for mentally, emotionally, and physically safe. For that reason I would never in my right medicated mind talk it out with you, email you back or seek you out. I’m sorry, it is what it is.

You can not damage someone irreparably both mentally and physically and think “I’m sorry for being a cunt” even close to cuts it. You are mentally unbalanced, in a way not even I can relate to.

[modern-oedipus]

Update: I vented (both to my journal and a trusted friend), made a therapist appointment (I can get one per month but the time has come), cleaned my room and came up with some useful ideas to help me on the following semester. The recent days have been tough for me but I am overcoming slowly. I’m grateful for everyone who respected this and helped me the best they could.  Tomorrow I’m leaving for a (delayed) vacation. I’ll watch out for social distancing and hygiene as always. I have been worried and nearly depressed at the thought of online-college even though I am fully aware of the risks in-person education would bring. I’m not one to decide what my university is going to do, but I will get precautions to protect my mental and physical health. Of course there are things I can’t control, things unfortunate and horrifying and perhaps inevitable, like catching the virus and/or losing someone I love, dying, or being given permanent damage. This reminds me of the times when I was around 17 and there’d be attacks on Paris and I’d freak out. Anyway, this is a different threat, but it still leaves a trace even if I am not directly facing it.  But... There are things I can and cannot control. It’s important to focus on the parts I can control, right? So that I can be the most ready for the worst case without constantly worrying over it. Overdosed anxiety is really useless. (Fun fact: I never thought I had chronic anxiety, but my therapist low-key called me out once saying that I tend to have anxiety, even though she cannot fully diagnose me with it since my “symptoms” are not severe enough, but that they could become a problem if I didn’t keep them in check.)  But well, how can’t you be anxious in this time and age?  I think it’s humanly to be anxious, just... It’s just as humanly as being angry or bitter or salty. What matters is to acknowledge that anxiety and process it healthily without making it toxic for me or people around me.  So let me just vent this: THIS IS SO FUCKED UP. I fucking hate this, I’m so tired of always trying to “protect” my mental health, like, the moment I got my personal problems together, covid19 started. My precious college experience, of whom I lost 1.5 years due depression, got cancelled. Outdoors got cancelled. We don’t know what this virus is or how long I can’t go to the events (congresses, stage plays, concerts, protests, everything... that makes me feel alive and connected and happy and hype) or whether this covid leaves a permanent damage. My parents fucking divorced, and even though the divorce itself hasn’t been traumatic for me I still... switch houses... it’s just... weird. I miss having my family together. I miss doing the things I love, going out, laying on the grasses in front of the faculty with my Starbucks cup and chatting to my two best friends about anything and everything, going to classes, leaving classes, my best friend dragging me to the music faculty so I can listen and record him playing piano, or that we can go out for partying, or we can hit to gym, or we can stay for a coffee chat with everyone, or go to our cheesy dining hall lunches, join to 6 pm events, stay in library to rush a homework together, run to the classroom as we repeat out the enzyme names loud because we just have a quiz, wearing our lab coats and taking silly pics, pretending we get the next Nobel prize as we go to lab, visiting the student’s office in my newspaper, standing on the line of orientation and welcoming the freshmen with giant pics and convincing them to join our club, dancing, petting campus dogs, buying even more Starbucks, I just... I miss everything so much. This is my final year and what if I can never get to experience such a beautiful experience again? What if it is ruthlessly stripped from me despite the crazy tuition fee I pay for online fucking classes? Who on their right mind wants to do online college? It’s the best college here too, like... It ain’t even a bad college, so I can confidently say that I’m missing out A LOT. I know it is like this worldwide but... It doesn’t make my pain any less. And I know this is not a “big” problem compared to getting the virus, but this is severely impacting my mental health so even if this is not a “big” problem, this is valid and serious enough to drive me miserable, which means I need to talk about it.  I miss everything so much. It’s just.  JUST when I’m out of depression and feeling alive...  That I’m homestuck.

I had so many chances that I wasted half of it in my freshman year because I was suicidal. Now I am full of life, but home stuck, and it just hurts, okay? It fucking hurts. Even if I go study another major after this (I considered this since I studied a stem major but I really want some psychology/philosophy/media related things additionally) I will be, idk, 22? It won’t feel the same as being 21. No one can give me the 2020 back. I’m honestly just... so, so, so, so, SO sad. This is overwhelming. This much of online education is too much. And I know that even if we go to campus it’s not the same because we have to wear masks and stay split and cancel big events (which, believe me, I most religiously follow, the virus is no joke and I never let my guard down even for a second) so it won’t be the same. Just... why... why... why... If this virus really came because some guy ate a rat in China, then... 

On the other side, as sad and horrified as I feel, I don’t want to “waste” my time just because it’s “online”. I want to make the most of my time. I want to enjoy whatever I have, I just need to stop obsessing over “why...” and “what if...”s. I need to accept... that life is like this. But god, I guess that’s something for therapy because I’m honestly bad at accepting things which are genuinely unfair to me. Worse since this unfairness is not something that can be just “solved”. It’s not like a friendship conflict. It’s a bloody pandemic, what can I do?  Oh, right, speaking of what I can do, I’ve actually come up with a few solutions. They don’t “solve” the issue but they can decrease the damage enough that I can go on my day to day life at peace. 

But I’ll not talk about the solutions here, I just wanted to vent. I normally don’t post this type of vent here (the miserable ones) but since I refuse to write anyone in dm-s right now, I thought you could read it if you’re worried. I’m sorry but I still don’t want to talk to anyone (except those who are excluded), so.  Anyway, take care! 2020 is crazy but if we can get through this year we can probably get through many other challenges like they’re little snacks! Love you all!

[shelleyvanniekerk]

Cant find a fitting title ???

I have not blogged much of late, mainly because I feel like a stuck record and also I don't think people have time to read blogs much anymore, and my topic is rather depressing to say the least. I hate to always sound like I am complaining, but somehow writing about what goes on in your head allows it to make sense for yourself so you don't think you going mad, and maybe sometimes it hits home for others, and they can look at things with a different view and have a little bit more understanding.

So my question is this. Imagine you were told you had a terminal disease, and there is no cure. And the only thing that may extend your life (for no guaranteed time), is medication that you have to take daily. That's not too bad you might think, I mean most people are on some sort of medication for a chronic condition and the meds may be life saving. But add to that, that this medication has no guarantee, and hellish side effects! You also have to go for monthly injections, monthly blood tests, and three monthly scans, and oncology visits to hear the outcome. I'm on my 16th cycle now so its been just over a year that this has been gone on. I cant count how many times I have been poked by needles and how many pills I've swallowed, and how many scans/tests I've had and how many times I've had to sit at the Doctors rooms waiting for results. The worst is I've done it all pretty much alone, because of Covid I've not been allowed to take anyone with me. And yes on top of all this you have Covid to worry about. You are high risk and so as if you don't have enough to worry about there is a virus going around killing people also, and guess what, it affects the lungs. 

So my cancer has spread to my lungs and in the beginning they said spine, ribs and right femur. They have since ruled out spine as what they saw on the scans was a life long issue with my discs, even though I told them that in the beginning, they are more likely to assume its cancer. They don't comment on the ribs anymore - I am assuming since they haven't responded to the treatment that it is not cancer and the right femur we don't know about because they have not done another full body scan to actually check that.

I've made peace with the fact that I have to take the pills daily, it is after all a small price to pay for extended life. Although sometimes when I have a few wines in, (yes I drink), I get really annoyed with it and have violently thrown the tablets around some nights spewing out some vulgar language about how much I hate taking them. I have to diarize each time I take them, so obviously I do take them and at the same time everyday, 6h30 each night to be exact.

What I cant seem to make peace with is for starters, the monthly injections. Mostly because they are painful and its not a pleasant experience being jabbed in the stomach each time and you left with a nasty bruise. Sometimes the bruise from the month before is still there and then you get the next bruise. I have the decision of having my ovaries removed, that way I wont need the monthly jabs anymore, but again that's surgery, and now with Covid I don't really want to go to hospital unnecessarily any time soon. But I do get dreadful pains in the ovaries, much like a period and that just makes me mad, I mean, why do I need to put up with unnecessary pain? But its something I will do before the end of the year I think. That will sort one issue out at least. Well two, considering the pain.

Also I have not made peace with the scans and the results.... it really is a difficult thing for me. Its called in cancer terms, scanxiety and yes it exists its not something I made up. And the thing is because its every three months, its like you in a never ending cycle of anxiety. I never relax. I can never sit back and be complacent and think ‘everything is ok’, because with cancer you just never know. I mean 7 years ago I was stage one, it didn't go to the lymph nodes where it apparently goes first if it does spread, and I had a mastectomy and chemo and radiation and and and - and I thought back then that its all over. But it wasn't was it. It went to the lungs and I found out myself because I could not stop coughing and went to see a new GP who suggested bloods. Funny that my oncologist never did bloods - she said they just don't do them and a physical examination is good enough. Well clearly its not. Clearly. If anyone is ever in this situation demand blood tests.... at least every three months. I think its very necessary to keep a record of your cancer count. I mean how the hell else are you supposed to know what's going on it your body? Had they picked it up 3 years ago when I had a normal chest x-ray and started me on treatment then, maybe things would have been different. Who knows.

And that brings me to the anger. That on top of the anxiety. Its the anger that I cant deal with. I thought I had dealt with it but every time I hit a wobbly, its very evident to those around me, especially my husband who gets the brunt of it, that I have not dealt with the anger. But then again, how can you? How can you make peace with the fact that you did everything you should have, and then this nasty disease still decided to come back. How do you make peace with the negligence on the doctors side? And how do I make peace with the fact that this is my lot in life and nothing I do can change it. I mean I love the fact that some people can become NED (no evidence of the disease) after being stage 3 or 4.... and apparently they do so with various things. But its not the case for everyone. Some peoples bodies just don't respond to any diet, any miracle pill, any exercise, and it just keeps spreading elsewhere. And trust me its not for lack of trying. I do follow a reasonably good diet, I do try exercise and drink water, I do take vitamins and constantly searching for new things. I do take cannabis oil, and I'm forever trying to incorporate natural things that have proven to have good results for cancer like turmeric, ginger, bicarb and lemon blah blah blah. The only thing I have been consistent on is the cannabis because it took me from being on 3 patches of morphine to almost no pain in a matter of months so I truly believe in its benefits.

And so far after about 14 months (or more I don't know) I have had good results. Meds and all. There has been about 40% shrinkage and there is no new cancer so that is great news. But I'm at a point now that no matter the results, even though they have been good and I'm very grateful, I still feel so defeated. I cannot get excited and jump up for joy, purely because A) I am anxious about what lies ahead and B) because I've been disappointed before. I've been misdiagnosed and been through so much already that even though its good news I just cant find inner peace, happiness or joy right now. The anxiety outweighs everything, and I wish I could shake it off somehow, but I just cant. I am constantly reminded of cancer, and I'm constantly going for scans and bloods and tests that one never gets to a point where you can forget, even for just a little while. Why cant I just be happy and forget about all this, just for a little while?

I've tried to hand things over to God, I talk to him daily. He knows my struggle. I so hate people who say you don't have enough faith... gosh, whatever. Some people just need a kick up the arse for their insensitivity. They don't know my relationship with God and let me tell you if you were in my shoes you would be quivering in your shoes also, and trust me faith is hard to find when you got all this going on!

So I wake up scared and I go to bed scared and the anxiety is just the pits. And I just try to the best of my ability to function like a normal person, wife, mother, friend, daughter etc. But this thing has seriously taken over my personality. Most of the time I'm faking everything and its so exhausting. So so exhausting. This Covid hasn't helped because that in itself has presented new challenges and has made life rather depressing on top of everything else. But here we all are, trying hard to keep our heads above water and plod on despite the horrible stuff happening around us. 

I am however exceptionally lucky to have a very understanding husband and some really awesome friends. There are a few people in my life that truly understand and never judge me. There are also some who have no clue and they judge me for sure behind my back. I'm not too worried about the judgements because you know, none of us are perfect and if you think you are then you have a big surprise when God Almighty comes down one day soon and tells you what a terrible person you have been.... (eeek, I am judging now too). But I am very grateful to those who have stuck around despite my Wobblies, who genuinely care and love me despite my craziness. You know who you are and I love you so so so very much. And of course my daughter who keeps me on my toes. Without her I would be locked up in an asylum pleading with the nurses to let me go!

To anyone and everyone who is going through a similar journey (I hate that word) , I get you, I totally get you. I love you and I pray for you. And most of all I wish I could make everyone’s pain go away. 

Blessings and love always

Shelley

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

it took me a little while to write anything summarizing the past decade (more impressive than just the previous year) and then I still meant to write something about goals for 2020, and now it’s February and I only just finished writing this post but you know what, that is fine, especially given that I’ve been thinking about some of this stuff for...I don’t know, a while.

so...goals. I don’t think I’ve ever made actual New Year resolutions because I know myself well enough to know I’d be setting myself up for failure, but I’ve usually had some vague goals in mind anyway. and if I focus on specific things, most of it really isn’t new. it’s like…finish more fics (especially short fics). finish more games (especially short games, free games, and walking simulators, double-especially when those categories overlap). get ADHD help. exercise consistently. figure out more stuff to list on Etsy that hits the magic sweet spot of reasonable effort-to-profit ratio (ideally, something I can make a lot of and then just sell, which I was hoping the Pride Cap stuff would be but there hasn’t been a lot of interest). somehow get my room into functional shape, which means organizing but also requires getting rid of a ton of shit so I actually have room for things. finish more personal customizing/craft projects, particularly more Loki figures. do what I can for the 2020 elections, gulp. but also, get enough sleep so I’m not exhausted ALL THE TIME, and try to manage my stress levels better, so basically if I want to do all of this, it boils down to “learn to manage my time perfectly, somehow”.

and like…those are good goals, in theory. I will definitely at least do some of those things. ideally I will do all of them, although that seems kind of unlikely, given that “more” is really not specific enough (but being specific is also hard, because it requires a lot of thought and decisions ahead of time and that’s also stressful…and it means I can concretely fall short, instead of being able to decide “no, actually, I did do enough to qualify for my vague goals so guess what brain, you can shut up”). on one level or another these are all things I want to do, even.

but the thing about a list like this is…well, it’s a list of goals, first of all, not a plan for achieving those goals, and that’s hard for the same reason being more specific is hard. Trying to make plans and concrete goals kind of makes my brain panic, which I hope is part of the whole ADHD thing so maybe I can get help for that, who knows. The bigger thing is that this list of goals isn’t really new, as I mentioned, which indicates I haven’t done too well in recent years at knocking off anything on the list, and it’s also...missing the bigger picture.

I have this idea, right, that if I let myself get away with not doing things I should do, I’ll have no motivation to do the things. in theory that sounds kind of reasonable, but what it means in practice is that when I fuck up, I hate myself for it. I’m a little better about this than I used to be–back in college I distinctly remember that I would berate myself for stuff as small as not finding the closest parking spot, and I recognized how ridiculous that was and mostly managed to stop. but I still do it with the chronic issues I can’t seem to get away from, like always being tired because I never get to bed at a good time, or often being late to appointments, or getting stressed over deadlines because I wait until the last minute to do most of the work, or how my room is a disaster and I hate the fact that I can’t find anything but I don’t know what to do about it because there’s not enough room for everything and I want to keep all of it, or meaning to work out but instead scrolling Tumblr on my phone for a while until it’s so late I just need to go home, or frequently getting charged interest on my credit cards because I don’t stay on top of paying them off, or spending a ton of time re-reading fic or scrolling Tumblr and using up all the time I could’ve spent on things I actually needed or wanted to do, or losing money because I didn’t think of something obvious or slacked off on preventative measures or forgot about a good coupon/deal until after it expired, or missing out on an opportunity because I forgot about it or kept putting it off, or getting awful headaches every weekend because I spend too much time in bed and then too much time just kind of fucking around on the computer or my phone and let myself get dehydrated, or having big plans of actually accomplishing things over the weekend and not doing them for the same reason, or…well, any of the other ways I fall short. and if the specific instance is unusually bad/consequential, or my brain is already bad from something else and I get into a spiral of fixating on all the ways I fall short, I basically just…get stuck on the self-loathing. and even when I recognize I’m doing this and it’s not good, I think part of the reason I have such a hard time breaking out of the spiral is that idea that I can’t just let myself get away with fucking up and failing to do things because how else will I learn to stop?

there’s probably a lot of mess in my upbringing (conservative evangelical/fundie stuff in general, my family specifically, and then the ways all those issues were exacerbated or at least perpetuated by my two years at a private Christian school and four years in a weird leadership track of the Honors program in college) that could be blamed for this, and it’s the sort of thing I’ve unpacked some with therapists and should do so again, assuming I can ever find a long-term therapist lolsob. and again, there’s a kernel of a reasonable idea in there: there are loads of things I don’t necessarily want to do but that are important to do anyway, and other things where the process isn’t necessarily the most fun but the end result is genuinely worth it, so I can’t just...decide that it’s fine if I never do anything. like, for extremely obvious reasons, I can’t decide I’m going to practice self-care by quitting my job and spending every day on the couch playing video games, or that I’m never going to walk my dog unless I feel like it, or that I’m going to stop doing the exercises that might help my neck/head pain in the long term because I dislike them in the short term. equally, I don’t want to quit every game I play the second I get a little frustrated, because then I would literally never finish any of them, including all my favorites; I don’t want to quit writing just because some parts aren’t actively fun; I want to complete more customizing/craft projects even if that process also isn’t always actively fun. and sometimes it’s tough to recognize the difference, when it’s healthy to say “actually I’m not going to push myself on this” and when it’s important to say “yeah, this isn’t fun, but the result is worth it so we’re gonna push it anyway”. it’s often really tough, in fact! probably trying to figure out this difference is something else I need to bring up with a therapist, because obviously I have a very hard time identifying it!

but. but. engaging in what is essentially (mostly subconscious, but still) self-harm by hating myself for fucking up–well, even if we’re looking at it from a solely practical perspective, there’s a big and obvious problem that you may have noticed from the long list of things I keep doing even as I know I shouldn’t:

if punishing myself with self-loathing is a necessary deterrent for various ways of fucking up, but also I keep fucking up in the exact same ways, then obviously it doesn’t fucking work. not only that, it’s actively counter-productive, because when I start hating myself for fucking up, I become incapable of doing pretty much anything—all my energy gets absorbed into the spiral of self-loathing. and honestly I’m probably also teaching my brain to associate these things I need to do with the pain of hating myself for not doing them, which makes my negative response to those things even stronger.

this boils down to something really simple that I’ve been trying to get through my skull: I cannot hate myself into becoming a better person. I shouldn’t, for many reasons, but I also just can’t, as in it literally isn’t possible, and I think I’ve pretty conclusively proven that, based on the fact that...you know...I’m still fucking up in all the exact same ways. so I can’t hate myself into becoming a better person. and that leaves, maybe, trying to forgive myself more, and work with myself instead of focusing on how I should be doing things, and trying not to feel apologetic or guilty for having preferences or not being “good enough” or what the fuck ever.

I want to work on a lot of things, yeah. I’m dissatisfied with a lot of things that are, in theory, within my power to fix, so I would like to do what I can to fix them. but instead of constantly getting down on myself for being slow with everything, for instance, maybe I can say that I tend to be methodical and I like to take my time. (and also for instance, instead of shitting on myself for posting this at the beginning of February, I can just shrug because years are a human construct and it seriously doesn’t matter.) instead of feeling like I should preface anything I say about most of my interests with a disclaimer that I know it’s silly, maybe I can...not do that, and just have hobbies and preferences. instead of hating myself every time I fuck up, maybe I can forgive myself and try again.

so. that’s what I want to try to do more in 2020. apologize less for existing. forgive myself more. maybe get some shit done in the process.