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sadsapphicslut · 4 years ago

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chapter one - original story (i havent come up with a title yet lol)

okay so here it is!! if anyone actually reads this i love u :) please leave feedback if u have any!!

TWs:

death, drugs, medication, mental illness, references to sex, swearing, alcohol

wordcount: 8.2k

(also i dont think anyone will but im paranoid of people stealing my writing so obligatory dont copy/post to another site or steal my work in any other ways etc)

There were five of us; 4 boys and me. In hindsight I realize from the outside our group probably seemed a little predatory, but it was never really like that. For the most part they were like brothers to me. Of course, being the only girl in a small and isolated club of mainly older boys, things were bound to happen. We were in high school and it was summer, can you blame me? Regardless, however much I loved them, it was not quite in the way my father always assumed or my mother always warned (during our uncomfortable monthly visitations before I managed to get rid of her for good).

The months everything went down, which I often referred to only as ‘The Worst Summer of My Life’, (quite melodramatically but not without reason) were somehow still full of the best moments of my life. Moments I often find myself wishing I could repeat, as nothing has or will ever come close to the way I felt, sitting amongst my boys day after day, somehow light as the warm July breeze that blew past us. My entire body weightless, as non-existent as the time that passed us by. Despite the depression I’d found myself plunged into during the days after my only brother’s death, I truly believe I will never again be as happy as I was then. Laughter seemed to flow freely from our mouths, smiles plastered onto our faces no matter the circumstances, content to just exist. I don’t think I can ever forget the day it was raining so hard the entire city was flooded, but we walked around uptown well past the point of being absolutely drenched, our clothes dripping so heavily the security guard denied us entry into the public library. Something about that day made me feel so free, like we were invisible. Completely apathetic to the whims of the real world, somehow existing only in our twisted minds and intertwined fantasies.

Maybe if I’d had my head screwed on a little tighter, or if we’d met under different circumstances, it wouldn’t have ended the way it did. I used to go down that line of thought every night before succumbing to a fitful but heavy sleep (under the direct affect of 25mg of Quetiapine, working to counteract my Concerta and Lexapro). Those types of irrational thoughts were ones my therapist deemed as my habit for rumination. In regard to the death of my brother she called it ‘bargaining’, one of the stages of grief. I never liked it when she spoke about those stages as I’ve always felt them to be wrong. Maybe because I never quite moved on to the final one, no matter how many years pass. ‘Acceptance’, coined as the “Re-entrance to reality”. Maybe it’s different since I was never really grounded to reality in the first place. I still wake up some mornings, thinking I’ve heard his voice in the other room, ready to beguile me with tales from his day of retail work. Other times I swear I’ve walked past him on the street. Some people may relate to my experiences, with reasonings of ghosts, angels, apparitions, or insanity, among many other causes for the apparent viewing of a loved one long gone to the other side. I never shared these beliefs, but I am not one to deny. Rather, I always take these instances as an omen. A warning. I have come to this conclusion not without evidence, at least circumstantial, given the many occasions over the years – and especially that summer – where I found my hypothesis to be true. All I can say is that I am glad I’ve never been met with the same chimerical visions of my mother; one can only hope that is because she ended up where she belonged. Maybe I’ll see her there, though I hope at the very least they could keep us in separate rooms of Hell if the situation does arise.

From what I know of the others now, which is admittedly not much – majorly due to my own neglect, as opposed to theirs – they share the same prescription for rose-coloured glasses as I. We always were too engrossed with our own romanticization of nostalgia and sentiment that it clouded our view. I often think this was one of the reasons we seemed to fit so well together. Not quite like puzzle pieces, too self-absorbed to hold a candle to that analogy, more like complimentary colours. I wish it could’ve stayed the way it was. We did try, and I never found myself able to fully disentangle myself from James, nor he could to I, but for most of us we could recognize an ending when one arises. I used to find myself using the word tragedy a lot while reminiscing, but I no longer think that word is appropriate. Fate is a more fitting term in my opinion, regardless of if one believes in it or not. “(A)n inevitable and often adverse outcome, condition, or end,” as reported by Merriam Webster. I don’t think there’s a word in the entire English language more accurate in describing how everything ended up; and if there is, I am yet to find it.

Chapter One

A Dead Brother

I have tried to erase the day my brother died from my memory so many times I lost count decades ago. I still find the image seeping into my unconsciousness quite dreadfully on the nights I neglect to take my pills and catch myself waking up with a steady flow of tears that dampen my pillow along with the drool that always seems to pour from my sleeping mouth. The dread that pools in my stomach sometimes being heavy enough for me to lose my lunch. I frequently wonder how people managed to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault; the most painful lie I’ve ever been told and one that seemed to stream from people’s mouths as easily as the mini sandwiches laid in the living room of my brother’s wake were stuffed in. The worst part about being told it wasn’t my fault was how obviously one could tell they didn’t believe what they were saying either. His death was my fault; a fact so uncontestable I wanted to kill myself every time I was reminded of it.

My therapist often tried to remind me that even if his death was “partially” (she always used the word partially, refusing to acknowledge the truth that his death was entirely my fault) my fault, there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent it. This was another lie I despised being told. There were a million ways I could have prevented his death or saved his life and yet, here we are, with him dead and me wishing everyday that I won’t wake up tomorrow. “Begonia,” she’d tell me – she was the only person who called me by my full name, I usually went by Nia, but a nickname felt too personal and I didn’t like her very much – “You mustn’t keep torturing yourself with these scenarios. He’s dead, and there is nothing you can do to change that. I am starting to wonder if you are going to let yourself move on. This isn’t healthy.” That was a line she liked to use a lot, “this isn’t healthy”. As if anything I do is.

Barb, my therapist that is, liked to go over the details of my brother’s death a lot. She often called it a ‘trigger’, which is why she always seemed to want me to talk about it. “Trauma is a horrible thing, Begonia, and you must learn to move past it, process it. I can see you still haven’t managed to do that on your own, and that’s what I’m here for, to help you move on.” Barb was big on the idea of “moving past trauma” and “learning to cope”, she often sounded like a broken record of a motivational speech. I found myself comparing her to school guidance councillors without realizing it, they were about equally as helpful (read: not helpful) in my opinion.

Sometimes I blame my inability to forget and “move past” my brother’s death on the way Barb constantly brought it up and made me go through it. I never quite understood how that part of my therapy was supposed to help me. I asked her once, what good was it doing rehashing the worst day of my life?

“Well, Begonia,” I hated the way she said my name, always so condescending and sour, like even the idea of me questioning her in any way was as impolite as shitting on her desk.

“You have to understand that I only want to help you. You seem to be unable to process your traumas on your own, which is why we need to go through these things. As you are aware, this PTSD,” she always left strange pauses after each letter, her slow tone grinding on my ears, “you have acquired has left you unable to function normally in daily life. I want you to get to a place where you can have a normal life (Ha!) and cope without these meetings. It’s what your brother would’ve wanted.” Barb liked to tell me what my brother would have wanted at least once every session. Putting aside the fact she knew next to nothing about him aside from the intimate details on how he died, I always thought it was an inappropriate thing to say as a psychologist specializing in grief counselling. It never particularly bothered me, I was reasonable enough to realize she was just trying to comfort me, but I never liked the phrase. “What your brother would’ve wanted.” What he would’ve wanted was to not die but we’re past that, aren’t we Barb, as you so often enjoyed telling me.

I have always been quite averse to my diagnoses, ADHD at 14, Persistent Depressive Disorder at 15, PTSD at 16, issues with alcohol and drugs that landed me in rehab more than once. I’ve been on a concoction of different medications since I was 13, even before I was diagnosed with anything officially. Sertraline, Lexapro, Prozac, Ritalin, Concerta, Adderall, Quetiapine, Ambien, Zopiclone, a healthy mix of off brand and branded medications. Sleeping pills, antidepressants, stimulants. I can’t remember a time before monthly trips to the drug store and side effect surveys that I’m not sure if I ever told the truth on. It’s a wonder that people didn’t see a slew of addiction issues coming from a mile away.

I think I’ve always had the most contention with my PTSD diagnosis though, I hate it because I know it’s undeniably true. I wish it wasn’t because maybe that’d mean my brother was still alive, but he isn’t. And I’m left traumatized and bereaved. Sometimes it feels like it hurt me more than it ever did my mother or father. Maybe it did. I should feel selfish for saying that, but I can’t, because they didn’t have to look at him while the life left his body, praying to God for the ability to turn back time. See the moment his eyes glazed over, knowing I’d never get to hear his obnoxious laugh, or make fun of his dumb face ever again.

❈

“Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.”

It was a cool evening in May, the end of spring brought with it the promise of summer and the air had the familiar aroma of daffodils and petrichor. I had decided to go to a party with my friend Faun, my dad having been out at his girlfriend’s place for the weekend and me having nothing better to do. I wasn’t one for partying, but I did like to get high, so I usually just hung around with the rest of the potheads and pill junkies until someone dragged me home or I fell asleep. That night Don, a friend of a friend of a friend, had brought coke and E and we were all determined to get as fucked up as possible. Faun only ended up doing one line before running into a bedroom with some guy whose name started with an M – was it Martin or Marvin? Maybe it was Mickey – and left me sitting on the couch beside a girl who was about 1 more shot of vodka away from passing out.

I had fully intended on doing some coke, but the E seemed to be hitting harder than I was used to. I was sure my Ritalin had worn off by then but maybe I was wrong. As I stood up to get a glass of water I nearly fell over and decided to sit back down. Turning to face Don, I tapped him on the shoulder trying to get his attention.

“What was in that molly?” I was vaguely aware of the way my words were slurring, but I felt weirdly energized. I was aware my heart was beating a little too fast, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I knew what ecstasy felt like, this was not nearly my first time doing it, but I felt really wrong.

“Don!” He turned to look at me and I felt uneasy. His eyes looked a little crazed – not that out of the ordinary but given the circumstances I was worried – “What the fuck did you give me?” It felt like I’d done 5 lines of coke in the last 2 minutes and I knew that E had been spiked.

Don’s face had an unmistakable expression of guilt written on it as he leaned down and whispered in my ear, his voice shaking, “I think it was cut with meth.” Fuck. My stomach dropped. I have to get out of here. I quickly shot up from the musty couch I was sat on, carefully holding onto Don’s shoulder so I didn’t fall, my legs still feeling unsteady. I opened my phone; the screen was too bright, and I had a hard time maneuvering it as I attempted to exit the house. Clicking the green Messages icon, I sent a text to Faun – e ws cut w meth im lesving – with shaky hands and burst out the door into the fresh air. I clicked my brother’s contact and pressed call.

It rang four times before he picked up.

“Nia? Why are you calling me it’s like 1am?” I could tell from the smooth tone of his voice he’d been drinking. He didn’t very often but he had an appreciation for cocktails and enjoyed getting buzzed now and then. He still was a year from being legal to drink but his friends we’re all 19 and 20 and bought alcohol for him. I found him fun when he got drunk, becoming talkative and giggly, but right now I wished so badly for him to be sober.

“Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.” I was slurring, my voice a bit too pitchy to pass as anything but high. I knew he didn’t like it when I did this, but he never ratted me out. Sometimes I wish he did, maybe I never would’ve been able to go to that party in the first place.

I could hear a door shutting on his end, I assumed he was going into a different room. “What’s wrong?” My skin was bubbling with anxiety at the prospect of having to tell him what I did.

“Fuck, uh… I did something stupid. I’m at Emily Goguen’s, y’know up in Champlain Heights. Please pick me up.” I rarely used the word please.

“Nia, what the fuck did you do?” I almost started crying but I found my eyes to be bone dry.

“Please don’t yell.”

“Okay, really, tell me what is going on or I won’t come get you.”

“I accidentally took meth.”

“You what? What the fuck, Nia! Fuck this I’m on my way and I’m fucking telling Dad.” I cringed but I knew he was going to before I even called. The pit in my stomach grew deeper as the buzzing of my skin grew stronger. I could feel myself getting higher, everything was so clear and standing around was making me grow restless. Ray huffed on the phone and I heard him entering his car.

His tone was softer the next time he spoke. “I’ll be there in 5, just stay put, please. Do you want me to stay on the call or can I hang up?”

I felt like a child, which I was really, only 16 at the time, a whole life ahead of me. Still, I was grateful for the way he spoke to me, reminiscent of being 6 and getting a scrapped knee after falling off my pink Razor scooter. The high made me edgy, and my voice was sharp to my ears, “No, you can hang up.” I heard the click to indicate he’d done just that, and started pushing my cuticles as I waited, the task somehow greatly interesting me, and I did not realize until later I had managed to pick off all of the skin around my pointer and middle fingernails during the five-minute wait.

Ray pulled up exactly five minutes later in his ugly, blue 2011 Ford Fiesta he’d gotten the year prior after passing his driving test. What I wouldn’t do now to smell the inside of that car once again, a distinct attar of pineapple car freshener and Old Spice deodorant mixed with stale black tea, faintly present due to his ever-growing collection of empty paper cups from various different fast foods and coffee shops.

I stumbled into the car, feeling the strong impulse to clean the space, but attempting to push it down. From the passenger side overhead mirror I could see my blown pupils and sweaty forehead, pieces of my copper red hair sticking to my face. My freckles were showing through my concealer that had mostly worn off and I wanted to cover them back up. My skin was pale from winter (and probably the drugs in my system) but my cheeks were flushed like I was drunk. My high cheekbones made my face look gaunt in the lighting, but my face was wide which balanced it out, so I didn’t look completely skeletal. Ray was looking at me, the worry apparent in his eyes, but his face was flushed as well, and I could tell he’d been drinking a bit too much to drive. I had my license as well, but it was clear I was in no condition to take over on that front, so I didn’t bother saying anything. I wish I had. There’s a lot of things I wish. I wish I hadn’t gone to that party; I wish I hadn’t taken that E; I wish I called someone else; I wish I waited it out at Emily’s; I wish I walked home; I wish I took a cab; I wish I waited for Faun; I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish.

“Are you okay?” He didn’t take his eyes off me as I shut the mirror in front of me.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine. Please just take me home.”

“Is Dad there?”

“No.”

“Maybe I should take you to Mom’s.”

“No!” I’d moved out of my mom’s completely just over 6 months ago, barely seeing her once a month. It was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. She never liked me much anyways, the feeling was entirely mutual. Ray seemed to have a close bond with her for some reason despite how she treated him like shit. I never called him out though, he no longer lived with her, so I didn’t really care what their relationship was as long as she wasn’t hurting him. She did treat him significantly better than me, however, so I figured maybe he managed to forgive her the way I never could.

“Okay, but I’m staying with you until Dad gets home. I’m not gonna lie to him about this shit. Fucking meth, Nia? Seriously?”

“It was in the molly.” He sighed and started driving.

My brain felt like it was filled with butterflies, or ants, some kind of movement that was itching at my skull. The paper cups scattered around were making me anxious and I needed to clean his car. I began picking at my nails again, but I needed to pick up those cups, you see. I turned around and started gathering the ones Ray had discarded in the back, filling up an empty plastic bag from Best Buy. I was fully switched around in my seat, nearly crawling into the backseat to reach the trash my brother had left. I felt him tap my side, I looked over at him and he started to scold me.

“Nia, stop that will you, you’re distracting me.” But I needed to finish gathering the cups. The car was dirty, and my skin was itching, the traffic lights burning my skin. I was elated and I didn’t want to listen to him, he was just trying to get in my way. I continued to lean over, not registering the swerve of the car as he looked over at me.

“Nia – ”

He turned over to push me back into my seat, his eyes leaving the road for no more than a few seconds. This time I felt the swerve as we broke into the next lane.

This is where I have a hard time piecing together what happened. From what I was told, we ended up running directly into a 2015 Dodge Ram 2500. In case you understandably have a lack of knowledge when it comes to cars, that is a very large, sturdy, and expensive pickup truck which I would probably consider the last vehicle you’d want to charge headfirst into while going 70km per hour. I don’t recall the actual incident of hitting the truck, whether that be from the drugs, the position I was in, or hitting my head on the roof of the car, I don’t know. What I do know is that when I woke up, we were in a ditch on the side of the road, with the car flipped upside down, and my entire body was screaming at me to Get Out!

I felt blood oozing sluggishly from my head and noted some indistinct pain in my right wrist where it had scraped something pretty badly and gotten twisted, but I otherwise felt alright. I couldn’t tell if the cloudiness in my head was from a concussion or the earlier events of the night, but I figured it was probably good I was awake, regardless of how dazed I seemed.

I turned my head to the left and was greeted by a view I will never be able to forget, it having been branded to the insides of my eyelids, scorched in my mind. Ray, with his left arm twisted in spectacular fashion, reminding me of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, after Lockhart spells away Harry’s bones. My brother had always been squeamish with broken bones and I hoped he wasn’t aware of how his limb looked at the moment. His head was bleeding quite profusely, and I was alarmed despite how many times I’d heard in movies that headwounds bleed a lot. His eyelids were fluttering, irises appearing glassy and unfocussed. And then I saw it. A piece of glass was stuck in the left side of his neck. The windshield apparently had broken with the impact and my brother was lucky enough to get a piece lodged right in his trachea. It was thick, bright red blood – that I could’ve sworn was sparkling in my current inebriated perspective – was gushing out the side, so heavy I could smell it, taste it, in the air. I was frozen once I realized.

Do something, do something! Put pressure on it! Call 9-1-1! My mind was screaming at me, but it was all I could do to sit and watch the blood stain his clothes. He was wearing the corduroy jacket I’d gotten him for his birthday and a white button up, the red seeped into them until it was as if they’d always been that colour. My voice was caught in my throat, but I managed to push some sound past.

“Ray?” It was weaker than a whisper but in the silence that seemed to envelope us in that car, completely independent of the outside world and sirens that could surely be heard from blocks away, I knew he would be able to hear me.

He looked up, eyes focussing slightly on me, and a tear slipped down his face, only it went the wrong way since we were still upside down. He mouthed the words “I love you”. We never said that to each other. As close as we were, our relationship had always been more comparable to that of a best friend than sibling. We weren’t overly affectionate, never hugged or said I love you, hung out for enjoyment rather than as a punishment. Most people didn’t know we were brother and sister until we pointed it out, we never really looked alike and were absent of the traditional distaste and rivalry usually present between siblings. I knew, as he looked me in the eyes and said those words, this would be the last time I’d ever see him outside of a morgue.

I sat in my seat next to him with dry eyes, wishing desperately I could cry, needing to express the feeling of utter horror and despondency that completely overtook my body and mind, but I couldn’t. Barb told me time and time again that I was in shock, there was nothing I could’ve done, but I will never be able to believe that. I still remember the moment the final tear slipped down his face. He smiled at me, pain evident in his eyes. His entire body was covered in the metallic smelling red, and I wanted to vomit. I wish I could say the crash had sobered me, but it didn’t, not really. I was still entirely in a daze as I saw his muscles relax, smiling falling from his face, eyes not quite rolling back all the way but enough to give me nightmares for the next 20 years. The life had been absorbed from his body, leaving a heavy shell. I was told afterwards this all happened within the span of 10 minutes, but it felt like years. By the time the first responders had appeared I was an old woman. Grayed hair, and arthritic bones. Mourning for the brother I’d lost oh so many years ago, when I was just a girl. I think in a way I died in that car with him, I never was really the same. But who would be? Best friend and confidant, older brother, idol, dying in front of your eyes as you do nothing, knowing for the rest of your life that his death is – was – your fault. Knowing you could’ve done something, anything really, to prevent his untimely loss of life before the paramedics arrived. If I’d been the same after that night I would have to be much more disturbed than I ever thought.

I sat in that car beside Ray’s corpse for 3 more minutes before I heard the sirens closing in around us – me. I thought I might pass out, either from the toll of what I’d just witnessed or from my concussion, but I remained upright, probably from the adrenaline. I couldn’t move so I just waited, and hoped I’d die too before anyone reached the scene. It would be much preferrable to any other outcome I could think of at the time. I could vaguely register the pain in my wrist, but I felt so numb I’m sure you could’ve shot me in the foot and I wouldn’t have blinked.

A young fireman named Walter ended up getting me out of the car. The door was smashed and stuck which meant I’d been trapped in there either way. I was happy I hadn’t bothered trying to escape as I'm terribly claustrophobic and finding out I couldn’t would have thrown me into a proper panic attack. The fireman was incredibly nice, saying reassuring things the entire time they were opening the door with the “Jaws of Life”. I ended up seeing him again in the hospital actually, or at least that’s what my father told me. He wanted to check in on me and left me some hydrangeas in a vase. I always preferred chrysanthemums but I'm not that picky when it comes to a floral arrangement.

After the door was busted open I was carried out by Walter. I was shaking and apparently babbling nonsense but in my head I was trying to tell them to save Ray. I wasn’t really aware of all that much, completely blind to the crowd of spectators that had rudely gathered to witness the violence – wasn’t it supposed to be taboo to stop at a car crash? Wondering vaguely about what happened and wishing you could get a better look as you drive past the scene. My head wound had made me a bit incompetent and the meth in my system was really not helping the entire situation.

I was laid on a gurney and rolled onto an ambulance. I don’t remember much about the ride; the sirens, the bright lights, a paramedic named Alice who spoke softly, smoothing out my hair while the other put an oxygen mask on my face (which I wasn’t entirely cognizant enough to question though now I'm not really sure why they did it) and splinted my wrist. Alice asked me if I was on drugs and I nodded but was unable to speak when she asked me what ( I would find this a common occurrence after the accident, my voice seemingly stolen alongside Ray’s). She just nodded and said something to the other ME that I didn’t quite pick up. She asked if I could tell her my name and I shook my head. She must’ve noticed the iPhone in my pocket and grabbed it, turning to the medical ID page.

“Is your name Begonia?” I nodded, though the name sounded foreign on my ears. I liked the way Alice said it though, she had a light Spanish accent and a matronly tone that made me feel safe. I wondered if she had kids of her own; she looked young, but my own mother had me at 19 so who could say? She told me her name after complimenting mine. “Begonia is a beautiful name; I love the flowers. I’m Alice, okay? We’re gonna make sure you’re alright and take you to the hospital.” Her voice was sweet like syrup and I became sleepy as she spoke.

“No honey, you can’t fall asleep yet. Just stay awake a little bit longer and I promise you they’ll let you sleep at the hospital.”

I don’t remember anything of the rest of the ride to the hospital. I was dropped off at the Emergency Room at the Regional, head still too foggy to allow me to recall anything before I was sitting in a white bed, in a white room, with white sheets and a light blue hospital gown on. It was morning and my father was sitting at the end of my bed in an uncomfortable plastic chair, his eyes bloodshot and moist. He’d very obviously been crying for a long time and my chest panged with guilt. I reached up to feel my head and realized there was a cast on my wrist. With my other hand I touched the cotton that covered my forehead, wincing when I felt the sting of what had to be stitches in a nasty gash. I would spend the next 5 years of my life with a variety of diverse haircuts that attempted to hide the ugly scar that served as a reminder of the worst night of my life. Even now it is still extremely obvious, but I can’t be bothered to try and hide it, I so rarely look in the mirror that it wouldn’t matter if my skin turned blue.

My dad hadn’t looked up, so I attempted to gain his attention but once again found my voice failing me. I tapped on the bed a few times before he seemed to realize and face me.

“Nia… how are you feeling?” His voice was raspy and thin. He reeked of cigarettes and stale coffee, though this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I remained silent as he looked at me, searching my face for something I'm not sure he found.

“Nia, I, I'm not sure how to say this to you.” Here it comes. Almost worse than watching my brother die, the confirmation. “Ray, he’s, well dead.” I saw my father’s eyes begin to tear up again as I stared straight ahead. I couldn’t feel the sobs that racked my body, nor the hot tears streaming from my eyes. I saw my dad start to move closer but sit back down when I flinched. Of course, I knew my brother was dead; I had front row seats to watching the event happen, but somehow I still didn’t believe it until the words left my father’s mouth. According to my dad, who many years later described to me how eery the whole event was, my sobs were completely silent, and I was entirely unaware of everything happening around me. This dissociation lasted the first few days after the accident, and the entirety of my hospital stay. Leaving the blissful gap in my memory I have now.

Barb told me this was my mind’s way of coping with the tragedy and stress of what happened. I was honestly just happy I had an excuse to skip some of the dreadful retelling she forced upon me.

❈

The funeral was of course a depressing and solemn event. I was still yet to speak and found myself thankful for the way people gave up on trying to get me to communicate. I dressed in a black skirt with a black short sleeved button up. A dark coat thrown around my shoulders as the cast on my right hand was too big to fit through the sleeve. I looked terrible, barely a week out of hospital before I watched Ray sink into the ground. The wound on my forehead was still quite nasty, though it looked better than it did before. I tried to cover it up with my hair but was unsuccessful. I got bangs soon after.

The matter was very traditional, taking place in a church even though none of our family was really religious. It was only the second time I'd ever been in a church, the first having been for my cousin Julie’s wedding when I was four years old. I don’t remember anything of it aside from the material of my dress itching at my neck and making me rather miserable. Of course, not nearly as miserable as I was the day of the funeral, sitting in a pew at the front of the church, listening to a priest claiming Ray would’ve wanted us to celebrate his life. I knew this not to be true; Ray was extremely dramatic and would’ve cherished the thought of everyone he’d ever spoken to moping around for weeks after his death, beside themselves with grief. He sometimes referred to himself as “Romeo” after having been broken up with by another girl he was supposedly in love with, stating he better just stab himself in the heart now if he couldn’t have her. On the rare occasion he broke up with a girlfriend, he’d lounge around, eating ice cream, pretending to not be upset and comparing his cold heart to that of Richard VIII. The concept of him being any different over his death was almost comical; Ray was nothing if not predictable.

I sat beside my father, who sat beside my mother (it was an extremely awkward arrangement that neither I nor my father cared for) and seemed to have the idea that I could evaporate if I thought hard enough about it. Unfortunately, I did not evaporate, or even come close to it, instead finding myself exactly where I'd been the whole time. I mostly tuned out the service, only really paying attention when my father and Ray’s best friend, Jake spoke. I managed to escape the duty of having to speak that day thanks to my fragile mental state and mutism. Though I'm sure I would’ve been forced all the same if I had been able to talk in any capacity, regardless of where my head was at.

Faun was sitting in the pew behind me, feeling quite guilty about the whole ordeal. Or friendship dissolved soon after, I think she blamed herself for taking me to the party. It didn’t bother me too much though; we were never the closest and I sometimes thought her to be extremely annoying. An endless stream of shitty boyfriends that she only acquired so she could further repress her sexuality. When we were 14 we kissed at a sleepover and she admitted she was in love with me. I felt bad for not returning the feeling and our relationship had been on rocky territory ever since. I don’t understand how she thought she was in love with me since she barely knew anything about me, but either way she never brought it up again and soon after the monsoon of boytoys had begun.

My brother’s friends and ex-girlfriends also attended the event. I didn’t approach any of them, far too scared they’d blame me for the death of their friend. One of them, Alex, went up to me to say how sorry he was about everything that happened. He was crying quite heavily (I later found out he was the friend Ray had been drinking with and the second last person to see him alive) and I could smell alcohol on his breath. I stood there while he spoke, telling me about how great my brother was as if I was wholly unaware. Body waving side to side as he stood with his hand on the wall beside me. He offered me some bronze liquid in a flask, and I obliged, savouring the burning sensation that followed in my throat. Alex’s voice was steady and deep, reminding me of my father’s. I’m not sure how long we stood there, him spinning a fantastic web of anecdotes and stories about my brother, some entirely new to my ears. We passed the beverage back and fourth until it was empty. My head felt lighter and heavier somehow simultaneously, and I found it much easier to listen to Alex talk. Later he tried to kiss me in my bedroom during the wake. His mouth was sour, and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. I wondered how he was able to talk so much without it getting in the way.

We moved in procession to the cemetery after the service. The grass was a vibrant green colour, and I didn’t understand how the world kept turning after Ray’s death, for mine stopped the moment his heart failed to beat. The sky was a lovely shade of cyan-blue, with clouds so perfect they seemed animated. Pink carnations were planted near the outskirts of the yard and I could smell spring in the air; a heavy, floral aroma that never failed to comfort me. I thought it should be raining, it felt inappropriate that the weather refused to match my despair. My mind wandered as we approached the empty grave and I considered what it would be like if Ray was here beside me. He’d probably be making jokes, telling me to lighten up for a minute or my face would get stuck that way. He’d mock my silence, saying how I never managed to shut up for a minute before but suddenly I'm as proper as a nun. I'd smile, ruffling his hair to piss him off and try to refrain from laughing aloud. The absence of him only felt stronger as I imagined this scenario, so I shoved it out of my head.

The casket was lowered into the ground, my father was a pallbearer and I often think about how he must’ve felt carrying his son’s body before watching him being buried. My mother sobbed loudly which annoyed me, it felt a bit exaggerated. I had a few tears falling from my eyes but mostly, I just felt numb. Incredibly and absolutely empty inside. To onlookers it may have seemed as though we weren’t very close, my reaction being similar to that of his ex-girlfriends’. However, this didn’t account for the loss of my voice, or the broken state I was in mentally. Maybe it was better that my reaction was rather dulled. It meant people didn’t feel the need to approach me as they did my mother. Less concerned given she was the one playing up her emotions to the point of embarrassment. My father cried, more than I but far less than my mother. He didn’t cry very often – I'd actually only seen it once prior to the whole event – and I figured he probably needed it. At this point I felt as though I'd shed enough tears to last a lifetime so Ray wouldn’t mind if I was a bit subdued in comparison. He never was a crier anyways.

As I sprinkled soil onto his casket I imagined he was right beside me, watching, ready to criticize as usual. The dirt stained my hand, clutching the sweat and turning my skin a muddy brown colour. As I wiped the dirt on my jacket I could hear him nagging about how I better go wash my hands, what was I, a six-year-old? He was in denial about me growing up and took every chance to remind me I was still just a kid. Not that he had much on me, but I enjoyed it. I never was one to shy away from attention; at least not before. Little quirks and inside jokes between us were always some of my favourite things, the type of humour you could only get from living with someone your whole life. No matter how much his memory will fade there are some things I can’t let myself forget. His mocking tone when he’d make fun of me is one of those things. If I ever managed to let go of that sound then I must be dead as well.

The sun beat down on my back, my skin burning in my black clothes. I wasn’t sweating yet, but most of the men around were – suit jackets aren’t exactly known for their breathability. My nose was dry and aching red, sore from how much I'd been wiping it the last couple days. Still the sweet seeping tinge of flowers and spring managed to crawl into my nose, settling underneath my skin, the buzzing from before had returned, I could feel my heartbeat loudly in my throat and had the desperate urge to just run. Instead, I just followed the rest of the party, sitting down in the passenger seat of my dad’s car. The silence that settled over us was uncomfortable and stale. He turned on the radio, Led Zeppelin filled the air around us, thankfully relieving some of the tension. I felt in my left pocket for one of the carnations I’d picked from a nearby grave earlier. The flower had begun to wilt, heat taking effect on its delicate composition. When I got home I put it in between the pages of my oldest copy of Romeo and Juliet. Ray would have found it funny if he was around to see.

The drive to my mother’s house was short and minimally awkward. We sat in silence – aside from the music – only because there was no alternative. My hand remained clutched around the dying flower in my pocket as we left the car and entered the home. Other people had already arrived, clustered in the living room, picking at tiny ham sandwiches and various desserts my mother had undoubtedly stress-baked the day before. I wasn’t hungry so I sat as far away from the food and people as humanely possible while staying in the living room, not wishing to hear my mother’s scolding about how I need to socialize more. Eventually I managed to slip away into my old bedroom, where Alex was sitting on my bed drinking a mickey of Smirnoff I assumed he swiped from my mother’s freezer. He offered it to me, and I accepted, the weird repetitive déjà vu like act, mirroring earlier and making the whole day feel like somewhat of a dream.

When I went over this part with Barb she always felt the need to emphasize that it wasn’t a dream. I knew this, obviously, which I told her every time, but she was inclined to disbelief when it came to my denial over my brother’s death. “Begonia, you must realize he’s gone. Dwelling is helping nobody, especially not you. This isn’t a healthy mindset for you to have. Always comparing living to your dreams. I want you to tell me you understand this isn’t just some dream you can wake up from.” The first time she said that to me I was thrust into a bout of wordlessness, as it struck a bit too close to home. The next time she brought it up I just told her of course, though even now I still cannot say I fully understand. How can I when all of my assumptions have been constantly disproven time and time again. How can I ever say this isn’t a dream when I'm not even sure I'm real? James always tries to reassure me, “Bee, I'm telling you, if you can feel this beat, the pulse in your wrist, your neck, your chest, you are alive,” he’ll say while pressing my hand to my wrist, but we both know it isn’t that simple.

Me and Alex made out for a few minutes until I managed to excuse myself. He was a bad kisser and tasted disgusting. I left him sitting on my old bed while I went downstairs to find my dad. He was sitting at the counter with a can of root beer, blank expression sat upon his face. When his eyes met mine he sighed, grabbing his keys out of his pocket. It was obvious neither of us wanted to be here, for numerous reasons, so we left. And if the radio stayed off as we drove home we didn’t acknowledge the silence that time. In my hand was the crumpled carnation, and for some reason it made my chest hurt. A deep ache of dread. I could feel my heartbeat, hear it over the drum of the car engine, and I crushed the flower further. I was careful not to rip it though, as if that was crossing some kind of invisible line my mind had set for me. My fingers felt waxy when I finally let go.

Back home, I opened the copy of Romeo and Juliet. I retrieved the deteriorating plant from my pocket and placed it in the center. Closing the book, I stacked it under a few dictionaries, a magazine under it so it was trapped on either side. I sat down in front of it and cried. Not the huge gasping sobs my mother seemed to fancy, nor the quiet weeping of my father. No, I cried the tears of a child who just found out their grandparents died, the soft uncomprehending grief that overcame them as they first learned what death really meant. How long forever was. My legs pulled up to my chest, hands loosely hung around knees, unable to clasp together because of my cast. I closed my eyes and I swear I could hear the sound of Ray sighing behind me, but when I opened my eyes I was alone. I went to bed, earlier than I ever had in my life, still believing it was a dream and I'd wake up like Alice after her adventures in Wonderland. But when I awoke, I was met with the slow, oozing perdure of my reality. The one which I could not wake up from, and the one where my brother was dead.

#my writing #writing #original writing #original content #original fiction #creative writing #dark academia #tw death #tw drugs #tw mentions of sex #tw swearing #tw mental illness #tw medication #alo writes

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dzzystrs · 4 years ago

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30 questions !

tagged by @bayheart ! just bored n thought it sounded fun ;;

Name: stars!

Gender: genderfluid / nonbinary ! i bounce between which term i feel more comfy using ;;

Star Sign: aries !! and it suits me very well

Height: 5′2″ or 5′3″ somewhere in tht general range sjdfjg its been a while since ive checked but. yknow short ! i like being short

Time: 4:47pm

Birthday: april 16th

Favorite Bands: AJJ !!!! and also glass animals and mother mother and of monsters & men ;w;

Favorite Solo Artists: uhgg . idk !

Song Stuck In My Head: undertale ost bc i’m watching ranboo’s stream :pensive:

Last Movie: blinks. hm.... i think avengers endgame? not all the way thru, mom put it on and i watched a bit of it, i need to rewatch it completely ;;

Last Show: oh lord i dont watch tv shows tht often anymore so... probably mlp:fim?

When Did I Create This Blog: oh god. sometime in 2015? [checks] yeah october of 2015 ! thats at least when i started posting ;w;

What Do I Post: on this blog, just. usually rbs of whatever the Hell I Want, but i make the occasional funny or vent post sometime lol

Last Thing I Googled: carls jr. bc . im thinking abt getting carls jr tonight despite not having had it in YEARS

Other Blogs: my art blog, sigh-fur, a secret vent blog (mostly for rbs), my blog for my tf original cont, transformers-unity,

Do I Get Asks: nnnnot usually! i am not. popular nor liked. i wouldnt mind getting more tho i like to talk :3

Why I Chose This URL: my name is stars, ive always liked dizzy stars as a concept, seemed like a Fun Username, but dizzystars is taken so. dzzystrs it is :pensive: id kill a man for dizzystars

Following: oh god not tht many, im not good at following ppl and im picky about whats on my dash. tumblr says 126 but maybe only 10 or so actively post

Followers: HUH. 466. REALLY DOESNT FEEL LIKE THT MANY. theyre probably mostly. inactive ive had this blog for a long time now

Average Hours Of Sleep: usually its been like. 10-12. bc im very depressed.

Lucky Number: 4 !!!

Instruments: none :( i wish i was smart enough to learn an instrument lol

What I’m Wearing: gray hoodie tht probably needs to be washed, uhh. fuzzy christmas/winter pajama pants. valentines day socks. im home all day so im not presentable

Dream Job: god. no job ideally. being any kind of content creator would be cool, working on a comic or cartoon especially ;;

Dream Trip: hgnghg. i have no clue. honestly just wanna go back to eureka springs, i use to go every october but i havent been in a few years i miss tht lil town

Favorite Food: i have an ed <3

Nationality: american </3

Favorite Song: anything by ajj lol

Last Book I Read: do i look like i read. thats a lie i read graystripe’s vow when it came out

Top Three Fictional Universes I’d Like To Live In: gravity falls, transformers animated, or mtmte.

uhh as for tagging folks. ig anyone who sees this and wants to do it !

#stars speaks

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feral-anarchy · 5 years ago

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Drama with TDP... Again

Quick Edit: I am NOT choosing sides. I am still open to any and all information. I am simply giving you a side of a story I believe plays some part in all of this. Do with it what you will. I am going to continue doing what I have been doing since the beginning until more information presents itself. If Aaron is bad- He will be dead to me and I will advicate for his immediate removal within the prefession as well as protection for these girls. Justice. If the girls are lying- I will continue to support Wonderstorm and keep doing what im doing now without much change.

If you come to me aggresively, I will not aknowledge you, I will block and move on. Though I will still answer questions and take in any information with an open mind and a calm tone. Secondary Edit: I realised some of my times were off and a helpful anon was able to present me with a more accurate timeline. Ive copy and pasted their message to me so that you can have the accurate times. Please be aware of this before reading the post below. I will not edit my original post as I wish to keep the original content intact to avoid possible confusion. “The story with the aaravos blog can't have happened last year in april. That would make it april 2018 and the dragon prince wasn't even released before october 2018. All of this happened this year. Dani left in June. Lulu left like a couple of months later. August or september? But anyways it's not true that they left wonderstorm a year ago. It's been merely a few months and Lulu's departure is super recent.“ Final Edit: After searching on Twitter, I have come across this image. Aaron has spoken about this when it originally came out and had this to say of it. (This is a private message to someone who then went on to make it public.)

~~~~~~~~~~~ Original Post Below ~~~~~~~~~~~ I really do not want to give any more effort into this but I feel that I must post. Im unsure of how many this will reach but I believe you need to know something before you continue to blindly choose sides.

Listen, at the end of the day you will choose your ‘side’ though I wish there was no need for sides.

This drama that is appearing all over twitter is OLD NEWS. Danika and Lulu DO NOT and HAVE NOT worked at Wonderstorm since this all went down a year ago.

Here is my take on all of this:

A year ago, I believe it was April? There was a very popular blog called Ask-Aaravos-Anything. This blog was liked and followed by a lot of the fanbase. Well, out of the blue there were accusations of AAA child luring, having NSFW material littering their blog and not taking into consideration the younger fans.

Now, anyone who actually interacted with this blog knew all of that to be absolute lies. AAA was always very traight forward, took everything into consideration, repeatedly reminded us to be mindful of how we tag things and never had actual nsfw materials on their blog.

At the time Danika was managing the tumblr tdp blog. Danika DMed AAA and was vile and aggressive in her messages, enough so that AAA deactivated shortly after. You can still find some of the screenshots of the actual DMs as well as some DMs of AAA conversing with others about what happened and how they had felt about it and why they were deactivating. Soon after AAA’s deactivation, we got news that Danika had been scolded for her actions (As the entire fanbase who knew what was going on got up in arms about it) and she suddenly, convenietly had ‘another better job oppertunity’ And shortly after that we began to hear of general workplace harassment and gaslighting and sexual harassment from Danika.

As you know, that brought everyone up in arms once again and there was discourse. Then her friend, Lulu popped up as well with the same talk of harassment and having to deal with a negative work enviroment. Being in this industry for one is absolutely grueling, its not for everyone. It can be as bad as being in the film industry with actual actors.

Eventually things simmered down and life moved on.

Both Danika and Lulu have had an ENTIRE YEAR to talk about this, to continue pushing the issue, to continue speaking of these issues- they were fine speaking of it last year. Yet they remained quiet for all this time.

Now, when season 3 is about to drop, when Netflix likes to cancel shows, at this critical moment- they suddenly both pop up again? Neither of them work there anymore, this shouldnt be an issue for them anymore. Especially when they had ALL THIS TIME to talk of it. Yet they didnt.

And in regards to Danika stating they already had season 3 ready long, long ago- I have been in this industry briefly and I know people who are still in it, thats not how these things work. I doubt they were done months and months ago and were just sitting around doing nothing. Animation takes time- I wont get into it but its a lot.

Now listen.. As hard as it might be to swallow, we DO NOT know all the facts, only what we have been told by Danika and Lulu. And with Aaron refusing to make any statements or even acknowleding theres anything going on its hard to gather any real information- and we wont. We will not get anymore information, we will not get any more facts.

Unless authorities are involved or someone brings in a hidden camera into the studio, we will never know what the actual truth is. If it comes out that the girls are right then I’ll eat a spreader bar.

But I am going to continue supporting TDP and those who are part of this creation. (I dont care about Aaron, I care about the animators, voice actors, sketch artists, ect) I am going to continue posting content, continue writing fanfic, continue interacting with TDP related blogs.

Because I find it VERY suspicious this crap pops back up right now when its been so silent for an entire year.

If you couldn’t tell already, I already am wary of these girls because of what they did to AAA and the community at the time.

I refuse to be a mindless follower, I will not take sides until there are actual FACTS presented. I know this all sounds harsh, but I am wary of trusting anything spoken without proof. I have proof- just look it up, the old screenshots are still floating around. Im a assault survivor too- I am in full support if this all comes out to be true- and Ill eat that spreader bar.

I just thought I would put in my two cents and let you all know what originally went on, and why i am suspicious of this all flaring up again after being silent for so long. I will not be speaking of this again, nor will I be posting another big post such as this. However I will answer any questions you may have on this topic. Im not bashing on the girls, I am simply wary of believeing anything they say after what they did to AAA.

#tdp #the dragon prince #give us the saga #i choose no sides #I want facts #wary of everything #danika and lulu #wonderstorm #ask-aaravos-anything #what originally happened

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ill-be-okay-in-the-morning · 6 years ago

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A vent about past abuse

I dealt with mental, emotional, and psychological abuse when I was living with my parents, specifically my mom and step dad. It started when I was very young, I was in fourth grade with severe, undiagnosed ADHD, originally thought to be Asburgers. I was put into the GT/Gifted and Talented program(for all those who don't know, the definition for it in my state is ""Gifted and talented children" mean those students who are identified as possessing demonstrated or potential abilities that give evidence of high performing capabilities in intellectual, creative, specific academic or leadership areas, or ability in the performing or visual arts and who require services or activities not ordinarily provided by the school in order to fully develop such capabilities") but due to my undiagnosed ADHD I began to struggle.

My mom tried to help, but got more and more frustrated with me, and one day, we had a parent teacher conference, and the whole time, while I was listening to it, I was looking down and playing with my hands as I had difficulty focusing and doing other things helped me. When we got outside my mother began to yell at me, she put me on the spot and asked me to sumise the meeting, and because I was so suddenly put on the spot, I froze and I couldnt figure out how to put into words what had been talked about. I told my mom that I didnt know how to summerize it and she became furious with me, blowing up and saying that I didnt even care and that she was so mad that she even thought about apologizing to me and even webt so far as to tell me that I wouldn't be getting the surprise gift of a few school supplies that she had gotten for me to try and help me with school. I was stunned, so stunned that I stoped dead in my tracks and watched as my mom continued to walk to the car, still yelling at me.

A small while later I was transfered out of the GT program and put back into my old school, which caused severe bullying, and while I was in that school I was tested to see if I had Asburgers, as my mother, my teachers, and my doctor all suspected I had. It turned out I had severe ADHD, Anxiety, and Depression, as well as higher intellect, which I hate to say because it sounds obnoxious and pretentious but it was part of what came from my testing that day so I feel I need to include it. My mother then put much higher expectations on me, focusing on the higher intelegence rather than the new found, severe developmental disability that had been diagnosed, considering it as more of a slight inconvenience.

As time went on it became harder and harder for me, as I didnt know how to learn normally, especially since, due to my ADHD, I would frequently forget things, didnt retain things correctly, and I didnt know how to keep track of time dude to to the fact that I can not percieve the passing of time, and each time I was told that I was being lazy and that I didnt care and that I should be able to do it because I was "so smart" and it hurt. It really hurt.

I was trying my hardest, I was doing my best, and I genuinely didnt understand the content, nor did I know how to retain it. My mom and stepdad got more and more frustrated, and began making their punishments more and more severe. It went from me not being able to watch tv, to me being told that I couldnt go outside, to not being able to leave my room, to them taking things away from me that they bought, to talking away things I myself bought, to outright telling me that they would take away my door, would search my phone unprompted sometimes in public and infront of family, and all the time I was being screamed at almost daily. I was trying my best and I just wanted to please them. All the while, under our noses, I had another undiagnosed mental ailment due to my bullying, and their abuse toiling in my mind.

When I was in high school, I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Caused by bullys that taunted me, and physically abused me daily while in my fourth grade year, as well as my parents starting to pull away and abandon me emotionally. My parents where told about my diagnoses. They where told they took a part, and that they where a severe trigger. They should have known due to the fact that when they went on their tirades to me, I would panic.

I would freeze up, my throat would close, I would shake and cry and be completely unable to talk, and they KNEW THIS. I knew that they knew this, because they would mock me for it, using phrases like "of course, now we wont get anything else out of him, I dont know why we even waist our time with him" IN FRONT OF ME before sending me to my room.

The worst part? They did this even after my diagnoses, and after being informed. Before, I would have understood, maybe they didnt realize, and maybe they thought it was the only way I would listen, even though it didnt work before. But now, knowing my diagnoses, knowing it didnt work, knowing what they did to me with the yelling and with the mocking, they still did it. That is why I consider it to be abuse.

They did this even after I turned 18. They told me that they would force me to quit my job if I didnt follow their requirements for my schooling, and then threatened to sell the car that myself and my grandparents bought, and they could have, because it was bought while a minor, so it was in their name. I was becide myself, and I felt so traped and overwhelmed that, one night, I packed up my essentials, called an uber, and left, in the middle of the night.

I went to a friend's house, and stayed with them. I was terrifyed of them, I panicked when I saw a car like theirs, I shook when I thought of them, I had nightmares of them coming and taking me back to their house, forcing me to live with them again, but, they never did.

I was free. In the next months I began talking ti them again, though it was rough. My stepdad, for a while, didnt even talk to me when I visited, because of "what I did to them" by leaving. But now, I'm healing, I'm getting better, and my relationship with them it better. Though, I dont think I will ever truly forgive them.

Because of what they did to me, I have lasting mental effects. I dont trust people to touch my belongings, especially my phone. I hardly leave my room, unless absolutely necessary. I panic when I hear yelling, even if it isnt directed at me. I hate being called smart, and the word its self makes me feel sick to my stomach. I have a hard time sharing my accomplishments with people, and when I do accomplish something, I feel like its never good enough.

I faced years of abuse, and ive had people tell me, to my face, that it wasnt abuse, that, because they bought me things, that they didnt hit me, that they always provided me with necessities, that I wasn't abused, and that I'm over dramatic, and that my parents raised me perfectly, and that I should be thankful.

The truth of the matter is that I was abused. They didnt know how to deal with a child with a disability, so they took it out on me, and made me feel like I was never enough. They broke my spirit, and they made me hate myself. Though I may have let it go and have began my journey through healing without them, I will always have the scars of what they did to me, and though I love them despite what I went though, I still know that I was abused. I know I was put through 18 years hell because of them.

Despite that, I know I will be okay in the end.

#tw abuse #abuse story #emotional abuse #mental abuse #psycological abuse #tw mental health diagnoses #tw depression #tw ptsd #tw anxiety

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screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse · 6 years ago

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so i have a question, and it might be somewhat of a loaded one, and i don't mean to be negative or anything, but since you managed to become a pretty big blog i would like to hear your take on it if you feel comfortable answering. i am a content creator, have been for a long while, and i know no one deserves likes or anything if their work isnt good enough, and one should do what they do because they love it and not because of other people, and i do, but it is extremely discouraging to put (1)

hard work into something you are passionate about to come back to a blog with 0 followers and have no notes on your posts that no one ever gets to see even if you tag it right. especially since what i do is what i eventually wanted to be doing as a living, it's somewhat hard to come to terms with that you simply aren't good enough even after years of practice and creating your content, since no one seems to want your work and creating for yourself alone is still nice, but simply not the same (2)

(3) if you dont get to share it. so i would like to hear opinion, as someone who made it: at what point would you personally say it stops being worth it? i sincerely hope this doesn't make you uncomfortable, i know it might not be an easy thing to answer and like i said, i didn't mean to dump any unnecesarry negativity onto you, so i am sincerely sorry if i did.

First off: I 100% get where you’re coming from, and while this is a subject that I think all content creators and artists struggle with — both in answering to themselves and others — I guess we all feel a bit uncomfortable discussing it, but I think we should! So this is certainly a heavier topic than I expected to be talking about this fine Tuesday night, but here we are. Warning: this is gonna get long, because tomorrow’s a federal holiday and my bedtime is literally never.

Art’s supposed to be this grand purpose onto itself: artists get bullied for asking proper prices for commissions, brands want to pay content creators in ‘exposure,’ and art constantly gets reposted because, eh, anyone could’ve cobbled that together.

But here’s the ungarnished truth: art is wonderful and makes its creators, at best, happy and warm and fuzzy around the heart, but creating alone neither pays the rent nor makes the algorithms love us. And that’s the thing right there — social media algos are not kind to creators. Any recommendation engine deals in what is a) fresh or b) already successful; sometimes both if a post circulates fast. If you’ve been featured once, you’re more likely to get featured again. Also: original art may get passed over for fanart a lot. Kinda depends what genre you’re in and whether you’re fandom-adjacent.

To answer your question as to when it stops being worth it: the idealistic answer is, NEVER, because the moment will come. It won’t come looking for you, though. You gotta keep looking for it, and I know that that’s some fresh hot bullshit to hear when you’re having a bad day. So, I’m sorry, but that’s my answer: don’t give up. Instead, keep coming at the problem from different angles, and in different ways. (More under the cut because LONK.)

While I wouldn’t say I’m a super big blog in Dishonored terms, I do have one example of ‘making it.’ I was in the right place at the right time when the Skyfall fandom stamped itself out of the ground. That’s where like 60% of my mutuals come from — from six years ago; and I’m convinced a few of these dinguses just forgot how the unfollow button works lol. Anyway: the fandom was large, it was young, and it was hungry for content. Also — mostly teenagers, so LOTS of time and energy. My works were among the first ten in the archive on AO3, so it snowballed from there.

My somewhat longwinded point is: I got lucky in gaining that first chunk of attention. But I also worked at it — I responded to any comments I got, I interacted with everyone who came to my blog, and with other people in the tag.

I started posting my Dishonored fics on AO3 in March ‘17, but it took a few months before a significant amount of conversation started happening (beyond the AO3 comment section), and it took nearly a year before I started regularly getting messages, and really started talking to people on discord, for instance. That’s because I’d entered an established fandom, so the ‘rules,’ as it were, were different. In marketing, we’d say the competition was higher.

Of course we’re not supposed to think of other artists as competition — and I don’t, but perhaps that’s because I can afford not to.

Here are a few dumb realities of posting art/content on tumblr:

sometimes you work on something for months and it gets three notes

and then you do a dumb shitpost (my vid of that dude in doto vaping his sword, anyone?) and it gets aalll the attention (just barely any new followers)

unless you go and talk to people, they’re not going to be aware of you as a creator unless you pump out super polished material every gd day

art reblogs more easily than writing, but reblogs don’t get you followers until you post consistently — and even then the like to reblog ratio is a bit of an insult

it's somewhat hard to come to terms with that you simply aren't good enough even after years of practice and creating your content, since no one seems to want your work

If I may — I know that the old tumblr saying “notes don’t define the value of your work” is often used to tell creators to stop complaining when a work doesn’t get as many notes as they’d hoped. And look — I’ve been working on a six-part fic series for 18 months now. I’m on Part 5, and it’s been a game of diminishing returns. Hits have gone down proportionately, there’s more comments now than kudos. So I know exactly that there’s a relatively small group of people who’re still sticking with me on this, and a lot more people who noped out at some point. Not always because they stopped enjoying it; usually it’s simply a question of time and the series getting seriously fucking long. It’s a monster, and I’m well aware. I don’t begrudge anyone who stopped reading along at some point. But it does smart because in the end all of us have a bit of an ego, and that’s where the badger’s buried.

The badger being that you mention twice that you believe not getting the attention you’d hoped for means that your work isn’t good enough — I know that feel. BUT: I don’t believe that. I don’t know what kind of content you’re creating, but I personally know excellent artists and writers whose work deserves to be seen and admired, who do not get the visibility they hope for — consistently. (Until they make a shitpost, which then suddenly blows up, and they’re like, WTF where were you all ten hours ago??)

It’s just that people don’t check the tags (anymore) and simply rely on their feed and the reco algorithm to bring them shit they’ll like.

What I’m trying to — very clumsily — say is: please don’t stop creating. Keep talking to people (you’re welcome to chat to me off anon — and if we already know each other, then, well, don’t I feel like an asshole) to get more followers and to make people aware of you as a creator. Until then, always be practising, and keep working on your skills.

Also: I think what should be a thing is that bigger blogs should reblog smaller blogs more, and I’m including myself in this. I don’t have a ton of time, so I mostly reblog stuff from people I know, if I happen to see it at the time or if it’s shared with me. But like, promos used to be a thing, maybe we should make those a thing again?? So it’s less down to fucking luck and more to people actually sharing common interests.

I hope that this helps, anon, in some way. As I said, I don’t know what kind of content you create and how you interact with other blogs, so I’ve tried to make this as broad as I could without going on for hours. These are just my fandom experiences and feelings as a creator, and it’s going to be different for everyone who makes things and shares those things online. I sincerely hope that you’ll catch that break that you’ve been waiting for, and if you ever need a place to vent, my inbox (and my discord) is always open. I’ve got your back.

#fandom things #creating things and putting them on tumblr #long post #anon #ask #reply

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sweetlifetownsville · 6 years ago

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Doing A Little With A Lot: Move Over Jesus, Your Loaves And Fishes Stunt Ain't In It Against The Townsville Bulletin.

The good old Astonisher showed its going to be more of the same in 2019, sleight of hand, selective reporting and all manner of insulting idiocy same old, same including a spectacular miss this weekend not a word about one of Townsville most long standing favourite eateries bites the dust Michels On Palmer Street is no more. Bancroft boo-boo Channel 7 embraces fake news: so lacking in a sense of the ridiculous, theyre about to disappear up their own ummm kazoo. And the President turns on the pester-power: Trump throws the biggest and longest tanty in living memory ruining the holiday season for thousands of his own people. But first For those many people who have been inquiring about Mark Donnellys funeral in Cairns, it will be at 2pm Wednesday Jan 9th, at St Francis Church, Mayer Street, Cairns. Vale, mate Moving On Its climate change on Bentleys mind. Our toonist is originally a Croweater from Adelaide, and he was amazed to see the jam packed crowds on Adelaide beaches in a TV report about the ghastly weather theyre having over there. The Pie also recalls that during his time in the City of Churches, beach-going was an occasional thing and attracted only sparse crowds to the sandy shores. But Bentley believes climate change is rapidly altering time honoured Aussie pastimes, and soon, getting an all-over tan will be a thing of the past.

Speaking of Things Of The Past

This now sadly includes the much loved Michels restaurant in Palmer Street, which served its last mean on December 22nd. This is how the unexpected news was broken on FB.

It will be sorely missed by many, including The Pie, who just hung out for the lunch-time beef and burgundy pie. Ironic that the one time our local paper had the opportunity to use the word iconic almost correctly, it has completely missed this information which would be of far more interest than the iconic Sizzlers leaving town. (More on that shortly). Well That Didnt Take Long Did It? The Townsville Bulletin set the tone for the year on the very first day of 2019, Tuesday January 1, with a rib-tickling own goal with this front page.

Wow, all those people turning up for a pic, where did they all come from? Well, at least half of them from nowhere. Heres how this little piece of patronizing chicanery went down. First, a couple of weeks ago, this appeared on the Astonishers FB page.

Boy, be on the front page! And didnt that get them flocking in for their 15 minutes of fame not. Just 41 people made themselves available, including the Cowboys mascot and as many of the Bulletins staff who could be spared to avoid the embarrassment of attracting almost bugger interest.

Then the front page appeared, a cheesy tedious old trope of people spelling out the year. Many people more than 41, it would seem. But hang on, lets have a closer look.

Whats all this? This is what all this is.

fair to say that all those excited people were beside themselves behind themselves, and then in front of themselves. Now a while back, the flagship of News Corpse tabloids, Sydneys Daily Telegraph got a clip arround its corporate ears for photo-shopping pics of politicians in unflattering historical situations. As if we needed to be told that Kevin Rudd was a nazi! Pretending to be chastised, management decreed that in future, just so no one was misled, all photoshopped images in all News publications would carry the legend digitally altered.Someone at the Astonisher overlooked this, clearly wishing the few readers it has left would believe it was so widely popular that it had attracted a throng of NY well-wishers. but it seems someone suddenly realised that some arsesole like The Magpie maybe would tumble to the lie, so thinking they could squirm out of it, they really blew their foot off by belatedly posting this on their FB page. The Pie has asked before, and now asks again are they all bloody drunk down there? BTW, the relevant FB page is said to have attracted 4500 views which at a guess that would be comprised of 4458 editorial and advertising staff and their family and friends frantically revisiting the FB as often as they could. At least that was the drill when The Pie was taking Ruperts shilling. But Wait, Theres More The firsts for the year kept coming thick and fast. This story had people wondering if the paper had a cut-price Tardis operating

and that resulted in the first correction of the year.

Although it is quite possible that Messagebank Walker, send out last years media release, and true to form, the reporter just wrote it up with a thought of what it was actually saying. f they would know the difference. Another media release that went into the paper untouched and of course unquestioned could have been headlined Mission Impossible.

Hahahahaah gasp snurffle dont you just love the combination of casual impertinence and immeasurable benchmark of making Townsville Australias first mentally healthy city. This is pure Labor crackpottery at its best, and a great excuse to wring out a few more public dollars for pointless jobs for the boys and girls. Mentally healthy City steering committee? National leader in this field? Pray tell, just how is this going to be measured oh, wait, I know soon it will be announced that we have achieved the title of Australias mentally healthiest city, but we cant be told why or any details because of both privacy and Commercial in Confidence reasons. What an out and out rort. The Townsville City Council has no business stumping up a single cent for this totally obscure nonsense. And youve just gotta love that this call for a mentally healthy city is coming from one of the greatest rates-gouging, anxiety-creating, booze-binge inducing ineptocracies of posturing inadequates one couldnt create as fiction.

And all publicised in a paper that has long abrogated its traditional responsibilities in the interests bargain-basement kiddy journalism and a quick advertising quid (and hows that working for you, eh?) Yet Another Jarring Juxtaposition And it would appear that either no one checks advertising content against news content to avoid this sort of blundering idiocy.

But never mind, iditor Jenna Cairney knows how to thunder away about the really important issues affecting us during the week, it was oh, dear it was people who oh, The Pie cannot bear to utter the words, read it for yourself.

Now normally, itd be kind to let this slide, but its hard to ignore when the iditorial completely contradicts its own ramblings by actually quoting one of the few believable people who work for the paper, fisherman Eddie Riddle, who said sometimes, believe it nor not, people just catch no crabs. Crab pot theft happens less than people would have you believe.Clearly those people who would have you believe that it is rife include the iditor and the beat-up reporter of the original story. Then There Is This From comments during the week. The Magpie From the alleged files: THE TOWNSVILLE BULLETIN ALLEGEDLY ACCUSES THE POLICE OF PLANTING EVIDENCE.

So they allegedly found a shotgun, unequivocally meaning there is some doubt in terms of English, the paper means the cops could be lying and they didnt find a shotgun or else, leaving open the possibility that they planted it there and didnt find it. FFS they either did or did not find a shotgun, and if it comes down to who to believe the Bulletin or the police its no contest. The coppers should complain. And anyway, saying they found the weapon is not legally dangerous and so attract an allegedly , since no names or details of the arrested man are published. During the coming year, The Pie will be running an alleged file from the Astonisher, along with an iconic file the paper has already made a sterling start on that one. This from comments on Friday. The Magpie January 4, 2019 at 11:24 am(Edit) Had a bit of an amused warble and added this to The Pies iconic list.

Iconic is something that is immediately recognisable, usually unique, and with which one readily associates with a name, place or occupation. The Eiffel Tower is iconic, as is the Statue of Liberty, Big Ben, the Kabba in Mecca, the Golden gate Bridge, and closer to home, the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Now alas with this local departure, down south, all the front bar chat and dinner party braying will be along the lines of Townsville? Wasnt that the Sizzler place until a while back? Oh, the shame. Keeping an eye on legendary, too. A Bigger Laugh From The Big Bash Crickets bumbling sandpaper cheat Cameron Bancroft returned to the crease this week in the Big Bash league, and the commentators were so busy tip-toeing around that elephant in the room, they managed to miss a wonderful howler made by their producer.

The commentators, all ex-sporting boofs, so not much could be expected of them, unquestioningly rabbited on about Bancrofts personal attainments, especially that last one. Returned to Tame Impala as their kazoo player? They didn;t dare question the truth of the matter, but they did have a rare old yukity-yuk about it. The producer had unwittingly copied and pasted this bit of nonsense lifted from a story that was doing the rounds, and had originated guess where? The Betoota Advocate, Australias funniest satirical paper. And for the record, Bancroft has never been in the band Tame Impaler, which has never featured a kazoo player anyway. The Pie is wondering, given Bancrofts infamous South African venture, if Bunnings might not offer sponsorship. And Now Off To The Week In Trumpistan and its wall-eyed child President.

. Thats it forn this week, and the silly season is coming to a close (not that you could tell at any time from our august organ of Flinders Street West), and some very interesting snippets have been dropping into the Nest for future examination. Wer will start on them next wee, but comments are running around the clock, so have your say. And any support by way of donation for the efforts over the coming year will as always be greatly appreciated. He how to donate button is below. http://www.townsvillemagpie.com.au/doing-a-little-with-a-lot-move-over-jesus-your-loaves-and-fishes-stunt-aint-in-it-against-the-townsville-bulletin/

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watcr · 5 years ago

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Rules 🟡 About 🟡 Bio & Misc

DISCLAIMER: This is not intended by any means to be an entirely serious rp blog. This is originally based based in Grand Theft Auto 5. And was created in a custom Grand Theft Auto Online server by Markiplier and thusly portrayed by him whilst he played. If anything this is a Crack!Role Play blog that looks well put together Face claim and all but I'm really just here for rediculous interactions and wild hijinks with a clueless dad delivery man. That being said: any backstory and the creation/ videos/ acting itself belongs to Markiplier. I'm simply just writing a character that I enjoy and makes me laugh.

Please Note: This blog will still contain highly suggestive content and situations with a comedic take on them. This includes being robbed, murder, drug use, hostage situations and then some. I mean-- Stan was made in Grand Theft Auto.

RULES/ General Info:

This is a side blog to my main: mxrkedfordeath

Para/ Novella writing length

Primarily dash/mobile profile

18+ no ifs ands or special cases

Again: this is a Satirical/Crack/Meme role play blog. Expect rediculous things to be said and done

NSFW present/ Friendly

Non-Selective; as mentioned above I created this blog for fun. If any of this meme I have created interests you please feel free to send me a DM or ask and let's see what wild hijinks we can get Stan into huh?

Although the voice is provided by an internet personality that is where this ends. I am still uncomfortable with interacting with blogs that portray real life people or influencers/ internet celebrities. I'm not going to have Stan rob someone with a celebrity that is real. It's...its uncomfortable.

Considering my reason I made this blog and the nature of it, random starters or asks are welcome! If it's a weird situation, place or even different universe I will make That Water Boi lore friendly.

That being said however: please do not include oneself in a thread that you are not involved in.

Absolutely no personal blogs

OC friendly

Crossover/AU friendly

No Godmodding

No hate/ harrassment

Multimuse and Sideblog friendly

Unless featured or seen in the Stan The Water Man videos by Markiplier there will be no preestablished anything. Unless it is Kiki, or Jimmy Stan does not know you and this naive man child will greet you very horribly as he always does.

Shipping: I do allow it but dont think its going to be very serious either. When he sees you ladies? Its literally hitting the jackpot if you get more than a few words that are even close to coherent. So yes. If you wanna simp or thirst over stan that's cool just know that his skull is thicker than a military bunker wall.

•Memes, asks, and shitposting alike is pretty much this whole blog. Stan is a sweetie but hes not close to being the uh... brightest bulb in the box.

About:

Stan or Stanley Wheeler is a 39 year old delivery man and a family man. He strives to please those around him with wonderful water and his company.

Still a delivery man with his new life after a difficult divorce and loss of custody of his "Sweet baby boy Roy" he focuses on bettering his life as a means to be reunited with his son.

He is always well hydrated and firmly believes in comfort and efficiency instead of style.

(About if you stumbled into this shit show):

This is a role play blog for an original character created by Markiplier in a custom Role Playing server for Grand Theft Auto V. It's quite literally a chaotic whirlwind where the main protagonist is a 39 year old divorcee whose love for water is concerning... but not so much as the mans gullible nature and far to generous personality.

This is really only a summation because there are literal HOURS of videos of Markiplier playing Grand Theft Auto and being the voice of Stan Wheeler during his adventures in Los Santos. It features amazing improv and the ever expected rediculous chaos that ensues in Grand Theft Auto.

Bio:

Name: Stanley Wheeler

Gender/Gender Identity: Male

Age: 39

Face Claim: Chris Evans

Voice Claim: Marikplier/ Mark Fischbach

Romantic/ Sexual Preferences: Questioning/ Unsure

Nick names: Fanny pack, Water boy, Sunflower

Personality: Generous, Optimistic, Friendly, Oblivious, Awkward, Curious, Helpful, Trusting

Occupation: Courier, Delivery Man/Boy, Water Delivery Man

Favorite Color(s): Blue & Yellow

Likes: Water, Fanny Packs, Sunflowers, Biking, Work, His Son

Dislikes: Coffee & Soda, Lying, Fighting, Talking to women (watch the episodes to know)

Hobbies: Biking, Boating, Spending time with his son, Meeting new people

Quirks/ Other Traits: Has a strong....Love for water, Suffers from a yet to be diagnosed but constant seizing of bodily muscles that occasionally cause harm, A REAL Virgin 'Dad', Amazing at lockpicking, Terrible Driver

Final Note/ Disclaimer: Again, although this blog is for fun from a truly chaotic and hilarious improvised playthrough of a unique online role playing server for Grand Theft Auto V, please REMEMBER what game Markiplier created and voiced Stan in. Just because Stan is clueless doesnt mean the subject matter is. A lot of dark humor and shady if not bad situations arise in Mark's videos and I really do want people to know that although this is all in good fun the dark unfiltered comedy of Grand Theft Auto is still going to be followed in this portrayal. That means Stanely would very well (and has) ended up robbing people, kidnapping, Killing people or being an accomplice, Jokes based upon sexuality, Gender and then some. Of course before writing I will ALWAYS discuss subject matter that you would like to avoid but unless stated the aforementioned or to those whom have watched the adventures of Stanley know just how inappropriate and harsh/blunt/in your face comedy that is present.

Not only one final disclaimer as to how nsfw Stanley's life and choices end up being-- but giving credit is where it is due; Markiplier. He literally Created Stanley Wheeler and his uh... well him. And brought Stan to life via voice and gameplay. Stan never is and never was mine he's just a character.

Mun absolutely DOES NOT ≠ Muse

Stanley Wheeler-- is an idiot that makes horrible decisions and let's horrible things happen around him. I do not reflect any of the jokes or encounters featured in the gameplay series. I just so happen to enjoy comedy (albeit quite a bit can be not PC) and a good story. Literally this blog came out of a joke my best friend made at 4 am after binging Stan The Water man saying I should make a role play blog for Stanley Wheeler. And so? I did.

Important Note: Activity and response time

Updated: 04/10/2020

I made this blog for myself for fun and the same goes for the people I meet/ interact with. It will be sporadic at best. If I feel like it expect meme or shitpost worthy spamming of the Water Delivery Dad we got but never deserved.

Neither my main nor is Stan a job. Quite bluntly most times when I go inactive I'm literally just doing something else. Anything else.

That ties in to the fact that although I am non selective I am still allowed to say no. And expect reciprocated respect if I say no for ANY reason. I dont owe anyone anything and just like everyone else here this is for fun and enjoyment purposes. This is not our job, and we have nothing forcing us to do this.

But - I am fine with a poke at me and my noggin' every once in a while. I do a lot of things and I cant even remember where I put my vape or phone after 5 minutes. That means I forget. And I do. A LOT. And I can admit that.

MUN & MUSE RULE ZERO: Absolutely no Drama, Vaguing, Callouts, Harassment, Hate or insults/ criticizing on how you THINK the muse I write SHOULD BE.

I'm chill. And I legit hate social confrontation to the point I cry in front of people face to face if it is too much, too hurtful, too angering.

I don't care if someone said something shady our of character that one time or that you think an individual deserves to be directly blasted in front of numerous people.

I dont care if you think that just because I wrote a characters sexual or gender identity outside of what you like.

I dont care how many times you ask or dm me to respond or plot when I had already respectfully declined.

Of course hate and harassment is something I do care for-- because its quite literally just pure toxicity. If you do this you will be ignored and blocked or even reported depending upon when transpired.

All I ask is to be treated kindly in return as I treat everyone until I am given reason not to. That's it. Literally. I am 22 years old and have no patience for any of the aforementioned.

Quite frankly to me it's childish and quite often comedic or petty in my eyes to even have callouts and vauging exist.

I am only addressing this because of the years and various muses canon and original alike I have been harassed for interactions, sent honestly some pretty vile anons, and plenty of messages telling me "X is actually supposed to be gay." Or "no actually they dont like X", I've been called out for literally some of the most childish reasons and my being honest and blunt upset people-- or the word 'No' was not existent in their vocabulary.

And finally-- if for any reason in the RPC someone I am Mutuals/ Mains/ Friends with or just an acquaintance I like talking lore with is involved in any drama I do not want to hear it nor do I care if it does not directly involve me. In fact even then I dont want to unless said person comes to me privately and talks like an adult should rather than throwing a tantrum behind your laptop because someone said an awful word, or beliefs were disliked-- literally any reason or post of a callout. I'm not here for it.

If there is EVER a problem dont be afraid to message me PRIVATELY and talk it out like two mature adults. If I did something to upset you? Let me know I want this blog ESPECIALLY to be for the sake of laughs. Has it been a good month since my last reply? Just send me a lil' hey or just check in. Have I not replied? Its probably just me as the Mun having an awful attention span for anything that isn't hands on.

The Mun:

Look I know the novel above for one singular subject is actually very unfortunately neccessary for me.

My career and as a person have me not only practically programmed but I am openly blunt/ "real" with people.

I am not going to say something you want to hear. You might not like my saying no to a thread but my goal is to be honest and respectful to everyone.

And not only that I'm tired of not covering my ass and trying to pretend this doesn't happen to me behind the scenes or on blast for all to see.

If I plan on sending a private message apologizing for an upsetting subject I wrote of or simply discussing conflicts/ issues privately I hope to god that you who are reading this has the same common courtesy.

Regardless if my blunt sometimes told "Too much" honesty is why I disclose my absolute refusal to negative interactions I really am chill - and occasionally way too excitable or talkative.

I really do love meeting plenty of new people and writers alike in the role playing community as a whole and very much enjoy trying new plots/ ideas out unless it is unreasonable to the plot.

If you wanna just be meme traders for a fellow beloved Fandom or RPC? Ok. I'll try to find some just as good to make the meme trade a fair one.

You wanna make a thread all about how gullible a muse is? Sure!

Maybe even send a thirsty or shitpost worthy ask? 100%

Or do you just have a question about the Muse/Mun/ Or Writing? Go ahead!

I love and live for the angst and self authored stories to Headcanons or missed plot points on muses. The ways so many different types of relationships between characters form and change. But I would also smash the yes button if someone asked me how I felt if someone swung into the ask Simping on lovely Water Boy? Go for it because again; fun. Let's cackle over his style choices or his horribly abused kindess/ trust.

I'm a human guys let's not worry about anything else but the fact we're all here for the same thing: and that's fun and enjoyment as well as having an ability to flex our creative side. It doesnt matter how fantastic or bad (This mun right here) is at edits manips or coding for the theme. We all learn and grow and I just wanna have a good time and I'm sure every normal person that's not a psychopath wants to have a happy healthy safe and fun environment for roleplay/writing.

Thank you for reading this if you did. Any questions? Want Stan to be your water bottle toting and Fanny Pack Efficiency having man get stuck in a plot with your muse? Feel free to hmu send in an ask or meme etc.

I dont bite unless someone bites me with their attitude. I look forward to meeting/interacting/and memeing with everyone.

#about #rules #bio #et al

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gethealthy18-blog · 6 years ago

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Unearthing Menstrual Wisdom – Why We Don’t Go To The Temple, And Other Practices

New Post has been published on http://healingawerness.com/getting-healthy/getting-healthy-women/unearthing-menstrual-wisdom-why-we-dont-go-to-the-temple-and-other-practices/

Unearthing Menstrual Wisdom – Why We Don’t Go To The Temple, And Other Practices

Shivani K February 14, 2019

Menstrual hygiene is of utmost importance for women. And why wouldn’t it be? Keeping one’s nether regions healthy and clean keeps a lot of diseases at bay. In fact, to spread the importance of menstrual hygiene among women, May 28th has been declared as “World Menstrual Hygiene Day.”

However, that’s not what I am trying to talk about here. I’m here to talk about the menstrual wisdom of our country, India. I’ve often seen Women NGOs, women welfare organizations organize campaigns about how menstrual wisdom needs to be practiced. I can see protests and educational camps being held by the women, for the women, in order to dismiss all those superstitious beliefs that we womenfolk are used to believing in while practicing menstrual wisdom. Many say that the age-old practices of menstrual wisdom have been conceptualized with the idea of suppressing women. But I disagree.

Most of us try to scientifically prove or disprove the menstrual practices or customs that Indians, especially the ones living in rural area, follow. I tried to do some research on my own about such practices. I didn’t try to find out the science behind such practices but rather focused on understanding the spirit behind it. However, this search did lead me to science, but a different form of science.

Explaining The Core Of Menstrual Practices

Shutterstock

We’ve known about the practice of prohibiting women from entering temples and other holy places while on their periodic cycle, don’t we? We think that every culture has its share of menstrual taboos that they follow. However, if we closely observe, all these practices point to one single source of origin, the science of ancient India which includes — Ayurveda, Meditation, Yoga, Astrology, and Mantra. If you read ancient Vedic books, you’ll understand that the Vedic seers believed that everything that moves around us constitutes “energy.” Similarly, the science of Ayurveda is based on the principles of doshas (bio-energies) which are Vata (elements of air), Pitta (elements of fire), and Kapha (elements of water).

It is these bio-energies that help the human body perform its physiological functions. And Ayurveda considers menstruation as a boon for women since it is a natural way of their body to cleanse itself of their doshas on a monthly basis, which in turn, helps them achieve longevity in life. During menstruation, a woman’s energy is flowing downwards. And any disruption that occurs during this downward energy flow becomes a hindrance. And this is the theory that forms the foundation of most of the menstrual practices followed in India.

Women Not Being Allowed To Enter Temples Or Attend Religious Functions

Women are often asked to not attend religious celebrations or enter temples while on their periods. The assumed reason behind it is that people consider menstruating women to be impure. What’s the actual spirit behind it? Let me explain. In the words of few gurus whose preachings I came across on the Internet, the energy that a woman experiences during menstruation is going downwards, while the energy that we accrue from a pooja or any holy ritual is goes upwards.

Also, certain priests say that there is nothing impure about a menstruating woman. In fact, in India, the numbers of goddesses worshipped outnumber the number of gods worshipped worldwide. A woman who is menstruating is considered to be as pure as a goddess, she is so full of pure energy. And if we allow her inside a temple, the energy of the goddess gets transferred to the menstruating woman which will make the idol of the goddess lifeless. Therefore, women are asked not to enter a temple. They are so pure that even the idol of the goddess is rendered lifeless. And we thought women aren’t allowed to enter because they are thought of as impure.

Women Are Not Allowed To Cook Or Eat With Others While Menstruating

Indians consider eating as a spiritual activity. This is why probably certain brahmins offer prayers before eating. And even monks read scriptures before eating food. They do this because while we eat, it is the lower chakras that are highly active. Chakras are nothing but energy columns located on our spine. The lower chakras help in performing bodily functions whereas the higher chakras are connected to the brain. Praying before eating is said to increase the positive energy of the food.

A menstruating woman is considered to be sensitive to negative energy. She will absorb almost all kinds of energies which will disrupt the peace of the soul and body. And if such a woman is allowed to eat with others, all the negative energy gets directed towards her. Therefore, women who are menstruating are asked to eat separately. And we thought that women are not allowed to eat with others because menstrual blood is considered to be toxic which can disrupt the purity of others’ food.

It’s In The Attitude Of The Woman

In India, menstrual practices are strongly influenced by various cultural practices. The core problem of menstrual wisdom lies with the woman herself, how she treats herself during her period cycle. She needs to consider herself as pure. She needs to take care of herself.

I’m neither supporting nor rebutting the age-old menstrual practices or traditions. All I’m trying to say is that none of it was intended to suppress women. We need to understand the ancient science’s relevance and incorporate it into our modern world. What are your views about this sensitive topic? Let us know in the comments below.

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