#for years and years i thought i just inherited anxiety from my mom

[2024skin]

Not me realizing that a man breaking into my house is the source of all my stalker dreams and all my breaking and entering dreams and all my late night paralyzing anxieties about someone being in my house uninvited. Duh.

[kittenofdoomage]

Inherited Spirits

THIS WORK IS ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST OR COPY MY STORIES. 18+ CONTENT AHEAD.

Summary: Your life changes with the revelation of a secret, but is it for the better?

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Ghost!Sam Winchester x fem!reader, original male character x fem!reader (it’s brief and not smutty)

Word Count: 9414

Warnings: angst, inheritance, ugly break ups, mentions of depression/anxiety, family secrets, grief, familial loss, ghosts, fluff, smut (ghost sex), obligatory I’m not a lawyer so the lawyer speak is fictional, introvert!reader, paranormal romance

“Here are the keys to the house,” the lawyer said, placing a thick ring with seven keys on it in front of you. Beside it, was an envelope, neatly inscribed with your full name, containing all the information about the house and your inheritance.

You had never seen it coming. As far as you’d known, both your paternal grandparents were dead, and you were the last of that particular family line, an orphan since your father had died last year, on the heels of your mother’s long fight with cancer. So to say it had been a shock when you’d gotten the call that your grandfather had died, even more so when they’d asked you to come in to discuss assets.

Brett was excited. You could tell by the way he practically vibrated in the chair next to you, and you felt a hollow disappointment when you realized he was already spending what you had inherited. Your parents had not only hidden the secret of your grandfather’s existence, they’d also neglected to mention that he was very very wealthy.

“There’s a special dispensation for the staff of the household,” the lawyer continued, barely looking up from his copy of the documents. “The housekeeper, Ellen Harvelle, and the groundskeeper, Bobby Singer - they are to be kept on until retirement. If you sell the house, it will be a legal requirement for any new owners.”

“S-sell?” you whispered. You hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“Of course, as your grandfather’s lawyer, my services will always be available to the family,” the lawyer went on. “All I need is your signature, and we can release the funds.”

You signed, dazed and confused, half-certain you were dreaming. When you walked out with Brett, he could barely contain himself, and as soon as you were in the car, he crowed and thumped the steering wheel making you jump. “Six hundred million dollars, Y/N!” he cried, looking at you, obviously expecting a similar level of excitement.

Staring at the envelope and keys in your hands, you shook your head in disbelief. “Is this real?” you muttered.

Brett laughed, throwing his head back in joy. “Baby, we’re rich!” He didn’t wait for you to answer, sitting back in the chair with a huge grin on his face. “We can do anything,” he sighed. “We could get married.” You lifted your head in surprise. “Have kids.”

Narrowing your eyes, you turned to look at him. “Kids?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “Why not, I mean -”

“It was never about money, Brett,” you reminded him sternly. “I told you I don’t want kids. I don’t even like children.”

“Okay,” he muttered defensively. “So we go traveling instead. We could go anywhere with that kinda money.” His eyes lit up. “I can finally tell Tony to shove his stupid head up his ass.”

The ball of disappointment that had started in the lawyer’s office began to get stronger. “I don’t think we need to rush into anything,” you said slowly. “This is a big change. I don’t know if I want anyone to know.”

He scowled. “What? So I can’t even tell my mom?”

If you were honest, his mother was the last person you wanted to know, but you didn’t want to piss him off, so you forced yourself to smile calmly. “I just think we should be careful,” you explained. “People get weird about money.”

It was obvious he didn’t agree. He turned the key in the ignition, and the truck roared to life. “Why don’t we get some dinner to celebrate?” he suggested.

“I guess,” you nodded, clipping your seatbelt in, hopeful that was the end of the conversation for the time being.

It was not.

Brett made it all of twenty minutes before he was suggesting vacations, talking about replacing his truck, selling the house and the assets for even more money. You didn’t say a word until it came to ordering food at the drive thru, and when Brett pulled up to the window, he held out his hand for your debit card. Guilt clogged your throat, and you pulled it out of your purse, handing it over.

“It’s not like you can’t afford it,” he joked; it left a sour taste in your mouth.

He didn’t stop after dinner either, or when you got home. You were certain you’d left your actual boyfriend in the lawyer’s office, and that this man was a stranger, obsessed with the material, taking over the decisions like it was all his. The sudden change in his attitude was enough to keep you silent, at least until he circled back around to marriage and kids.

“You wouldn’t even have to raise them,” he laughed. “We could afford a nanny.”

Something snapped. You sat straight, glaring at him. “Enough!” He froze like a deer in headlights. “You’re acting like you won the lottery! Since when did you care about vacations in Hawaii, or a big wedding, or cars, or - or kids?!” you shrieked. “When we got together, I was clear that I didn't want any of those things. I thought we were on the same page!”

“Things have changed!” he yelled back, thumping his fist against the couch.

“For me!” you shouted, getting to your feet. “I just found out that I had family left, Brett. I had family and I never knew them. And all you care about is the money? It’s not even your inheritance, it’s mine!”

Everything about him changed. His demeanor became stiff and unyielding, and he stood, looming over you, and for the first time in your relationship, the look in his eyes scared the absolute shit out of you. “Oh, it’s yours, huh? Is this why you don’t wanna get married? Don’t wanna share?”

“It’s got nothing to do with sharing!” you defended, backing away from him, truly frightened he would actually hurt you. You knew it at that exact moment - the relationship was already dead, you wouldn’t be with someone who could switch their personality on a dime like that. “You’re not acting like the man I fell in love with. The way you’ve instantly decided to depend on me -”

That triggered something and his face turned red. “Depend?” he snapped. “What, I don’t get anything back after carrying your anxious, depressed ass for three years?”

His words were like a knife, and tears instantly filled your eyes. The shock of what he’d said made you cover your mouth, unable to believe the man you loved would use your problems against you like that. Brett softened for a second, obviously realizing he’d gone too far, but you were already walking away, fighting to contain your tears.

“Baby, I’m sorry -”

“No,” you sobbed, refusing to look at him. “You can’t take that back.” You hated looking weak in front of him, feeling like a burden, and his words had hit their mark, right in your insecurities. “I think… I think I’m gonna go.”

He looked alarmed at that, holding his hands up. “Wait, what?”

“I need to…” You shook your head, because you weren’t sure what you needed, only that you couldn’t be near him any longer. Heading for the bedroom, you quickly packed a bag of things you couldn’t replace, not that you had much, wondering the whole time if he’d try and stop you. 

He was blocking the front door when you walked out into the hall, eyes fixed on you. “Y/N, please, I didn’t mean it -”

“You did,” you replied coolly, though inside you were breaking into pieces. He stared at you impassively, still blocking the way. “Brett, please move.”

For a second, you thought he might get physical, and then he stepped aside, giving you the space to leave. “Baby -”

“I’ll call you in a couple of days,” you said firmly. “Just… give me some space.”

He nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets, and you grabbed your purse, turning your back on him, cutting off his declaration that he loved you by slamming the front door. You couldn’t stop the tears falling as you walked down the path to the curb, putting your bags in the backseat before pulling the keys to your inherited house and the address out of the envelope. There was only one place you could go.

Hawstead Manor was old and isolated, and it was nearing dawn when you finally pulled up to the driveway. You had to get out to open the gate with the provided code, and you were relieved to see a long paved road up the front of the house; your car might not have made it on rougher terrain. The gate closed automatically behind you, and you kept going once you were sure it was shut, parking up in front of a large garage. As expected, the house was dark, and you fumbled with the keys before finally finding the right one, letting yourself in.

It was cold inside, and you were exhausted. Once you’d found the living room, and a couch, you dumped your bags on the floor and curled up on the cushions, intent on napping for a few hours before exploring the place.

A delicious aroma roused you hours later. You sat up, and the blanket that had been covering you slipped down, making you frown as you couldn’t recall there being a blanket when you had lain down. There was noise coming from somewhere else in the house, and you remembered the lawyer mentioning a housekeeper, so you assumed she had covered you with the blanket when she arrived.

You stretched, abandoning your makeshift bed, following your nose and the noise through the halls to the huge kitchen. A woman was standing at the stove, flipping bacon, and she looked up when you walked in. “Good morning,” she greeted. “You must be Miss. Y/N.”

“Just Y/N,” you corrected with a smile. “Are you the, uh, housekeeper?”

“That I am,” she chuckled, carrying the pan over to the next counter. “Ellen Harvelle at your service. I got here a couple of hours ago, thought you might like some food after driving all night.”

“That’s very kind of you. And thanks for the blanket.” 

She frowned as she glanced at you. “What blanket?”

“Oh, there was -” It seemed odd, but maybe you had just been that tired when you had arrived. “Nevermind.” You slipped onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, looking around at the fairly modern appliances. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a kitchen so nice,” you murmured, and Ellen laughed under her breath.

“Your grandfather was quite the fan of gadgets,” she explained, piling bacon and eggs onto the plate. The toaster popped and she grabbed the bread almost out of the air, placing it beside the already huge serving. As she carried the plate over to you, your stomach growled, and you smiled gratefully when your meal was in front of you.

“What was he like?” you asked. “My dad never told me anything about him.”

Ellen sighed softly. “He was a complicated man. I know that he missed your father greatly, that he wished he could have had a relationship with you.” She picked up the coffee pot, glancing back at you as she gestured to an empty mug. “Coffee?” she asked. “Or I can make tea if you prefer?”

“Coffee is great,” you answered, lifting a forkful of eggs. Your eyes closed at the delicious taste, and you moaned decadently. “This is wonderful, by the way.”

“I’m glad you like them. That’s how Charles liked them too.” She placed a full mug of coffee beside you, along with sugar and a small pot of cream. Though being served was unusual outside of a restaurant, it had been a long time since anyone cooked for you, so you appreciated it. “May I ask,” Ellen started as she poured her own cup of coffee, “did you intend to drive here last night?”

You swallowed your mouthful, sighing as you stared at the bacon. “No, I - I didn’t have anywhere else to. My boyfriend and I… we had a fight.”

Her features softened with sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” you mumbled, picking up a piece of bacon to chew on. It was perfectly cooked; you had to refrain from moaning again. “I guess, when I found out about the inheritance, I didn’t know what to do. It’s a lot of money, and big words I’m gonna have to google.” She laughed at that, and you smiled for a second. “Brett got weird. Acted like we should suddenly be jetting across the world, talking about marriage and children, and… those things just aren’t important to me.”

“Money makes people act funny,” Ellen murmured, nodding her head. “Maybe he just needs some time to come back to reality.”

You shook your head. “I thought that at first. But then he - he got scary. A-and really mean. Just for a second. But I promised myself I’d never let anyone treat me like that. I’m not sure I can trust him anymore. It felt like all he cared about was dollar signs, like he was a different person.”

“You know, I may have only just met you, but -” She took a seat opposite you and leaned her elbows on the island. “You remind me a lot of your grandfather. He was a kind, gentle soul, preferred his own company.”

“I wish I could have met him,” you sighed. “I don’t even know why my dad stopped talking to him. He just said he’d died after my grandmother, I never knew any different.”

She hummed lightly. “They had a difficult relationship after your grandmother died. Charles was lost without her. Of course, that was forty years ago, when my mother was the housekeeper here. I only met your father twice, and the second time was the last time your grandfather spoke to him, shortly after you were born. Not that Charles ever stopped trying.”

The back door opened, and a male voice called through. “Ellen? Ellen! There’s some crappy Toyota parked outside the garage -” Heavy footsteps came through the hall, and an older gentleman appeared, stopping dead when he saw you sitting at the island. He whipped his trucker cap off, holding it to his chest. “Apologies, I didn’t know the new lady of the house was here already.”

“This here,” Ellen chuckled, “is Bobby Singer, the groundskeeper.”

“Hi,” you greeted, waving a little. “Is my car in the way?”

“No, no!” he rushed out, stepping forward with his hands up, obviously worried he’d caused offense. “We just don’t get many visitors, no one told me you were comin’ -”

“It was a little last minute,” you interrupted gently, trying to convey that you weren’t upset by his comment - your old battered car was pretty crappy. “I got here really early.”

Ellen got up, preparing another cup of coffee before handing it to Bobby, who took it gratefully. “Y/N is going to be staying for a few days at least. Maybe you could give her a tour of the grounds later on.”

You smiled, nodding in agreement. “I’d like that.”

“Great,” she grinned, “now eat up before it gets cold.”

By the time you were done eating, there were seven missed calls on your phone and twice as many texts, all from Brett. He had left a voicemail, asking you to call him back because he was worried, so you sent him a text to say you were fine and that you would call when you were ready. He didn’t wait, calling as soon as he received the text, and you sighed in disgust, tossing your phone onto the couch to let it ring.

Bobby had told you to meet him outside the garage after lunch, so you spent the morning exploring the old house. It was bigger than you imagined, with more bedrooms than you could ever need, definitely more bathrooms, and your grandfather’s love of gadgets became obvious when you discovered a home cinema in the basement, along with a large assortment of trains. “Grandpa was a train nerd,” you mused as you inspected the huge model dominating the second of the downstairs rooms.

On the third floor, smaller than the others, there was a study and a drawing room, with windows that provided sweeping views of the woodland surrounding the house. It was certainly an isolated home - the nearest town was a half hour drive at least, and you had no idea if anything delivered out this far, making a mental note to check out your options later. Ellen had already given you the wifi code, though you had yet to test it. You clearly had a good signal if Brett’s calls were coming through.

You picked the smallest bedroom, even if it could hardly be called small. It had an ensuite like most of the bedrooms, and a quick glance confirmed a spa-like bathtub with a futuristic looking shower. Everything about the house was fancy, making you feel more and more like an imposter as you kept exploring.

Downstairs, aside from the kitchen and the living room you’d slept in, there was another study, leading to a library. It was huge, like most of the other rooms, with shelves of books so high that there was an actual sliding ladder. You gasped as you took in the true scope of the reading material available, feeling every bit like Belle in Beauty and the Beast, sans the kidnapping and Stockholm Syndrome.

More than ever, you wished you could have met the man who apparently shared most of your interests. You had never been much like either of your parents, sometimes wondering if you were adopted, but now it made sense. A tiny part of you was angry that this connection had been kept from you, that it should have been your choice whether to have it or not, even if your father was angry with his own.

Ellen left out a delicious lunch for you, and you munched it as you scrolled through your phone, ignoring the outstanding calls and messages from Brett. He seemed to have given up for the time being, and you were grateful for the reprieve while you decided what to do about the whole situation. You weren’t sure if he would have told anyone about your unexpected change of circumstances, and you hoped he hadn’t, but just in case, you put your phone on “do not disturb” for the rest of the day.

Your tour around the grounds yielded more surprises. Bobby showed you the garage, then took you down to the unused stables that were sometimes rented out in the summer along with the three grassy fields. He showed you where the woods that occupied most of the estate began, and his little cottage tucked at the far end of the gardens.

“I’m always on hand,” he promised. “We’ve got cameras up on most of the external exits and windows, and the perimeter is quite secure. Old Charlie didn’t take the matter lightly.”

You liked Bobby. He was very stern looking, but it was obvious he cared a lot about the property, and that he’d been close with your grandfather. His tour was sprinkled with little bits of information about him, helping you to build a better idea of what he’d been like in your head, though he didn’t hold back on his opinion of your father, or the grief your grandfather had felt at being kept away from his only grandchild.

By nighttime, Ellen had gone home, and Bobby had gone off to check the fences and change the code on the gate to something you could remember easily. The house was quiet, and you took your things up to the bedroom, collecting your phone on the way. You sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at Brett’s number, wondering if you even wanted to call him.

A new voicemail notification joined the others. Frowning at it, you dial your inbox, listening to all the messages from Brett, all of them along the lines of “baby, I love you” and “please call me”, though none included an apology. The last was from a mutual friend, Emily, and there was music playing loudly in the background.

“Y/N, I don’t know what’s happened with you and Brett, but, uh, we just saw him and he said a bunch of stuff about money, that you were cheating on him, and… well, none of it sounded like you, so could you just lemme know you’re okay?”

Your heart felt like it was cracking in two as you listened. Cheating? You would never cheat.

Calling her back made you feel too anxious, so you texted her a quick “I’m fine, we had a fight, I didn’t cheat” and waited, watching the three dots blink as she typed a message in return.

I think you should call him

You moved your fingers, ready to type, then a photo came through, loading in a split second. It was Brett, on a couch in a club you vaguely recognized, with a slim blonde in his lap. His tongue was clearly in her mouth, and his hand was underneath her short skirt, and you sobbed, covering your mouth with your hand as you fought the urge to throw up. You didn’t reply to Emily, tossing your phone as you let the tears fall, ignoring her next message.

A chill ran through you, and you fell to the side, curling into the cushions as you continued to cry. Eventually, the tears dried up, and you drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

The next morning, it took a few seconds to clear the fog and remember where you were. You’d moved at some point during the night, somehow getting yourself underneath the covers properly, cushioning your head against the pillows. Slowly, you sat up, feeling a little drained and zombie-ish as you stared at your phone on the nightstand, remembering the photo Emily had sent you. The nausea returned, and you pushed it down, picking up your phone as you headed downstairs. Ellen was already cleaning, and she had breakfast ready for you again, toast this time, with dipping eggs. You tried to keep a happy face on, even if you couldn’t stop seeing Brett’s hands on that woman, staying largely silent as you ate.

The phone started to ring just as you finished your coffee. Picking it up, you saw Brett’s name and sighed, knowing you had to confront him, to end it now instead of trying to pretend nothing had happened. Ellen gave you a reassuring touch on the shoulder, then made herself scarce without needing to be asked.

“Hello?”

“Finally, she answers,” he growled in response, and anger bristled along your spine. “You got any idea how worried I’ve been?”

You couldn’t help your words, allowing spite to rule them. “So worried you put your tongue down someone’s throat last night?” He stuttered, and the anger in your chest became a rage. “Emily said she bumped into you. The way she tells it, you’re not only telling everyone my private information that I didn’t want out there, but you’re lying as well, because I sure as hell didn’t cheat on you, Brett!”

More stuttering followed. “Baby!” he yelled. “Just let me explain -”

“No,” you replied firmly, sitting straighter. “I thought I knew who you were but you’re just another douche bag. It took you all of a day to cheat. That says way more than you ever need to.”

“Oh come on, it was a kiss!” he cried. “She meant nothing, you and me, we got a good thing. I don’t care about the money!”

“I never said anything about the money,” you said coolly. “But I guess that’s the only reason you’re calling huh? You don’t wanna let the golden goose get away.”

You could almost feel his anger through the phone, so you weren’t surprised when he spoke again. “You’re a selfish, stuck-up bitch, you know that?” he snarled. “I stuck with you the whole, even when you were so miserable it made me wanna kill myself. Everyone said you weren’t worth it, but I stayed.” He laughed bitterly. “Even the sex wasn’t that good. You really think anyone’s gonna touch you even if you’re worth a couple mil?”

His words hurt and fresh tears filled your eyes. The urge to fight back was there, but that meant letting him know you were getting to him. Instead, you kept your tone steady and even as you replied; “Maybe I’ll be alone, but I’ll be alone sipping mojitos on a beach in Hawaii while you’re downing beers at Kenny’s. You can toss all my shit by the way, it’s all replaceable.” You paused, deciding to be petty after all. “Just like you.”

You hung up, exhaling hard as the strength left you, blocking his number instantly before going through all your social media, deleting all of it. There wasn’t a wealth of people you really talked to anymore, all of your friends were the same as his friends, making you wonder why they’d never warned you about the real Brett. Your only living relative was on your mother’s side, an aunt in Florida who you hadn’t seen in ten years, more of a Christmas card relative than anything else.

Wiping your face, you turned your phone off. At some point, you’d have to make contact with work and tell them you didn’t plan on returning. If this inheritance had given you anything, it was the freedom to start fresh, and you didn’t intend on wasting any more time on your former life.

“Everything okay?” Ellen asked, stepping back into the room.

You sniffed and nodded at her. “It will be,” you replied with a weak smile. “I think I’m gonna be staying here longer than a few days.”

She beamed, clasping her hands together. “Wonderful! Are you having your belongings sent?”

“No,” you mused, smiling a little wider. “I’m gonna have to go shopping.”

Within a week, you were already feeling like Hawstead Manor was home. A few days after your decision to stay, there was a delivery from Brett, boxes of your burned and destroyed belongings. You trashed all of it, ignoring the pain of his betrayal, focusing on the good instead. With the help of Mr. Branning, your grandfather’s lawyer, you sorted through the assets, trusting in your grandfather’s extensive directive on what to do. He hadn’t missed a thing, and you were grateful for the help of Mr. Branning’s office, along with Ellen’s.

You knew you didn’t want to sell the house, or any of the land. It seemed important to keep things as they were, so save for your own room, you didn’t change a thing inside; you liked the spirit of the house, finding it comforting, welcoming, even at night when it was empty except for you.

The stranger things didn’t go unnoticed. Frequently when you fell asleep in the library, you’d woken with a blanket draped over you that you hadn’t put there yourself. Sometimes things were put away when you’d left them out, and during the day, you could believe that it was Ellen, but it happened often when she wasn’t there. Lights flickered for no reason, and curtains moved when there was no breeze, always just enough to catch your eye but never happening when you looked for it.

Still, you kept exploring the house, amazed at the many curiosities contained within it. When you found your grandfather’s journal, and the many letters he’d written to you and your father, the mystery of why they didn’t speak became a little clearer.

Your grandfather believed in ghosts. He’d spent a lot of time and money researching them after your grandmother died, convinced he could contact her. When he became a little too obsessed, your dad had decided he was insane, and refused to speak with him until he gave up on his attempts to reach the beyond. In letters, written after you were born, he apologized, begging for forgiveness, but refused to give up on his belief.

The letters to you were all wondering what kind of child you were growing into, his hopes for your future, regrets that he was not a part of your life. There were only a few, usually dated around your birthday, accompanied by numerous cards of varying ages, all the way up until your most recent one only a month ago, the envelope emblazoned with only your name. Inside, he spoke of trying to find you before he died, of secrets he wanted to share. The handwriting was messier than the others, and the message was shorter, ending with “please take care of Sam, he gets lonely”.

You had no idea what it meant.

Putting the letters away to read again later, you turned away from the desk, yelping when you saw a man standing a few feet away. He stared at you, wide-eyed, then darted soundlessly out of the door. You followed him, but as you reached the hallway, he was gone. Searching the rooms yielded only Ellen vacuuming, and she stopped when you walked in. “Everything okay, Y/N?”

“I thought - there was a guy -” You couldn’t describe it without sounding insane, at least to your own ears. “Maybe I imagined it. I was in the study, I found these letters, and then he was standing there -”

“Oh,” Ellen breathed. “You met Sam.”

You froze. “Huh?”

She smiled. “I’m surprised it took him so long to show himself, to be honest.”

“He’s real?” you asked, remembering the last words of your grandfather’s letter. Ellen nodded, putting the kettle on to make tea. “So ghosts are real.”

“Well,” she shrugged, “one ghost is real. And I’ve only seen him once, right after Charles passed. He talked about him a lot.”

“And it’s definitely not some inherited mental illness I should be concerned about?” you laughed nervously.

“No,” Ellen chuckled. “He’s definitely real. Bobby’s seen him a few times, always from a distance, mind. Sam only ever materialized around Charles, which makes sense since they were friends when they were alive, or so he would tell it.”

The information was bewildering, and made you more curious about the specter. “Did he die here?”

“Mmhmm, it was a long time ago. He was only in his thirties. His brother lived near here for a long time, but I think he passed on about ten years ago. Sam was Charles’ childhood friend.”

“How did he die?”

Ellen smiled gently, pulling two cups from the cupboard. “I have no idea,” she continued. “Charles was always light on the details. Said it wasn’t his story to tell. But it was sudden, from what I gathered.” She paused as she placed the cups on the countertop. “He’s not violent,” she added. “Sam, I mean. He’s quite friendly actually. I’ve never felt afraid here a moment in my life.”

You hadn’t gotten any kind of scary vibe off of the man you’d seen, and now you knew he was real, you were wondering how to get him to talk to you. If he was so close with your grandfather, he might be able to tell you more about him, to enable you to feel a little bit closer to the lost part of your family. As you mulled over your thoughts, Ellen made tea for the both of you, chatting over a few cookies before she attended to the rest of her day’s chores.

Not wanting to get in her way, you head for the library again, intent on losing yourself in a book or two. Every creak had you looking up, searching for the elusive Sam, though part of you still wondered if you weren’t just mad. Eventually, you dozed off, and when you woke, another blanket was covering you, and the fireplace was lit, filling the room with warmth.

The turn of a page made you look over to the opposing armchair. A man was sitting there, appearing as real as any person she’d ever seen, quietly reading a book - it was the same man you had only caught a glimpse of earlier.

You sat up. He noticed, lifting his gaze to you with a tiny smile. “Hello,” he greeted softly.

“Hi,” you squeaked back. “You’re… Sam.”

His smile grew. “And you’re Charles’ granddaughter,” he replied, finishing with your name. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Shifting the chair, you regarded him for a second, analyzing every detail. He was obviously tall from the way his knees jutted up when seated, and he was dressed casually in jeans and a flannel shirt. His hair was shaggy, long enough that it framed his handsome face perfectly. “You could have met me earlier,” you reminded him with a smile. “But you disappeared.”

“I was nervous,” he explained, closing his book. “Sometimes, people get frightened. I’m very careful who I show myself to but… I heard Ellen explaining. And you… you seem kind.”

“Ellen said you only showed yourself to my grandfather,” you said cautiously. “She said you were friends when you were, uh, alive. And after, I guess.”

He nodded, placing the book on the table between the two armchairs. “I hope you don’t mind that I put the fireplace on. There was a draft and you looked cold.” Getting up, he moved to a wicker basket containing a small stack of logs. “Bobby always keeps this topped up, so don’t worry about using too much.”

“Has it been you with the blankets?” you asked.

“Guilty,” he mumbled, selecting a log to toss into the flames. You watched as he picked it up, fascinated by his ability to move objects, to appear so… solid. As he returned to his seat, he smiled at you. “I bet you have a ton of questions.”

You ducked your head, feeling heat in your face that didn’t come from the fire. “Just a few,” you admitted, and he chuckled lightly. “I guess you’re used to it.”

“Actually,” he sighed, tilting his head lightly, “Charlie was the only one I ever really spoke to. I’m not even sure I have all the answers. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know why there aren’t others.” A smile tugged at his lips. “I spent a few days wondering if your grandfather would show up but… I guess not.”

“Ellen said you died here.”

With a low laugh, he shook his head. “You’re gonna think it’s stupid,” he warned lightheartedly. You didn’t say anything, and his laugh became a smile. “I think your dad must have been two, maybe three? His mom was alive, and there was this big fourth of July party, Charlie must have invited the whole town.” He met your gaze, still grinning. “A firework exploded in the wrong direction. Hit one of the stone gargoyles on the roof, it dropped, and I just about remember it landing on my head.”

“Wow,” you breathed. “That’s… one way to die, I guess?”

He shrugged. “I can’t change it, and I’ve had fifty years to think about it, it doesn’t really bother me anymore.” For a few seconds, he was silent, watching you, and you felt a shiver go down your spine. “It’s nice to talk to someone new.”

“You never wanted to talk to Ellen or Bobby?” you asked curiously.

“I’m a little selective on who I appear to,” he replied. “I know they know but Bobby is superstitious and prefers to ignore that I exist. Saw him salting the doors of his cottage once, so I kept my distance. And Ellen… Ellen reminds me too much of my mom. She talks to me sometimes, I just… I don’t talk back.” He looked down at his hands, smiling fondly. “It took a long time for me to realize what had happened. I was appearing randomly in rooms for nearly ten years before I could control it.”

“You seem kinda solid now,” you pointed out.

His smile was almost addicting. Whenever his lips curled up, dimples appeared in his cheeks, and you wistfully imagined you could spend all day looking at his smile. As he spoke, telling you about his first appearance in front of your grandfather, you realized you could probably listen to him talk all day too, but as the night wore on, your tiredness did not hide itself.

“You look exhausted,” Sam murmured, glancing up at the clock.

“It’s not even nine,” you yawned, stretching in the chair. “I feel like such an old lady some days.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he chuckled, “kinda can’t, for one. I can’t tell you my whole life story in one night, or we won’t have anything to talk about tomorrow.”

You smiled at him, raising an eyebrow questioningly. “Tomorrow?”

The tone of his voice changed with his nerves. “If you want to.”

Getting to your feet, you folded the blanket and placed it on the chair. “Tomorrow sounds perfect.”

The weather took a turn over the next few days with a constant rain that kept you indoors, not that you needed an excuse to stay inside. You only left when you had to, usually for groceries, but aside from that, you spent nearly every waking moment in Sam’s company, whether it was in the library, the study, or occasionally the media room in the basement. The more you got to know him, the more you liked him, even if it felt a little ridiculous to be developing feelings for a dead man, especially so soon after the end of what you had thought was a long term relationship.

Sam flirted, of course, but he always toed the line, never getting too close, hesitant to touch you at the start. You had eventually asked if he could touch anyone, and he had responded by pressing his cool palm to the curve of your jaw; you kept thinking about that moment over and over.

Autumn took hold. The trees surrounding the manor turned from greens to reds and oranges, and you frequently found yourself watching the leaves fall from the windows. You had found a peace in that place that you’d never known anywhere else, so leaving your old life behind was easier than you thought it would be. Occasionally, you would reply to texts from your friends, and as time went on, you realized Brett had kept his mouth shut on the subject of your inheritance, a surprising but welcome reaction.

You didn’t hide anything about your former relationship from Sam. You didn’t feel the need to hide anything from him, wanted him to know you as well as you were getting to know him. When the tears came, he comforted you, and somehow managed to make you forget about the pain of your ex-boyfriend’s betrayal, some days simply by being there. There had never been a soul in your life you were as comfortable with as your ghostly housemate.

The nights grew darker more quickly than you expected, maybe because the estate was so isolated. You learned how to work the fireplace, preferring that to the central heating, and began spending longer evenings in the library steadily working your way through the vast collection of books. One night, Sam appeared after being absent all day, and you smiled up at him as he hovered by the fireplace, slowly solidifying.

“Hey,” you greeted, sitting up straight. You slid a bookmark into your book, and placed it on the table, tilting your head curiously when he didn’t say a word. “Are you okay?”

He smiled, but there was a bitter edge to it. Confusion forced you to your feet, and you let the blanket over your lap fall to the floor as you approached him. He didn’t move, leaning into your hand when you touched his face, still surprised by his cooler skin.

“Sam? Talk to me,” you pleaded.

Taking hold of your hand, he led you back to your chair, guiding you to sit down before dropping to his knees in front of you. “I had to think,” he started softly, cupping your hands in his own, resting against your knees. “These last few weeks… I’ve…” He scoffed lightly, trailing off.

“It’s okay,” you encouraged, curling your fingers into his. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

His eyes locked on yours with a new spark in them you hadn’t seen before. “I remember my life. I remember never finding anyone that I connected with, at least, not romantically. Then I was dead, and that hope was gone, especially since I’m apparently the only soul unlucky enough to get trapped.” He smiled, rubbing his thumbs across your knuckles. “When you arrived here -”

The doorbell echoed through the house, cutting him off. With a frown, you tugged your hands from his grasp and got to your feet, shooting him an apologetic smile. “I should -”

“Of course,” he nodded, and you darted off, unsure who would be calling at such a late hour, but unable to ignore that it might be an emergency. As you reached the door and opened it, you were in no way prepared for who was standing on the other side.

“Brett!” you exclaimed in surprise at your sheepish looking ex-boyfriend, who instantly thrust some flowers towards you. When you stepped back, bewildered at the sudden invasion of your private space, he took it as permission to enter, forcing you back further. “W-what are you doing here?”

He was looking around already, nosing at the house. “Well, you know, I thought it’s been a few weeks, that maybe we could talk.”

You narrowed your eyes, keeping the door open. “About what?”

“Us,” he replied hopefully, coming closer to you, reaching for your hand. “I miss you.”

Before he could touch you, you snatched your hand away, scowling at him. “That’s unfortunate,” you muttered, “but you can’t just show up in the middle of the night -” Something tickled at your nose and you realized it was the scent of booze, specifically beer. “Oh my god, are you drunk?” Your eyes widened. “Did you drive here drunk?”

“No,” he scoffed. “I drove to the motel in town, and I got nervous, so I had a few beers and then I got a cab… speaking of which, do you have a couple dollars so I can pay the guy?”

His audacity was unreal. Your mouth opened and closed in shock; you were too stunned by his brazenness to think straight. He took it as a positive, smiling brightly at you.

“I knew you missed me,” he grinned, moving in closer, crowding you, and you snapped out of it just in time to push him back, crushing the bouquet of flowers against his chest. “Baby, come on -”

“We’re done, Brett!” you shrieked. “You need to leave.”

His expression turned thunderous. He opened his mouth to speak, and then someone else appeared around the corner. Sam stepped into view, solid and decidedly not ghostly, and for a second, you hoped a witness might scare Brett off. “Is there a problem, Y/N?” Sam asked carefully, keeping his attention on Brett.

“Who the fuck are you?” your ex screeched at him before turning on you. “So you were cheating? Shacking up with this rich boy, huh? Guess you were a little slut all along.” He sneered unpleasantly as you cowered, ashamed at the way he frightened you.

“I would suggest shutting your mouth,” Sam replied coolly, stepping closer. Even if he wasn’t dead and more than capable of killing the man, he had a few inches on him, and he was clearly unhappy with the nastiness Brett was spewing.

“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

Sam glanced at you. “You wanna step out?” he asked.

“Nah, she stays right there,” Brett objected, throwing an arm between you and Sam. “I want her to see me beat your ass into the fucking ground.”

The lights flickered. You clutched at the door, pressing yourself into the wall as everything grew darker, and Brett swung for Sam, connecting with nothing. Sam disappeared, then reappeared, mostly transparent. The paintings on the walls began to rattle, and horrific screeches came from all directions, accompanied by a chilly wind that made ornaments topple and the chandeliers swing. Reaching out, Sam caught Brett by the throat, hoisting him off of the ground until he was dangling, clutching at the ghost's arm hopelessly.

A patch of dark started to spread out from Brett’s crotch, and a second later, you heard the dripping onto the floorboards. Sam looked down at the same mess, then smirked up at his victim, promptly sending him flying across the hall and out the door. Brett tumbled down the steps with a flow of grunts, landing with a thud at the bottom before scrambling to his feet, looking up at you with wide frightened eyes as you watched him from the doorway.

Without another word, he ran, bolting out of sight down the driveway, and hopefully out of your life. Behind you, Sam was solid again, and his little show was over; he slipped his hand into yours, and tugged you in from the cold.

“I hope I didn’t overstep,” he said softly, waiting for you to close the door. “I thought he deserved a taste of his own medicine.”

You smiled up at him. “What if he tells someone?”

“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” he murmured, touching your cheek. There was hesitation in his touch, and for a moment, you thought he might finish the conversation that had been so rudely interrupted. Then he sighed, pulling his hand away. “It’s late. You should ask Bobby to do a check and make sure he’s gone.”

Disappointment rang hollow in your chest. “Right,” you mumbled, nodding lightly as he stepped back. “What - what about you?”

He smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

You were alone in the next second, but you knew he wouldn’t go far. After checking in with Bobby, who immediately decided that a shotgun would be great for further deterrent, you checked every door and window in the house and set the security system. When it was done, you lingered downstairs, wondering if you should call out to Sam, find out what he had been trying to say, even though you had an inkling of what it was.

He had feelings for you. Just like you had feelings for him. Both of you felt the connection there, ridiculous as it might have been for a dead person and a living person to even attempt -

Your thoughts stopped in their tracks.

Why couldn’t you be together? You had lived through a worldwide pandemic and enjoyed the excuse to stay inside your cozy four walls, away from the chaos and unpredictability of the world at large. It wasn’t as if you couldn’t leave yourself, and it didn’t appear you’d ever have to work another day in your life. Sam was trapped either way, bound to this house, and surely the company would only improve his metaphorical living status.

You had spent weeks enjoying his companionship already. You didn’t shy away from the possibility that you were already in love with him.

He didn’t show himself before you went to bed, and you were tired enough after Brett’s brief yet stressful visit that you dozed off quickly, wrapped in your blankets. But peaceful rest wasn’t waiting for you, only nightmare exaggerations of Brett’s return, and when you woke after only a short time, Sam was there.

Immediately, you burst into tears. He moved closer, but you curled into a tighter ball, sobbing as the grief overwhelmed you. Without waiting, he slid underneath the covers, making himself solid as he gathered you into his arms. It took a long time for you to calm down, but his comfort helped, and when you finally felt a little more coherent, you turned to face him, looking up at him.

“Nightmare?” he asked with concern in his voice.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, curling your fingers in the fabric of his shirt. “Sam -” He hummed when you paused, encouraging you to continue. “What were you going to say… before Brett showed up?” His eyes widened slightly. “You know, you were saying you never met anyone when you were alive, and then you said -”

“Right,” he chuckled nervously, “yeah, I know, I -” He stopped, searching your gaze. “When you arrived here,” he started slowly, “I thought that maybe I would have a companion again, a friend, only… the more I’m around you, the more I realize I’ve fallen in love with you.” Your heart began to pound but you could see he wasn’t done. “But I’m dead. And you’re alive. There are certain things I could… I could never give you. I can never leave the grounds of this house.”

He softened a little, sighing as he looked down, and you watched him for a second or two, wondering how to tell him that the things he could never give you weren’t things you wanted anyway. You thought he would have understood that already, with the many conversations you’d had that skirted the subject, but you couldn’t blame him for thinking you’d reject him because he was dead.

“Sam?” you whispered, reaching up to touch his face. His eyes lifted to meet yours and you smiled gently, leaning in to kiss him. He froze at first, then relaxed into it, returning your affection with fervor. “I don’t want to go anywhere,” you said as you broke away, framing his face with your hands. “I want to stay here with you.”

“You really don’t care about… you know, the things that women usually care about?” he asked hesitantly.

You laughed, leaning into him. “While other little girls dreamed of weddings, I dreamed of libraries. When my friends were all partying, I sought solitude.” You sighed, shaking your head. “I - I know we can’t grow old together. But we can figure out the big stuff as it comes, right?”

“What if I can’t -” He chewed his lip. “I’ve never - not like this -”

The mood changed. You hummed, squirming as close to him as possible. “All your senses work, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So how do you feel being this close to me?” you asked huskily. “Because you feel pretty solid right now.” Boldly, you slid a hand down, finding the front of his jeans and the bulge contained within. “You feel that?”

His response this time was strained. “Uh-huh.”

Pulling away, you dragged your vest over your head, but the moment you were bare, your nerves kicked in. You tugged the sheet up only for Sam to stop you, mouth a little open as he stared at your bare breasts. “What?” you asked shyly, a sharp contrast to how you’d felt seconds before.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you again. You squeaked in surprise, pressing your hands against his suddenly bare chest. The plaid shirt and t-shirt were gone, and you were certain if you lifted the covers, all his clothing down there would be gone too. “Too fast?”

You took a breath then shook your head. “No,” you replied, and crushed your lips to his again. He felt so solid against you, even if his skin felt so much cooler than yours, it only added to the heat building in your core. 

“Can I touch you?” he asked breathlessly, fingertips dancing over your bare hip. Your bottom lip caught between your teeth and you nodded, parting your thighs as his hand slipped between them, making you gasp when he rubbed you through your panties.

“Lemme take these off,” you rushed out, clumsily pushing the fabric down your thighs until you could kick them off, and Sam’s hand was instantly back between your thighs again, this time rubbing his fingers right against your bare cunt. Your head fell back, and he mouthed at your throat, slowly working one cool digit inside you as your breathing began to pick up speed. “Sam -”

He groaned before swooping in to kiss you again, quieting your whimpers while he worked you open, progressing to two fingers within seconds. You shifted onto your back when it became too much effort to hold your leg up, and he went with you, managing to not break rhythm as he kept you on edge. With a shuddering cry, you broke the kiss, sliding your fingers through his hair as he made you ride out your climax on his hand.

“Huh,” he chuckled, withdrawing as he watched you collapse, panting hard, legs quivering as you kicked the sheets off. “Guess being dead didn’t make me lose my touch.”

You giggled, rolling your head to look at him. “Do you think it works the same?” you asked, slyly snaking a hand down to where the sheet was clinging to his hip, barely hiding his modesty. He raised an eyebrow, then moaned when your fingers wrapped around him.

“Only one way to find out,” he shrugged lazily, moving to kiss you again. Forcing you to relinquish your hold, you gasped as he kneed his way between your legs, peppering kisses over your abdomen, up over your breasts until he could seize your lips, groaning into your mouth. “You gonna let me in?”

“Uh-huh,” was all you could manage, all the words you were willing to spare as he kissed you breathless, distracting you from his movement between your thighs. His cock pressed into you, and when he finally started to sink inside, the difference in body temperature became more obvious. You clutched at his shoulders, crying out as he rocked back and forth, convincing your body to accept a little more each time.

“Fuck,” he groaned when his hips came flush with yours. “You’re so warm…”

Everything was different with him. You’d had sex, and you’d definitely fucked before; being introverted didn’t mean you weren’t enthusiastic about physical intimacy. But this was so different, tender despite the strength behind his touch, reverent despite the dirty language. It was the first time you’d ever felt like you were making love with someone. You moved together, each clinging to the other so desperately, like you’d disappear if you let go - though you supposed that could technically be true for Sam. In the moment he felt so real, so tangible, that it was hard to believe he was dead at all.

Your second orgasm snuck up on you, and you cried out against his shoulder, trembling from head to toe. He slowed, kissing you softly as you rode out the aftershocks, grinding a little deeper on each stroke. “Definitely feels the same,” he rumbled with amusement. “You feel so good.”

“You too,” you gasped back, reaching down to grab his ass. “Please -”

He growled, putting a little more force behind his thrusts. You cried out over and over as he hit his mark, and finally he stuttered, grunting against your throat as he spilled into you. It felt real enough, cool instead of warm, seeping out around him as you remained connected. His lips covered yours, kissing you slowly this time, dragging out the last moments before he had to move.

Your earlier exhaustion returned. Sam pulled the sheets up over you, pulling you close as you yawned. Forcing your eyes to stay open a few seconds longer, you smiled at him dozily, reaching up to touch his face. “Are you gonna stay with me?” you asked sleepily.

He smiled, catching your hand to kiss your palm. “As long as you want me.”

The sun rose, filling the room with natural light that stirred you from your restful slumber. You opened your eyes to meet Sam’s almost instantly, and he smiled as you stretched under the sheets. “Good morning,” you whispered, seeking out his hand underneath the cotton. “Did you watch me all night?”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, leaning in to kiss you, closing the distance between you again. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it.” His nose bumped against yours, and you sighed happily. “Did you sleep well?”

You smiled, nestling into him. “Better than I think I ever slept before.”

“Well, in that case,” he chuckled, “I’ll have to make sure I’m here every night.”

Pulling back, you looked up at him. “Is that a promise?”

He laughed again. “Definitely.”

THANK YOU FOR READING, PLEASE CONSIDER REBLOGGING SO OTHERS CAN ENJOY IT 😁

[ithaquakisser]

Hello!! I have a request (also a thought) what if the reader used to be Ithaquas friend but ended up being a victim of his brother and we end up kind of like his mom(or dead lmfao)…really angsty idk man I really need some pain rn

When The Wind Cries

Synopsis; You find yourself falling victim to the hands of Nathaniel Norwell.

CW; Graphic depictions of violence, gore, religious imagery, asphyxiation, depictions of anxiety and PTSD.

WC; ≈2.6k

Note; My apologies for not getting to your request sooner! I've been working a teensy bit slow as of lately and I have recently closed my requests, but I will make yours an exception. I just could not resist this lovely idea! 🫶

Your first moments together were shared in the midst of the snow. The aromatic scent of pine and cedarwood filled your senses, shivers trailing down your spine from the occasional winter breeze that’d pass you by. The air was light, and each breath you took was visible to the naked eye. Your fingertips were as cold as ice, holding a woven basket of herbs in your calloused hands. Ingredients were scarce at this time of the year, as well livestock.

Your hair danced with the arctic wind, a pair of cerulean hues meeting yours amidst the flurry. His eyes conveyed the frigid lakes that were enclosed in a thin sheet of ice whilst his platinum waves waltzed with the zephyr before him. Fur cloak flowing alongside the gale, he held a hunting knife in his hand. Behind him stood a young woman with fair skin, her auburn locks were akin to flames ignited in a wintry landscape. A woven basket like yours in hand, she carried a benign smile on her pale face.

With the roaring wind in your ears, you could not bring yourself to remember the boy’s name. Albeit the moments you shared were incised into your mind like stone. You vaguely recall the warmth emitting from the fireplace, brushing against your ruby-tinted cheeks as you held a cup of hot herbal tea in your hands. The mellow, dulcet taste of honey lingering on your tastebuds. The young man’s delighted expression to have someone to call a friend.

You mused the feeling of benevolence and tenderness in your heart after what felt like eons of solitude spent after the passing of your parents. For a brief moment, you aspired to shed a tear. You faintly remember the voice of your mother. Your father’s face was merely a blur in your collection of memories. Muffled under bundles of woolen blankets, you hearkened to the young woman’s voice as she sang a tune ever so familiar.

From that night on, you’d often meet the boy in your solitary chalet in the midst of the woods. He often bore gifts, a basket that contained medicinal herbs, a jar of honey, and roasted fowl. “Mother insisted I delivered these to you.” He spoke, his cheeks flushed a tinge of scarlet. “She is often concerned for your well-being. Based on my knowledge, your parents have passed on, have they?” You nodded your head in response as you averted your eyes from his, accepting the gifts.

“My sincerest apologies. Mother says you may visit anytime if you wish. It must be difficult living alone, isn’t it?” You swallowed, lowering your gaze. “I’ve simply been managing.” “If I may ask, what led to their passing?” You fidgeted with the hem of your scarf, burying your face into the soft fabric. “The plague has run rampant during the seasons. It took them both in their sleep. I’ve inherited this cabin in their stead following their death.”

“Before you question any more, I… buried them myself.” You stated, setting the woven basket down at your bedside. You witnessed as his eyes widened, seemingly staggered by your revelation. He apologized multiple times, stumbling over his words as he spoke. “I didn’t mean to remind you of such occurrences, I—” You shook your head and hushed him with a smile, dismissing the conversation entirely.

For the remainder of the evening, the two of you were seated at your fireplace, conversing over a cup of tea. The fireplace crackled in your ears while you two brief moments exchanged laughter, all you felt was warmth in your heart. You didn’t wish for this moment to end, if only you could freeze time, perhaps your heart would finally be at ease. Your eyes threatened to shed tears of joy whilst the two of you spoke utter nonsense, you even found yourself tittering like a tall child under his presence. You could only ponder your reality, and if this were to last.

Several nights subsequently, you fell into a slumber. You hadn’t seen their faces again, but one akin to his own. A set of nails pierced into your skin as they clasped your wrist, raising your arm into the air as the crowd chanted falsehoods into your ears. You were blinded by the flaming torches illuminating the vicinity, salty tears streaming from the corners of your e/c eyes. You writhed under the man’s grip, collapsing to your knees.

You cried out your dear friend's name, each of your limbs restrained against your own will. You met face to face with a devilish grin that simply couldn’t be the man you had known. “You ignorant pest. You know my name very well, do you not? Speak it.” You spat at his face, the cloaked man wiping away at his cheek with a scowl. He elicited a growl, striking you to the ground as the crowd cheered. “Arrest them at once.” He demanded. You struggled underneath the crowd’s grasp as they raised you from the dirt, kicking your feet into the air as you thrashed around.

The crowd cried out profanities under your name as you were apprehended at will, hauled through the dirt whilst you shrieked. You had known well this couldn’t be your dear friend. You denied all the possibilities as you grit your teeth, meeting with a crowd that condemned you for your “sins.” Sins you had sworn you never once committed. Words that had never once escaped past your lips.

You were nothing but a toy of amusement for the magistrate’s son. A puppet bound by shackles, you hung your head low under a dim candle-lit chamber. Droplets of cerise poured from your nostrils, splattering upon impact against the pavement beneath you. He’d interrogate you, speaking words you didn’t quite understand. You couldn’t part your lips to speak, your hands trembling within chains. He’d raise his hand once more to strike upon your scarred face with a grimace.

All that filled your senses was the metallic smell and bitter taste of your blood. He grabbed your face with a complacent grin, his nails sinking into your flesh as your e/c eyes met his. “The fool doesn’t wish to speak it seems? What must I do to make you utter a sound?” You glowered as he spoke, his voice laced with poison. “Don’t look at me like that. Allow me to enlighten you with the fact I’ve been quite lenient with you.”

“This… Is leniency to you?” You coughed, traces of blood spilling from your lips. “Certainly. If I hadn’t been, you would be burning at the stake by now.” You scoffed. “I do not need your pity.” The young man leered mockingly, smearing your blood across your cheek with his thumb. “Is that so?” He murmured, you were overcome with a sense of disquietude as his lips curled into a sneer. A hand enveloped your neck, your eyes widening.

You floundered within your manacles, letting out a wince as your breathing was constricted by the cloaked man before you. His slim fingers were wrapped tightly around your throat, a devilish grin on his face whilst you gasped for air. “Now tell me, do you not need my mercy?” Salty beads of tears formed at the corners of your eyes, you could feel the man’s grip on your throat grow tighter with each passing moment.

“Stop… Please…” You uttered, tightly squeezing your eyes shut. Teardrops streamed down your bruised face, and your vision slowly began to blur. You gasped for air, choking out pathetic attempts of cries. “Stop? Why should I? After all, sinners must be punished for their sins.” His constricting grasp resulted in labored breathing, your chest heaved as you struggled to muster desperate breaths. Your vision succumbed to pitch black, a faint sound of chimes ringing in your ears.

The salty, metallic taste of life lingered on your tastebuds. You awoke to the cries of a young woman, a voice so familiar. The sound of her howls made you sick to your stomach. Utterly perturbed, your stomach twisted and turned as you heard her pleas. You kneeled on the cold pavement, hot tears seeping from your tired eyes. Your skin was battered in all shades of purple and blue, scars trailing down your flesh all the way down your waist. Your stomach churned, for you haven’t had any sustenance for the past several days.

Your lips were split in two, and your neck was covered in scratches and fingerprints. Your limbs were sore, your throat was hoarse. Dried blood was splattered along the stone tiles beneath you, a scourge dangling several feet from your direction. It mocked you from afar, grimacing as you recalled the sensation of the scourge piercing into your flesh. The sting that’d linger on your skin after a blade dances upon your skin. Or his nails that’d scrape against your fresh wounds. You were cursed to relive it countless times, repeatedly and eternally.

Until one night, you met with silence. You haven’t heard of the magistrate’s son, Nathaniel, for several days. Your heart began to patter in your ears the moment you heard footsteps coming your way. You espied the silhouette beneath the door before you, your eyes fixed on the light emitting from the cracks as it creaked open. You scrambled to the corner of the chamber, your shackles scraping alongside the stone pavement. The dim flames illuminated a young man’s face upon removing his mask, a face akin to your tormentor. Your hands trembled within your manacles as you shrieked. “Please! Leave me!”

He reached out a hand, to which you flinched in response. A sullen look on his face as he murmured. “Y/N… It’s me.” The young man removed his cloak, allowing it to fall at his feet. He bore a key, proceeding to remove your chains. They fell to the floor with a clank, a finger gently caressing the bruises on your wrists. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you sooner…”

You swallowed, perplexed you were as you stared at him doe-eyed. You couldn’t bring yourself to utter a single word, you averted your gaze from his and snatched your hands from his touch. He furrowed his brows and elicited a sigh, for you couldn’t bear to face him. Your heart silenced as he placed on his mask, offering his hand once more. With a wavering hand, you reluctantly placed yours upon his.

Enveloped in woolen blankets by a fireplace, this felt all too familiar. You gazed into the flames waltzing before you, the masked man spoke a name you didn’t quite recall. “Ithaqua.” He spoke, enunciating each syllable as he dragged a warm cloth over your torn lips. “You’re safe now… The two of you… are safe.” Ithaqua whispered, his voice faltering. He fought against tears beneath his featureless mask which shielded his face from yours at your own expense.

He recalled your shrieks of horror, how you’d physically recoil upon seeing his face. His mother couldn't even speak his given name, and she would wince at the slightest brush of his fingertips against her own. He’d encourage you to eat, yet you didn’t budge. You’d witness as he’d breakdown at the table, running his hands through his platinum locks with desperation. You could hear him sniffling underneath his mask, how his voice would waver each time he spoke. Ithaqua would reassure the two of you of your safety and well-being, albeit you couldn’t help but blench at his touch.

He’d tend to your wounds, your cuts, and your scrapes. A soft cloth brushed against your skin, a stinging sensation that caused you to yelp. Despite how mild his touch was, you’d find yourself shoving him away. You’d strike him, knocking his mask straight to the ground. You’d stare at him wide-eyed as your heart raced in distress. “Don’t touch me!” Ithaqua looked at you with a frown, his eyes glistening with tears that threatened to descend. “I’m… sorry.”

At dusk, you’d hear him muttering under his breath. His platinum hair draped over his mask, slender fingers running through his mother’s curls whilst she dozed by the fire. He sang a melody oh so familiar as you sat across him, the warmth deriving from the fireplace kissing your icy skin tenderly. “Rest, mother, I’ll watch the night.” He, himself, couldn’t bear to look at you as he sang. A feeling in his chest tugged at his heartstrings like a lyre.

When you succumbed to the land of Nod by the flames, Ithaqua enwrapped you in bundles of blankets. Ensuring that the cold wouldn’t disturb your rest. He’d leisurely remove his mask with a sigh, setting it aside. Placing a hand above yours, he reminisced the moments you two shared. The moments you’d beam from ear to ear and call out his name with bliss. Your cheeks tinted with a shade of baneberry whilst you chortled like a goober when you’d pitch a snowball toward his direction.

Yet you couldn't bring yourself to speak his name. Nor could you identify him as Ithaqua. For all you witnessed standing before you was the man who tormented you, who brought you misery and anguish. Engraved into your mind, was the man cloaked in red with a fiendish grin. Nathaniel Norwell.

When it felt like your world was collapsing before you, moments where you’d cry in hysteria out of pure dread, Ithaqua took your hands into his. Your e/c eyes darted from place to place, you took in sharp exhales as you wept. The masked man would encourage you to breathe in a voice ever so benign. “You’re here now… You’re okay…” He cooed. “Do you remember the snow, Y/N? You enjoyed making snowmen. Occasionally, you’d catch me off-guard when we’d go herb gathering and…”

His cerulean eyes met yours, yours that resembled icicles at the emergence of spring. “You… were my dearest friend. My first and foremost… Do you not remember, Y/N?” He faltered. You were utterly nonplussed, staring at the man before you with rheumy eyes. Ithaqua hung his head low, you observed the boy as he crumbled. He choked out a sob, his icy hands trembling within yours. “I’m sorry… Mother… I’m sorry… Y/N.”

Alas, the roaring wind’s cries fell to deaf ears. At twilight, the harsh winds grazed upon his tear-stained cheeks. Snowflakes licked at his loose locks, his fur cloak whirling within the gale. Hefting a distinctively large ice axe, he gazed into the raging blizzard before him. Fueled by resentment and ire, igniting straight within his core, he scorned the lunatics who dared set foot in these glacial woods. Brushing away the stray tears from his pale cheeks, a faint glimpse of light radiated upon his flushed face. Without a single word, he placed on his mask and descended into the snowy tempest.

At dawn, he’d return with his clothes stained with crimson. He kept vigil throughout the hours of darkness, underneath the clouded stars. You awoke to the clanking of his stilts against the wooden floorboards, he’d set his bloodstained axe aside and allowed the hood of his fur cloak to fall. His silver waves were ruffled, and the dim lights radiating from the flickering lanterns illuminated his weary face. You peered through half-lidded eyes, his icy hands tenderly caressing your cheek. You froze under his touch, bewildered by his actions. He spoke in a tone laced with care, a tone you weren’t quite familiar with.

“Rest, Y/N. I’ll take care of you and mother.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, his fingertips like cotton against your warm cheek. With a faint smile, he extinguished the lantern’s flame. You fell into slumber once more, hoping to someday awake from this nightmare. The young man couldn’t bear to witness his loved ones deteriorate before him. He kept the slightest lick of hope in his heart that perhaps, he’d hear his name once again. Even if that day were to never arrive, at least he has the two of you by his side.

[bippityboppity69]

Afk Arena OC Lore

I wrote this on a 6 hour car ride to go see relatives and this is about me two OCs. Delilah and her son Regalus. @irislazulee [Sorry I fell asleep]

“Mom? How come I don’t have a dad?”

Delilah paused in her cooking, before turning to look at her son, Regalus. The five year old boy had her curly black hair. One grey eye and red eye looking at her curiously. She knew this question was going to happen eventually.

Turning back to the pot of soup as she took a breath, “That’s because your father was a soldier. He d-“

“No, my real dad.” He spoke, a pout forming on his chubby cheeks. “They said I have his eye.”

Delilah froze, anxiety and dread curling in her veins. “W-who told you that?”

Regalus pointed to the wall, “The shadows did!”

What did he mean by the shadows had told him? Hand shaking as she continued stirring, looking back at her son. Echoing the question to him, the answer made one of her worst fears a reality.

“I overheard your shadow talking and asked.” Regalus spoke nonchalantly, legs kicking back and forth. “They told me he’s from the city and that I got his eye!”

Fuck.

He had taken after him. It had been a naïve hope of hers that the only thing he had gotten from his father was his red eye and the white streak in his hair. A sigh left Delilah as she brushed a hand down her face. Turns out he had inherited at least one power so far.

Jolting as an awful thought occurred, “Baby? Have you told anyone else about the shadows?”

Regalus shook his head, “No, they said not to tell because people wouldn’t understand. But your my mom so it’s okay to tell you.”

Shoulders sagging in relief, thank the heavens. “That’s good. You cannot tell anyone about this. Do you understand?"

"Yes mom.”

He gave a big smile. “So can I learn about my real dad?”

Delilah mulled over what to tell him. Brows creasing as she ladled up the soup into bowls. Setting the creamy chicken soup in front of Regalus along with a chunk of bread. Sitting across from him with her own bowl, appetite nonexistent.

“Do you remember how I said I was from the city?”

Regalus nodded as he ate his dinner, eagerly listening. For a moment, she reminisced about the life she had before. Countess Delilah Valerie Fairbank, daughter of Count William Fairbank and Countess Amelia Fairbank. She had been their only child and been raised as their heir.

The memory of silk gowns and gems that glittered with stars. Of laughing with her friends, the sound of clinking glasses and violins. Dancing with eligible bachelor’s, all vying to be chosen by her.

However, that was all in the past now. Gazing on her son, softly smiling. Brushing away some crumbs on his cheek, chuckling as he pouted at her. That was in the past now. She was just Delilah here in the town of Hillford. A widow who had lost her husband to the Hypogean war. That was the cover story.

“Your father was from the city as well.” She spoke. A pang rushing through her chest as a memory of him rushed through her. “He…was a brilliant man. Smart, elegant, and handsome.”

He was also a liar and centuries old. One of Annih’s children.

The Hypogean she had loved.

Oh, she remembered their first meeting. It had been the Flower Ball. She had been dressed in light green gown with silk embroidered flowers. Her friends had been talking about the new Earl of Kuilin, gushing about how perfect he was.

Of course he was perfect, he had been practicing that mask for years.

She had met him when she had gone out to the balcony. Spotting the middle aged man with salt and pepper hair. Dressed in purple finery, his light blue eyes had captivated her. He was handsome, a strong jawline mixed with an elegant air.

Earl Leofric of Kuilin.

“Countess Delilah?” He had bowed, kissing her knuckles. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard much about you.”

“Let me guess? The silver sword of Fairbank?”

Ah, her old moniker, the silver sword. Famed for her beauty and her sharp wit. Part of the reason she was unwed at twenty-five. That had never bothered her. A faint smile appearing as she remembered attending meetings with her father. Sorrow tinged her smile as she thought of her late father and mother.

They would have loved Regalus.

“Mom?”

“Just remembering baby.” She reassured him. “Your father and I began to meet each other. First as friends then…”

It had started with a chess game. She had just beaten Baron Giles’s son. The thrill of victory paired well with the frown on his face. The man had gone off with slumped shoulders.

“My, what a game.”

She had turned to him, “Would you like to play? I’m in need of an opponent.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

That had been the hardest game of chess she had ever played. Yet, it had been the most fun. He was a brilliant strategist, matching her every move. She had only won by one move.

“What a fantastic game.” He had praised. “I so rarely encounter such a brilliant mind.”

They had run into each other a few times after that. Playing chess, talking about politics and worldly news, it had been refreshing to talk with him. He wasn’t afraid of her wit, in fact, he had adored it. Oh, she remembered his sweet words all too well.

“Never hide your wit my dear.” He had told her. “And never marry a man who makes you.”

Was that when she had began to fall for him? There were few men in her life who admired her wit and intelligence. Her dear father had lovingly encouraged her to learn all she could. After all, she was the heir to the Fairbank estate.

She still remembered the day their relationship had changed.

She had been at his manor, chatting and laughing. Both jumping at the sudden boom of thunder. The rain had been unexpected and heavy enough that the carriage could not move through.

Leofric, he preferred Leo, had offered her a room. They had talked into the evening, retiring to the lounge. The deck of cards on the table had given her the idea. A friendly game of poker.

“Poker? Many would say that is an unladylike game.” He had gently teased.

"Only those afraid to lose. Are you one?”

He had chuckled, “Not al all. I’ll even let the dealer choose our game.”

The steady motion of shuffling the deck. That sweet and calming scent of clove cigars. Brandy glasses clinking mixed with the sound of rain. It had been so calming. Wins had been passed back and forth. The mixture of all had made her bold, made her desire for him rise.

“How about we add some stakes to this game?”

“What do you suggest?”

A mischievous smile on her lips as she looked at him. “A very unladylike wager.”

Interest in his eyes. “Oh?”

“How do you feel about a bet of clothing?”

“Very unladylike.” He had spoken after a moment. “Are you sure of this?”

“Of course. I did suggest it.”

Had she purposefully lost a few hands? Of course. Leaving her hair undone, the dark mass of curls reaching her hips. Shoes, stockings, and her overdress being discarded.

Leofric had then lost a few hands. Removing his jacket, gloves, and waist coat. Competitive nature mixing with a growing lust. He had won the next hand. A hunger in his gaze as she removed her corset, now in just her shift.

“Your turn~”

“…Shall we drop this charade, my dear?”

Those masks of civility had been thrown off without a second thought. Strong hands on her thighs. Soft hair between her fingers. Broad shoulders to claw as he purred praises in her ear.

God’s above, he was a beast in the bedroom.

Skipping that part and the next as she spoke to Regalus. He had made her happy in so many ways. A perfect gentlemen. Part of her regretted that day she had found those papers. Wishing to remain in that blissful lie.

Oh, that horrible paper. Filled with all the places he had visited. All his informants that dated back centuries. Lists of crossed out names and maps with X’s.

“Brother’s cult, avoid during travels.”

“Sister’s new home. Ensure Lester knows and avoid.”

Then the books, the ones written in a language that made her vision darken and her head ring. Those strange relics that felt cold and made her shake. She had always been smart and all the evidence pointed to one thing.

Leofric was a Hypogean.

She had been so scared. Yet, panic was the worst thing to do in this moment. Delilah had cleaned any traces she had left, had carefully ensured nothing was out of place. Then she had left, still wearing a smile as her mind was a mess.

The next day, the Hypogeans had attacked.

That day was burned into her memory. The arid smoke, screams echoing through the air. Her father telling her to run, throwing a sword to her. The smell of iron as he was cut down. Her mother’s wail turning into a gurgle.

She had ran as fast as she could. Purple splattering her grey gown as she sliced the Hypogean. Feet flying across stone as she fled the city with nothing but the clothes on her back and a purse of gold.

Tears streaming down her face as her home drowned in flames. Shoving her emotions away as she focused on staying alive. Luckily she knew this city like the back of her hand.

“Delilah!”

Fear and anxiety at Leofric’s voice, confusion at his fearful tone. Catching a glimpse of him, outfit torn and a bloody sword in hand. She had originally thought he had been behind this attack. Yet, she had never seen him with such a distraught look as he frantically looked for her.

Eyes wide as she saw a Hypofiend lunge at him. Breath catching as he had turned, eyes turning red. The creature being dragged into shadows, leaving a mass of purple gore.

She had turned and ran without a second thought.

It was too much of a risk. He was a Hypogean. Let him believe her gone, it was for her safety. Even if her heart wailed with grief, she would not let it win. Managing to make it out of the city, the family on the cart had called out to her. Helping her up as the group fled from the burning city.

The next few days were a blur to her. The family had been kind enough to let her ride along to their hometown of Hillford. It had been that journey that gave her time to make a cover. She was the wife of a soldier, newly prompted to general. The sword in her hand was his, taken from his still warm corpse.

“Oh you poor child.” Mary had hugged her. “Do you have any family?”

“Just him…”

Sticking to her story, weaving in details about being a lady in waiting. Mary mentioning working for a kind Lady, who was a widow herself. A kind woman who needed a governess for her young granddaughter.

Dura must have been watching over her.

Mary and her husband, Darin, had helped her meet Lady Guinevere. The older woman had approved of Delilah’s skills and offered her a job and even a room. Thankfully, the gold she had helped with clothing and food. Storing the remaining amount safely away.

A new life away from Kuilin and Leofric.

That was how life was for two months. Until one day, she had passed out while teaching young Lady Adela. A fright for everyone. She had awoken a few moments later, but Lady Guinevere demanded a doctor look her over. Which was when she had gotten the news.

She was pregnant.

The news had shocked Delilah. She had taken every precaution! The thought of canceling crossed her mind before a hand had grabbed hers. Lady Guinevere had tears in her eyes as she smiled.

“He left one last gift of love.”

Did Leofric love her? Perhaps he did, he certainly doted on her. Giving her gifts and trinkets, a gentle smile that was only for her. She had loved him, part of her still did. She had decided then and there to keep this child.

“And that little baby was you.” Delilah said. “My wonderful little Regalus.”

“Dad was a noble?”

“Yes he was, that’s why we don’t go to the cities.”

Avoid the cities. That was the best way to avoid Leofric and anyone that would recognize her. She had to be careful. After all, she had someone to protect.

“Alright, now it is time for bed.”

Regalus gave a light protest before getting up to brush his teeth. The promise of reading “The Dreamwoods Fairy” working like a charm. Brushing his hair as she softly spoke, watching as Regalus nodded off to sleep.

“Hey mom?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too baby.” Kissing his forehead. “Get some rest, you have school tomorrow.”

[spencermorgans]

Incorrect Quotes Generator V: Unsub College Apartment Edition

I'm writing a college AU where the absolute terror trio of Hankel, Foyet, and Frank share an apartment so. Fleshing out the world

Squad is playing Among Us Foyet: I believe Hankel is innocent, I was with them the whole time. Frank, what were you doing? Frank: Oh, I was just murdering… I mean, nothing!

-

Hankel: Is Foyet always like this when they lose? Frank: Oh, yes. You should've been there for the Great Jenga Tantrum of 2015. Foyet: You bumped that table and you know it!

-

Hankel: Not gonna lie, I'm kind of afraid of Frank… Foyet: As you should be. Hankel: No, for real, they're kind of- Foyet: As. You. Should. Be.

-

Foyet: Guys where did Hankel go? Frank: They got arrested. Foyet: How the hell- Hankel: bursts in through the window The cops are after me, I thought it would be fun to steal crackers and throw them at people.

-

Frank (brainstorming ideas for pranking Hankel): How much could a serial killer mask possibly cost? Foyet: Well it’s hard to find a high-quality one made out of leather or silicone, but if you did find a good one like that it’d be a couple thousands of dollars. I can try to hook you up with one but I don’t know if I’d be very successful. Frank: Huh, that’s pretty interesting actually- Wait, how the hell do you know that? Foyet: …I am very passionate about Halloween, Frank.

-

Foyet: The best part of an oreo is the cookie part, not the frosting. Deal with it. Hankel: Darkness without light is an abyss. Light without darkness is blinding. You cannot have a coin with one side. Frank: YO SOCRATES! IT'S A FUCKING COOKIE!

-

Hankel: I mean. Foyet's just standing there now. Hankel: Waiting for me, I guess. Hankel: But it's okay, I think they've pretty much settled down. Frank: Settled down? Hankel: Well, they only stabbed me once.

-

Frank: Coca Cola can remove rust from metal, imagine what it’s doing to your body. Hankel: Pfff, getting rid of the rust, idiot. Frank: THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS! Foyet: Hmm… I've been drinking soda and my body's rust free… not sure where you're getting your facts from…

-

Hankel: It's locked. You got a lock pick? Frank: Yeah- Foyet: kicks in the door

-

Frank: You are irrationally angry 365 days a year. Foyet: Well, that’s just your personal opinion, I don’t have anger issues. Do you guys think I have anger issues? Hankel: Well, I wouldn’t really call it an issue. An issue is something you can fix.

-

Hankel: But what about Spencer? They were my SOULMATE! Foyet: You said that about a ball of yarn once!

-

Hankel: Blue M&Ms are the best. Foyet: whAT IS THIS SLANDER? Hankel: What about it? They are. Foyet: I WILL NOT ALLOW SUCH LIES ON MY CHRISTIAN MINECRAFT SERVER! Foyet: THE RED ONES ARE THE BEST! Hankel: YEAH? WELL YOUR MOM'S A HO! Frank: They're all chocolate inside, the colors don't mean anything. Spencer: I like the yellow ones. Hankel and Foyet: SHUT THE FUCK YOUR MOUTH!

-

Hankel: They… well, I wouldn't call it inheritance per se. What do you call it when you kill someone and get their stuff? Spencer: Um, murder??? Frank: Adventuring! Foyet: Tuesday.

-

Hankel: Oh, fiddlesticks! That really ruffles my feathers! Foyet: Please, just say fuck.

-

Foyet and Frank are in a car teetering on the edge of a cliff Hankel: oh my god, Frank, backwards! Frank: Really, Hankel? I thought I might go forwards into the river, I thought that would be a fun thing to do.

-

Frank: If I may interject… Foyet: Oh, awesome, Frank was eavesdropping.

-

Foyet: What's wrong with you? Hankel: Off the top of my head, I'd say low self-esteem, a lack of paternal affection, and a genetic predisposition for anxiety and depression.

[rosethornewrites]

I saw my new PCP on Monday and got the fun job of explaining my conditions. I’ve previously had doctors who ignored my needs or told me to lose weight, so it’s scary to have to try to convince them that, yes, I am very sick, too sick to work, but I don’t want to be that sick. I miss working. I miss keeping my mind engaged.

So I decided to preface everything with, “You know, a year ago I was a professor at a state university, living in my own apartment. Before I got sick I used to go to a ton of events and travel places. And I spent so much energy pushing through to try to keep going that I burned myself out. Now I am in so much pain and have so much brain fog that even getting out of bed is a challenge. It feels like my life has crumbled around me, and I want to get it back.”

And then I discussed my medical history, what I’ve done to get treatment so far (getting on Medicaid, getting a behavioral health specialist, a dermatologist, a rheumatologist, etc., all involving dozens of phone calls each just to find someone who specializes), the setbacks I’ve faced and how it’s changed how I face seeking healthcare (that all my providers are women is not an accident), and the medications I’m currently taking and what they’re for. How I discovered I can’t have sulfa antibiotics.

It’s a lot—just the medications, I take a biologic injection every two weeks, 2 anxiety medications, an antidepressant that also helps with fibromyalgia, a controlled substance for my pain (NOT an opioid), a medication to control my insulin resistance, an anti-inflammatory, a low dose of antibiotics, and blood pressure medication. Oh right, and birth control, which is supposed to help with the HS. That’s just the prescriptions—I take OTCs and supplements that are meant to help keep my conditions under control because I researched copiously while trying to push through.

How long it took me to be diagnosed with HS (despite telling my PCP at the time I thought I had it, I was diagnosed on sight by a gynecologist two years later, who then referred me to a dermatologist), and the story of how I realized something was terribly fucked up with my body. The struggles with pain. How I take cannabis but hate that it doesn’t allow me to have a clear mind. The years of insomnia, which is a symptom of multiple conditions I have.

I have so many horror stories about my health that my horror stories have horror stories, and those are fun to relate, in graphic detail so they know exactly how bad it is.

It’s this fucked up cycle of having to convince a doctor you’re sick (apparently they don’t want to believe you if you say you are) and actually get treatment, except you get stuck on step 1 because everything must be weight-related and therefore I should just lose weight.

I been fat my whole life. This other shit is new. Catch up.

But then they get mad if you’re “difficult” aka advocating for your health.

Knowing that nearly everyone with chronic illnesses goes this, and even worse than me typically, is distressing.

I knew my chronic pain was fibromyalgia because my mom struggles with it and eventually got diagnosed after being told half her life it was in her head. I was lucky. I have to consider inheriting a debilitating illness from my mom lucky because at least I knew what it was from her experiences.

Every new doctor I see, I feel like I have to vet for egotism because that’s generally the mark of a hot dog who won’t listen or care.

All I really want is treatment so I can maybe get my life back.

[thewalkingcigarette]

I’m smoking cigarettes with my mom and for a split moment, when the darkness covers her fifty year old face, I see nothing but a teenage girl breezing past me in the hallways. Her bleach blond hair, her mascara thick eyelashes, her skinny jeans from 2016, and I am one with her and everything she wanted and nothing she could be. A degree from college, a career path forward, and I know her heart ached when I cut my hair. I healed it when I bleached it blond, as if I were telling her, I am your son. I am your son. I am yours.

My mom is telling me about her college days over split cigarettes and cheap alcoholic seltzer. I tell her it’s alright, I become a historian, I am categorizing your life amongst millions. You are my mother but you are more, you are a woman with a story before you’re my bringer, you pushed me out and you didn’t leave yourself behind, you inched it into me and left me with the scattered pieces, but you still retain yours. Why do I panic at the slight mention of a name? Why does my nose itch when the cocaine is pulled out, the molly, the LSD, the life and the world in one small tablet, I am hungry and I am begging, tell me mother of every moment you have had. She says my father would leave her if he knew the real her. When I told her I was gay, her first thought was fear, she thought I had escaped the grasp of manhood by becoming its knuckles.

I told her I was dating you and she didn’t flinch. She has an intuition for these things. The way life happens, she maps it out, she observes, she is more of me than I have given her credit for. I am my father’s anger and my mother’s fear. I just don’t want it to go… bad, for you, Finn. She doesn’t know that when she tells me this, I think of thin red lines, thicker in the harder places, sobbing over her lap, soggy tears wetting her skinny jeans. She doesn’t know I think of this, and I wonder if she thinks of it, too. Nights spend rotting. Days spent vomiting. Does she know I inherited her eating disorder, her drinking problems, her anxiety?

I am drowning under water, each movement is slow, the foggy blur of liquid vision. I speak and watch the bubbles gurgle out from between my lips. I love you and I’m sorry. All you feel are soggy sonnets, blurred ink.

[she-karev]

Diagnosis (Andrew DeLuca One Shot Angst)

Age Rating: 12+

Chapters: One of One

Fandom: Grey’s Anatomy

Ship: Andrew DeLuca x Amber Karev (Alex Karev’s Sister)

Canon Episode: Grey’s Anatomy Season 16 Episode 14

AN: Hey guys I just learned that it’s Mental Health Awareness month so I decided to do one shots of Amber Karev bearing witness to Andrew DeLuca’s declining mental health in Season 16. Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of guys, it’s hard but with the right therapies and medication you can live your best life with the help of the people who love and support you. I’ve included a list of websites if you or someone you know is experiencing a mental health crisis.

Mental Health Resources: https://www.nami.org/, https://www.aacap.org/, https://www.dbsalliance.org/, https://afsp.org/

Summary: After diagnosing Suzanne and inserting steroids in her IV without asking for a second opinion Amber confronts Andrew at their apartment where things get intense and Andrew says something he can never take back.

Words: 2014

I sip my second glass of wine so I can prep myself for the inevitable fight that is about to erupt between me and my boyfriend. I look around our apartment that we got together a year ago so I can pick out the best escape route in case he gets physical. The thought makes my stomach tighten even more and memories of my childhood flashback in my head.

The foster homes I was bounced around in when my mother had to be committed and the fear I felt every time I stepped into a new home. The paralyzing terror I felt when I saw my mom lying in a hospital bed after she drove into a stop sign convinced, she saw an alien about to kill her. And worst of all the pain I felt the morning after my brother, Aaron, beat me up and broke my jaw because he inherited our mother’s horrible illness. And now…now I have to come to terms with the man I love possibly inheriting his father’s mental illness.

For the past few weeks Andrew has been working nonstop on a single patient named Suzanne Britland. She came in for a routine lap appy conducted by Andrew but then she experienced complications after and was showing multiple symptoms that don’t usually come from having your appendix removed. He’s been working with this diagnostic specialist until his behavior sparked concerns. His function so far has been to walk and work, it’s been shown based on the dark circles under his eyes and how baggy his scrubs got telling me he’s been skipping meals.

It got so bad that Dr. Grey went to the chief with these concerns and Bailey handed the case over to Grey, which made Andrew furious given how he snapped at me when I went to him after. He told me that there are more important things in his life than me and that I should stop being selfish for once in my life. His harsh words caught me off guard, those weren’t the words coming from the sweet and sensitive man who slowly got me to let my guard down and let him into my heart.

It got even worse when he went full cowboy on his bosses and inserted high dose steroids into Suzanne’s IV without even consulting Grey or Bailey. His diagnosis was right but that doesn’t make what he did okay. It was only okay because Suzanne got better thanks to the drugs. She was on deaths door when he made that call and if he was wrong, she could have died. The thought of that happening brings me back to the day he told me about how his father killed four patients because he was manic and refused help from his coworkers. The outcome is different but him refusing to work with his superiors to make sure the diagnosis was accurate is the same. It supports Carina’s theory more and more.

Carina talked to me today while Andrew was working and told me he’s the same age his father was when he started showing symptoms. When I heard that everything in me stopped and I felt my anxiety climbing up but I was able to breathe through it and dismiss her concerns. I thought he was just being a surgeon working hard to save his patient. I was hoping that was the case but now I’m not so sure.

Suddenly the door opens and a loud slam is heard from the kitchen table I’m sitting at. I chug the last of my wine down before Andrew walks into my view but doesn’t even look at me. He just heads straight for the fridge that he slams closed loudly as well causing me to jump. From his expression I can see that he’s angry most likely at Bailey and Grey for telling him off after what he did. I take a moment to plan on how to navigate this problem I’ve had so much experience in and decide to cushion the blow with a compliment on the outcome before I point out the flaw in his actions.

“Um…good job with Suzanne you finally found out what was wrong.” Andrew heard me but he ignores me as he takes a sip from his beer and sits in the armchair in the living room with his back towards me. I take a deep breath before I stand up and approach him with back of the chair facing me, “Look I’m glad you were right but what if you weren’t? You didn’t take a second to talk to Grey and Bailey to make sure your diagnosis was accurate you just took the drugs and ran with it.” Andrew groans under his breath and leans forward on his knees clearly agitated, “If you were wrong those drugs could have wiped out her entire immune system and she would have died. And if that happened you wouldn’t have just lost your job you would have lost your license.”

Andrew puts his beer down on the coffee table with a loud thud scaring me for a moment before he speaks clearly frustrated, “You know what I really don’t need this right now and not from you. You weren’t Suzanne’s doctor I was and you didn’t know what was going on the entire time I have been busting my ass trying to fix her. I’m getting sick and tired of defending myself to people after I saved her life! Can I just get to my home without being attacked for Christ’s sake!”

“No one is attacking you, look Andrew you have always been this pillar of calm and logical thinking. We all know that and you doing what you just did understandably sparks concerns from all of us.” Andrew rubs his temple clearly struggling, “I’m just trying to tell you that you don’t seem okay.”

“And how the hell would you know?!” I am startled by his sudden need to scream as he stands up to face me fully with a furious face, “You weren’t there you don’t know what happened or what I’ve been through these last few weeks! What makes you think you have the right to judge me?!”

My anxiety is getting higher but I try to push through it and soothe him, “Okay look Andrew you’re getting hysterical let’s just take a breather and-”

“I saved her life!” He ignores my attempts to calm him down and continues to scream at me, “I did that, okay?! Against all odds, it was a one in a million diagnosis! I did the job that needed to be done!

“Listen to yourself you sound like your father!” My words definitely got through to him because he stops his tirade and just stares at me hurt and shocked by my words. I put my hand over my mouth shocked I said them too. I guess dealing with another mentally ill loved one has pushed me over the edge and my mouth says the first thing my brain thinks, “I’m sorry that’s not what I meant you’re not him but…the way your acting is alarming and…Carina thinks you are at a mental breakdown and that you inherited his illness and I’m starting to think…I’m starting to think that maybe she’s right.”

Andrew’s face goes back to being angry and I can tell I’ve hit a nerve, “I missed a couple of days of sleep and suddenly you think I have a mental problem? Do you know how crazy that is?!”

I sigh at this rapid decline, “Listen to me please listen to me you need to get ahead of this before it gets worse.” Andrew chuckles darkly as I continue, “You know the history in your family and you know what your dad was like in a manic state. You’re not yourself right now and I know what the signs of a mental breakdown are. You need to calm down so we can figure this out.”

“The only thing I need is for you to back off!”

“Back off?!” I ask incredulous over his behavior, “You’re telling me to back off?”

“Yeah, because what you are telling me right now is crazy!” I rub my face in frustration as he continues, “I did this great thing on my own without anybody’s help and you have to take it away from me. Are you really that much of a shark?!”

I reach screaming levels too as I get frustrated by my boyfriend’s inability to see my point of view, “This isn’t about me being a shark! This is about you not considering the consequences of your actions!”

“The consequences were that Suzanne would have died because of a waiting people and her kids would be orphans!”

“No, the consequences were that Suzanne would have no bone marrow at all and that would kill her before the disease did. You made that decision to risk her life when you were exhausted to death and didn’t consider what the outcome would be if you were wrong.” My emotions get the better of me as my voice quivers, “Please tell me that you can see that.”

“What I see right now is a woman whose childhood of horrors gave her serious control issues.” I almost scream out loud as I feel like pulling my hair out, “Tell me something did you go up to your brother and tell him that he was crazy before he bashed your face in?” I widen my eyes in shock at him using the worst moment of my life against me that he ignores as he continues in a tone of voice that tells me he is trying actively to hurt me with his words, “You think I need your help that I can’t survive without you well let me ask you where do you think you would be right now if I wasn’t around you and your flaws and insecurities? Let me tell you.”

I finally found my words so I can stop him from saying something else he is going to regret, “Andrew DeLuca you are angry and tired. So, you better think about what your gonna say before-”

“You would end up like your father.”

I stand in front of him frozen by his cruel statement calling into question every time he told me I was nothing like my family and comforting me when I was worried about inheriting my mother’s illness or my father’s drug abuse. I get angrier at him by the second as he continues to debase me and point out what would happen to me if he left.

“You’d get in your car and leave the people that you’re supposed to care about behind to pick up the pieces. You’d pick up odd jobs wherever you could, ignore what you did, hell you might even-”

I stop his words with a hard slap to his face before he finishes that sentence. When he brought up my father my emotions took a 180 going from sad about losing him to this illness to angry about him throwing the worst moment of my life at my face just to hurt me. He was the first person here I talked to about my brother Aaron beating me up when he had a psychotic break. And about my father and how he left me when I was a baby after abusing my mom and brothers. I trusted him with that knowledge and now he took that trust and twisted it and it angers me more than I thought I could be.

He flinched at the slap and it stopped his tirade. He turns to me and we stare at each other, a red imprint spreads across his left cheek. I inhale sharply as my whole world tilts off its axis, everything I’ve known and believed in for two years suddenly in brutal doubt. Andrew’s chest heaves his expression a mask of fury. He pushes past me. A few seconds later the door slams shut. 

I slide to the floor and sob until I can hardly breathe.

[weabooweedwitch]

I say this as someone who's followed you for years and with as much kindness as possible:

Get the fuck away from your mother. Ditch her fuckin ass. She's repeatedly making things worse and refuses to learn. You need to get away from her, for your own good.

I know I might be repeating what other people have said, or even what you have thought of doing, but holy shit this bitch is actively ruining your life through sheer stupidity.

I hope things get better

I feel bad that people have to keep giving me this kind of advice because I realize it's the most obvious answer, and there are multiple reasons separating from my mother would be good for us both. I feel bad that i keep sharing all these worrying stories and worrying people and then at the end of the day, I'm way too scared to actually try and fix things. I just worry so much about not being able to take care of myself, not being able to drive, what if I go somewhere and it's harder if not impossible for me to get to work, just. I worry about everything. Honestly the thing that worries me the most is keeping my job or not being able to transfer if I went somewhere else. My wage is currently $19 an hour, my 58 yo mom was making $22, so like, I'm helping hold it all together with rent BECAUSE of that income. I'm so scared of losing that.

I've had people ask if there's any family I can go to and the only possible option would be maybe my father who is in another state, I cannot remember if it is in Illinois or Missouri (ugh, they may have passed recreational weed but thats the only good thing thats came outta thar state in like the last 2 decades). And I don't know if that would be good either. But it's an option I'm beginning to consider. But I am sort of still in the reconnecting process with my dad and we've butted heads a few times and he also has his own physical and emotional issues. Actually I think he is where I inherited a lot of mental illness from because he also has an anxiety disorder and we are almost positive he has equinus like me. He also has developed type 2 diabetes and I am really bad with sugar impulse control, what if I hurt my dad because I can't stop bringing sweets into the house and he eats them too 🥺

It just. Personally makes me hate myself to even think of "hiya pops, we've barely spoken in the last 10 years, I've been really ahitty about talking to you consistently since we've said hi again and lost my temper with you a few times, hey I know you're on a fixed income and out of a job right now (or was, maybe he has one now, we've spoken so little idk) but is it OK if I come live in your house as a whiny codependent barely functioning weed addict of an adult?" 😅

But yeah I just. This is really. It just never ends. I keep fighting myself and beating myself up on "who's right, am I right, am I wrong, am I overreacting, whats going on, what do I do, someone tell me what to do because I'm too stupid to do things right" and it's just. I also still love my mother even if that love is being increasingly mixed with resentment. I worry about her ability to take care of herself because her health is getting worse and, like, I worry about her mentally a lot. Like this tooth infection she has, is because she doesn't have the best dental hygiene, and had fillings and such, and even after needing fillings still takes shit care of her teeth, and was putting off getting like broken teeth and such taken care of, and, they're now having to pull SEVEN of her back teeth. She'll need dentures to eat certain foods now. And I'm not better, I basically stopped brushing my teeth for many years because I literally expected to be dead before they rotted out of my mouth and now I'm scrambling to adopt that routine again, and also like.

Sorry but my mom and a dentist literally lied to me when i was a little girl and said i had several cavities because they thought i would be scared into brushing my teeth and all that did was convince me everything was pointless and needed to give up since it was already damaged, and she refuses to apologize or even acknowledge how that literally helped me develop a complex and felt helpless when SHE LIED TO ME, A CHILD, HER CHILD (and also i think my difficulty keeping routines is a combination just needing to apply myself and having adhd issue because like, I've been pretty good with my skincare at least)

I just. I love her but I hate her. If I'm not careful to keep myself calm I'm going to escalate to the physical level. And to be honest I've had the opinion for many years that, all those times my mom told extremely age inappropriate stories to little tiny baby Miranda about her experiences with assault and domestic violence, even as a kid I would think, "well you like don't listen, you shut people down, you insist youre always right, I want to hit you all the time too, maybe it wasn't them but maybe you got yourself hit by constantly pushing everyone around you to their breaking point" like clearly that's not a healthy thought to have and I. I am kind of convinced at this point that almost every single bad thing that had ever happened to this woman was her own fault in some way shape or form. But you could also say that about me

What's scary is that I can't even think of going anywhere without having savings first and I'm constantly being pushed to my limits to the point I don't HAVE any savings, it's all getting sucked up. I dunno how else I can get out of this pit and I'm just, mentally worn down from any entire life of this. I feel useless and exploited at home and then I go to work and feel useless and exploited at work and by society. Like. Life feels so bleak. My Canadian friend is getting in worse health. I still have a lot of affection for him but he's also uh done and said a few things I really disagree with on personal levels and it, gives me some pause, like. I genuinely am so sad all the time. I need to go back to the psychiatrist to get some medicines again but, I am working and making enough money that after my state insurance expires in October, I'll have to go through my work, and that doesn't 100% cover everything so, j wouldn't be able to afford anything at that point

Just. Ugh. I try to write down my thoughts and listen to music and try to write on my other blog to cheer myself up but I just. What can you do right. What am I good for. What is anyone good for. What is this world itself good for. Our entire species is gonna go extinct with climate change anyways. Why should I keep struggling and suffering like this when it's. Idk. Arguably all for nothing. We'll all be nothing more than just dogs following commands and paying bills until we die

[dhampiravidi]

to those who have an issue w/drag (& tbh, queer/nonconforming people in general)

TL;DR: please don't follow me if you are the above. I'd be supporting ignorance. Here's my explanation.

Brief background (on me & my stance): I was born AFAB, to parents who, for most of my childhood, either took no stance or a liberal stance in conversations that became politicized/publicized by the media. My school didn't talk about politics until President Obama was elected (& ofc his election was seen as a historic, positive moment). Anyway, no one talked about sexuality, biological sex, or gender identity--all of which are different, sometimes overlapping topics.

Then my mom happened to have a young student who had 2 dads. I was confused. When they'd hug or kiss (nothing graphic, just regular couple stuff), I felt...weird. No, not aroused OR disgusted--I was maybe 8 at the time, anyway. But I was definitely not used to seeing or hearing about gay people. Whenever that good ol' scene where 2 sexy college girls kiss to appease a bunch of boys came on the TV, my mom would roll her eyes. When 2 men would kiss in a different scene, my dad would make an excuse and leave. Long story short, until I literally Googled what it was to be queer, I didn't understand what I had seen. I'd learn that my mom supported all queer people (going as far as to publicly support a student's efforts to transition in high school) and my dad, who is still learning, grew up exposed to extremely heteronormative ideals.

Now we get to my identities.

I started to question my sexuality at 10, but I wasn't "sure"* that I was bisexual/pansexual (I don't mind either term; yes, I "can" be attracted to trans people) until I was 12. Unfortunately, my parents initially tried to ignore my realization. They didn't want to talk about it. But I had friends who came out at the same time. (I was also a very salty high schooler.) So I kept pushing and pushing for the discussion, because I had a right to be heard. I had a right to be myself and not lie about who I was. My parents had always talked about how I should be proud to be a smart Black woman, so...I ran with that. I am lucky to have a family who (finally) accepts my sexuality.

Again, I'm AFAB. I don't mind my genitalia. I hate my body, but that (for me) is tied to my mental health, as I have been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (I inherited a disposition to this), Generalized Anxiety Disorder (the result of several environmental and self-imposed factors), and Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (due to some trauma experienced outside my home). I have thought about having traditionally-male genitalia, but I don't think I personally need it to be happy. However, I acknowledge that this is just how I feel, and it doesn't take away from how others feel.

I didn't even think much about my own gender until the last year or so. I only knew that I had always been unhappy with my social life. I currently have a badass handful of buddies who I love SO MUCH, but I still sometimes feel...wrong. When I look in the mirror, I don't just feel ugly. I don't think I look human. I hung out with boys throughout elementary school and I (mostly via the CW and Disney Channel) was exposed to a lot of what some call the "male gaze". For example, I remember all the shows that featured a girl (usually the male characters' crush(es)) getting splashed with water--enough so her petite hourglass form would show through her then-transparent clothes. So I had an idea of what beauty was. Somehow, I also had an idea of what being cool/handsome (my words for "beautiful in a masculine way" back then) was: toned muscles, the ability to intimidate anyone, wearing tight clothes, etc. Anyway, I started school early, meaning that until maybe the end of middle school, I was always shorter than everyone else. I didn't mind being called cute all the time, until my friends were getting asked out as teenagers. Suddenly, I wanted to be seen as attractive. I ended up basing my self-image on how many people had crushes on me (which appeared to be zero, according to how many people turned me down). My point is, I believed that I had to be pretty for men. Then I realized that I liked women TOO, which irritated me because even when I came out, it saddened me that I still wasn't getting asked out (despite me supposedly having TWO TIMES the chance to find love, in my mind). In the end...I found that I identify as nonbinary. I'm agender, possibly genderfluid, because I don't understand OR want to conform to society's standards for gender (at least, in the USA). (Also, a bunch of the people I had crushes on years ago were actually insensitive jerks, but that's not the point.)

Elon Musk has said one thing that I might actually agree with. Said loosely, he asked why people are bothering to look so closely at gender when we claim that Western Civilization has come so far in terms of gender roles. Why DO people have a problem if someone who is AMAB wears a dress or a skirt? Kilts are part of Celtic culture, for both men and women. The Ancient/Classical Greek civilization that is so revered by so many countries had a garment called the chiton, a knee-length tunic worn by both men and women. Plenty of cultures throughout human history have worn ceremonial and/or optional makeup. Why DO some Americans still take issue with men teaching kids in elementary school? Is that any worse than a woman becoming President of the United States?

I was inspired to write this because of all the recent ideological and legislative attacks on human rights, specifically those of trans people and/or drag performers. I thought about the friends I have who identify as trans, and who have expressed their joy at discovering their identity. They are so relieved and happy and they have the most beautiful smiles when they detail their journeys. Their happiness isn't hurting anyone. I also thought about drag in general. I haven't been to a live drag show (yet), but I've seen the show Legendary (a dance show featuring drag, among other elements of queer culture) as well as the Netflix documentary Disclosure (a film about how trans people have historically been depicted in media). Drag is art, and for some, it's a lifestyle. It might be a kink or fetish for some people, in the same way that intercrural sex or lingerie might be. What it is NOT is a way that people commonly commit crimes--as the media has often claimed in the past, by showing AMAB "transvestite" serial killers wearing dresses to seduce their victims. It is NOT encouraging children to have sex at horribly young ages. And as many have explained, a drag queen is most definitely no more dangerous than a person (of ANY gender) purchasing an automatic weapon. If anything, seeing someone in drag perform can be an awesome learning experience for kids. They'll be exposed to a marginalized community that they may find themselves as part of as an adult. They won't grow up like I did, feeling like something is wrong with them just because they didn't know their identity existed.

I am not perfect and I do not claim to be. I had to do a lot of research to learn what I know about various communities. I still research online and ask (thoughtful) questions when members of these communities allow it. Until this year, I had no idea that some nonbinary people choose to get top surgery and/or begin hormone therapy because they like the way it helps others view them as more androgynous individuals. I did not know how much hormone therapy could cost (it's a heartbreaking reality, considering the meaning behind the whole process). I did not know that drag, something that I always saw as a fabulous form of self-expression and pure happiness, would be demonized by so many people.

I don't think this IS an opinion, but uh:

Gender Identities: woman, man, agender, nonbinary, two-spirit (term exclusive to Indigenous North Americans), etc.

Sexualities: gay, straight, queer, bisexual, pansexual, asexual, etc.

Sex: AFAB/female, AMAB/male, intersex.

People who are transgender are absolutely valid, whether or not they get and/or disclose their thoughts on personal sexual reassignment surgery. The term transgender is difficult to evaluate as a word because it's somewhere between gender identity and sex. In English, we say that someone identifies as trans, but someone who is a transwoman, for example, is someone AMAB (or possibly intersex) who identifies as a woman. But again, these people still exist and deserve just as much respect as anyone else.

No one hates people who grew up unaware of the queer community. The problem are those who hate queer people for simply being different--in essence, for those who pose a threat to the fantasy of a forever-heteronormative society that promotes unrealistic ideals.

*stuff in parentheses includes terms that you may not agree with, but it's how the mainstream media and groups I've interacted with define certain concepts. I'm sorry if the phrasing isn't perfect--despite my Master's and Bachelor's in various sections of the English Department, choosing the correct words to define feelings is still difficult.

[eggxdragoon]

I hope to stop talking about my personal life and circumstances to anyone now because the only times I have, people claim to understand and support me through it but then instantly switch and rudely use it against me as if they want to blame me and say it's my fault, as a way to insult me the second they start to hate me for other reasons

anyone who blames me for being stuck in life at the moment and finding it hard to progress in any of the ways one is expected at my age, despite knowing the reasons are fucking scum. especially when they rub it in my face like I'm just some lazy horrible stubborn piece of shit despite the mental and physical agony I'm in on a daily basis

I had years of my childhood stolen by all the horrible traumatic and depressing shit I went through that I don't even speak of and also forced isolation throughout all teen years so I never knew what it was like to be social. I'm still a stranger to the world who hasn't talked to anyone outside family in years because it's so hard and scary to even fathom now

I have anxiety that can be debilitating because the reason I was successfully lured into forced isolation is when it was initially taken advantage of by an abuser saying "see everyone hurts you and is dangerous and out to get you and are your enemy, people suck and it'd be better to live far away from all human life" and I was manipulated into believing it was true for years and when I tried to break out of that mindset I was still trapped physically because they had me trapped

I'm sick of people just being like stfu idiot and get meds and go into therapy in a condescending way even when they know this. it's so insensitive and rude and I don't care if their intentions are to help. motivation and support is going to be better than "it's all your fault you're a fucking idiot go take meds and therapy and become someone I like better and is accepted by society" those are reasons my brain tells me I deserve to suffer already, it's encouraging me to stay in it

I can't take meds for all that because the amount my mom has to be medicated and how she still uses drugs and alcohol to cope on top, how she still treated me despite that, and all the side affects that would massively fuck up my life even more as someone who already has low empathy, bouts of intense numbness where I'm especially suicidal, and how the last thing I need is for that to improve and for my dick to stop working on top of that has made it not for me, I have to find other ways

and therapy is a lot and something that's taking a lot of effort to even consider let alone push myself into it, going from someone who hasn't talked to anyone outside family for years to talking to a stranger about darkest thoughts and memories and secrets would be scary. either way I don't feel I'll ever be able to properly talk about my worst problems anyway because the things I'd have to share would be incriminating for abusers so it could be genuinely fucking dangerous and I'm scared

and then there's the way I'm so depressed it kills me and it's like I've I inherited my mom's major depression but again I can't be medicated for it. and I have to act used to it and joke about it a lot to family but the physical fatigue and chronic pain I feel is really fucking agonizing. I can't remember what it's like to not be tired and aching and sore. I can't remember what it's like to sleep normally. I wish just getting out of bed wasn't such a challenge for me mentally and physically

so fuck you for saying they're just excuses and that I'm just rejecting the idea of getting better. I CAN'T right now because the abusive fucking assholes made sure of that. I can't be a normal functioning adult because I didn't even get to be a fucking kid. not that I'm going to let the abusers win but just staying alive as long as I'm stuck in this will always be enough of a challenge as is. I'm fighting so fucking hard and nobody will understand or appreciate that effort when all I want to do most of the time is die

and this is the tip of the fucking iceberg because all the disgusting and fucked up things that happened to me that I can't talk about causes enough deep mental anguish that I can't even bear to uncover and consider taking with me to the grave. and then comes my living situation and all the tragedy in my life. but even when people know all this, as soon as they hate me I'm apparently just a liar. apparently I'm just a suicide threatener and manipulator. apparently my pain isn't real. I fucking wish it wasn't. fuck you

I've been given every reason to start repressing myself and my feelings around others again. I'm spiralling back into those thoughts of "everyone hates you and wants to hurt you" like I was taught. everyone who yelled at me about needing therapy and blaming me for not being able to and all the reasons I need it made it even harder and set me back in it. thanks a lot assholes it was already fucking hard enough as it is and you just make me reflect on it even harder when you push the idea that I'm not even trying and haven't made any progress at all

I'm sick of being so angry and miserable and in pain everyday.

[theswitchsteinenigma]

“But what did I mean by that”

“What does it mean to know me”

It’s hard to articulate how I feel so it makes it even harder for people to get to know me, sometimes I feel like I don’t really even know myself or know how to let someone know me.

“Me” as in Switch feels like on a fraction of a million things I am. Like it’s what I’m comfortable introducing myself as, it’s who I identify with the most. But other then being a He/They named Switch and a handfull of other things that piss a lot of people off well I’m an artist I love coordination weather it’s jewelry oulfits or the keychains hanging off my cup or my purse. I’m very particular on too many things. I let that hold me back a lot. Covid made my anxiety and agoraphobia debilitating but I go out as much as I can because isolation in a 12x12 cube will make anyone feel like a rat in a cage. Doesn’t mean I have any less of an awfully hard time psyching myself out and actually doing it.

It took me 22 years to reach out to my biological father and he died before I actually got to talk to him. Before he got to know me in my adult life. I still to this day cry about him not knowing me but I’m not really sure who in all I’d be able to articulate and introduce to him.

But the time for that has passed now. I met my two brothers sitting front row at his funeral. I’m not sure what was more surreal those two boys being perfect and sober or the fact that the only thing I inherited from this man were the items found in his pockets when his body was found.

Those items included:

1 red ink pen (pictured above)

1 pair of rainbow kiss eyelash tweezers

1 mostly used mint and purple elf bar

A very twisted up ballys casino card

A very odd bracelet that I’d like to wear but genuinely I’m afraid to.

A lighter

And 26 cents.

I gladly accepted and kept all of these items to this day because well theirs really not much else I can get from him. So many of the pictures in his slideshow were ones taken by or with my mom but she was always cropped out, it’s really funny but I know at least Danny bacon thought the same thing I did when one or two of them came across.

His nickname was cheese, his best friend is bacon their bacon and cheese I still to this day don’t know the story behind that but damn i really fucking would’ve loved hearing that story from him.

I wish I said something at his funeral I even wrote something up and reread it maybe a million times but I just couldn’t do it. And now no one will ever know how I feel, well except yall. It’s whatever.

I feel strange constantly and my identity use to be a fight either for or against my last name and everything that’s come before me. I can’t even really tell you where I’ve settled the debate because honestly I still don’t know how I feel or what I want or what in the fucking world I would’ve said to him if I ever got the chance to speak to him.

My adopted father has made me feel better in any way he’s ever been able to and he’s adamant about the fact he doesn’t want me to move out and if it was his decision I’d be here forever. I love and adore him for everythings he’s done and will do and I look forward to growing more with him then apart from him. Sometimes I feel like this sadness and emptiness I hold is unnecessary or even a little disrespectful but I know he gets it.

When I first found out I went downstairs to tell him and he told me about a time he was at my Mømmōm’s house and him and cheese were talking and he essentially told him thank you for being there for me and just like what the fuck am I suppose to do with this information I’m dumbfounded but I get it. Alex is great and was able to do everything he couldn’t. So why am I still sad?

Well for starters I think I’m autistic and just full incapable of processing any sort of feelings or grief in any sort of proper way even at 22. But that’s besides the point, I’m sad for a million reasons and I regret so much and I don’t even know what I mean by I wish he got to know me because I’m not really sure who I wanted and needed him to know to truly feel content in my life.

TLDR: dude I got mad identity and daddy issues. And probably autism. And a substance abuse problem, and a dead biological father who oded and I have to move out of my adopted dad’s house but I’m full of fear and grief still and don’t wanna be away. Nor do I know who I wanna be or who I want my dad to know nor who I wanted cheese (el bio father) to know! And for some reason that’s the most complex grief I’ve ever owned in my soul summed up way too easily.

With love and lots of tears

✨💕Switch💕✨

[atorchzagreusandtris]

"Why do you act so weird?" I have a brain-altering disorder caused by the severe trauma and abuse I went through as a child. PTSD is a disorder that involves unavoidable and uncontrollable flashbacks, avoidance of trauma reminders, sleeplessness or hypersomnia, depression, and so much more, but then you add the "complex" part of C-PTSD onto that and your symptoms get that much worse. Difficulty trusting others even if they're close to you, difficulty regulating your emotions (which is part of what makes it similar to BPD - which is a disorder you can usually only get if you grew up in an abusive home), HEIGHTENED emotional responses (such as impulsivity or in my case, aggressiveness), hypervigilance, frequent negative thoughts and emotions, feeling guilt or shame, lack of identity/sense of self, and persistent difficulties in sustaining relationships. I have a lot of these symptoms even if people don't necessarily see it, I don't have anyone who I entirely let my guard down around. Not even my mother. I can get pretty close to unmasking around others, but I never fully unmask. Even if it's just myself, I can't unmask. My brain will not LET me, if I try, it shuts out all emotions and I just become apathetic. C-PTSD causes PERMANENT brain alteration in both your brain chemicals and brain structure, especially in the amygdala (the part of your brain that processes fear and other emotions), hippocampus (the part of your brain that's largely responsible for learning and memory), and the prefrontal cortex (the part of your brain that's involved in executive functions, such as planning, decision-making, personality expression and controlling social behavior). And some studies have shown brain changes CAN be more severe with those who have C-PTSD than those with regular PTSD. Then you add genetics into the mix, I have GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) which I could have very well inherited from my mom. People with certain genetic backgrounds can be more likely to get PTSD after a traumatic event. C-PTSD specifically stems from longterm abuse/trauma.

"But I was abused and I act normal" Years of repression + years of burying your emotions doesn't mean you're acting "normal", it just means you're masking and/or your brain physically detached itself emotionally from the events to help you cope in the same way it tends to do to mine. Also, I thought that too until I got diagnosed with C-PTSD and Generalized Anxiety Disorder when I was almost 10 years old. Just because you don't talk to a therapist or take psych meds/aren't in a psych ward doesn't mean they are less mentally stable than you are. You cannot compare trauma, you cannot compare how I will handle a traumatic situation to how you will because we are two entirely different people and as such will have different reactions. What may be fine to me may be overwhelming to you and vise versa.

Stuff like this is exactly why I'm going for a psych major. I'm still LEARNING about a disorder I have and struggle with near daily, fuck even about my god damn self. I only just a few days ago realized I had avoidant attachment and it wasn't just "introversion". I'm 22 and I still have a shit ton of identity issues because who I am is so fucking complex and idk who the hell I am beyond my interests???

[gangbadoy]

"I have done nothing the last twelve years but wait for myself be myself again."

(paraphrasing Georgia O'Keefe regarding summer.)

*******

I have under my belt 100 teacher training hours of "Restorative Yoga for the Elderly." I made it my excuse to live and study in Singapore some time in 2011 under the guise of wanting to guide my Mom to gently stretch in her old age. Her Alzheimer's was detected early so I think (looking back) this was my mad scramble to fight the anxiety that came with my Mom's diagnosis. Pattern shows that my default coping mechanism is to study. 🤷🏻‍♀️

She was still all right then, save for a worrisome fall (which prompted the revealing brain scan) and the usual forgetfulness that comes with being a Mom (aka kulit) - she was definitely still A1, tiptop, sharp as they come.

Most of us kids went to Singapore with her that year, my brothers to catch the F1 in Sepang, and the girls stayed in our Ate's apartment. Mom made us walk and walk and walk and walk around Singapore because walking was her thing. She super enjoyed wading around that fake beach shoreline in Vivo City's rooftop - when she waved at me to join her, and I said, "Is the water chlorinated?" She rolled her eyes at me - without saying a word she commanded me to take my shoes off, put them aside, and wade shin deep across a mall pond to her side.

We (again) walked and walked and walked in circles, mall-water sloshing the tips of our jeans chatting about real beaches we've been to.

Even though she thought it silly that I was studying superslow yoga in a Buddhist temple she still humored me by doing the stretches I taught her. She was often distracted and impatient and would say "let's just have coffee and chat" instead. When I was done with the teacher training course, I showed her my certificate and she asked me solemnly if I converted to Buddhism; it turned out she was worried that I was going to that Buddhist campus everyday for faith reasons. I assured her I wasn't and slightly reprimanded her because even if I did decide to become Buddhist she should still love me. (my turn to roll my eyes) 😉 She looked relieved.

I usually let Mom have her way, in fact many of our "scheduled yoga sessions" ended up being long walks around our village and then we'd end up in our parish church somehow (coincidentally daw) always in time for 6pm mass. 😳

I'd often hear her tell my brothers saying, "Na isahan ko si Gangging, akala niya walking-walking lang kami, tapos napasimba ko bigla!" then she'd laugh her infectious laugh while I pretend to look like I lost a championship match. She enjoyed winning, and though it was WAY different when I was younger (I may have inherited this 'win or die' gene from her) but when we both got older I (surprise surprise) learned to enjoy losing to her.

I vividly remember the last long walk we took (I didn't know then that it was to be the last but maybe I did) - Brother (JunBads) and I took one elbow each and we walked slowly up and down our street. I remember she told Merl (her trusty healthcare partner) that she need not come along and to stay home because she'll be okay with us kids. I didn't think much of it then but I think that was probably her telling Merl how happy she is that we were both there to accompany her on her usual walk.

While walking I asked her why she didn't use a cane or a walker and she said "What for? I have lots of children, five for each arm." 🥹 She would point to our shadows - stretching and fading, shrinking and moving as we walked beneath streetlamp after streetlamp. She said "I'm really the shortest now! I'm even shorter than my last two eggs." (again, the laugh) 🪺

She referred to us (Brother and me, her 2nd batch kids, number 9 and number 10) collectively as "her last two eggs." It became a joke that always showed up in our Easter cards and even in the dwindling text greetings.

I stopped doing yoga completely as things got busier, Mom got less and less mobile, and I was getting more and more ill at ease with silence, stillness scared me; I hated the quiet because I was wrestling with anticipatory grief. (More on this another time, remind me to write about it.) I stayed in the noise and the funk and the speed and the dribble and the hustle and the mess of the crowd - all so I don't need to feel the crush of the Alzheimer's wall closing in, so I don't always feel the fear of what was to come.

I just spent my first Easter Sunday without my Mom; this 'massive missing' rendered me either weepy or snippy most of Holy Week. I'm sure she's rolling her eyes again at me from wherever.

1229am SAT

6 April 2024

[lyreleafblog]

☽ Crystal Magic / Part Three ☾

I explored and discovered a myriad of concepts all stemming from powerful anecdotes. Jeannie Di Bon offers much information. Nikki has become a personal inspiration to me, especially with how she discusses more social elements of fitness and how they discourage hypermobile individuals and hinder our success. Dr. Jen Crane expresses a lived reality that juxtaposes the very treatment guidelines I was initially given regarding Ehlers Danlos and hypermobility.

Holy shit. My dead mother left me to inherit her disease without a single cue of guidance, nearly a thousand miles away from the genetic blood that looked and lived like she and I alone did. Suddenly, every time I unlocked my phone, I was faced with images of people who looked like me and who hurt like me and who, like me were discovering and sharing about the relief that exercise can bring to individuals with hypermobile conditions. My mom had, in her best mindset, at times in my childhood, told me stories about how when she lifted weights, she was the healthiest she’d ever been—folly, dreaming up a fantasy of doing it all over again, and imagining, maybe hopelessly, but maybe almost in genius, that weights were the real cure all along.

I took off. I’d already known a bit about fitness thanks to childhood interests and pursuits. A more psychologically sound understanding of how to appropriately maintain my intake and body image allowed me to properly nourish myself. I gained strength rapidly. Occasional classes, many work-books and an exercise mat, resistance bands, free-weights and even sometimes going to a real-life -gym—it all became just another part of my routine.

I became stronger than I could ever remember being. I became profoundly more able-bodied than I’d been in years. I walked at a theme park—and rode roller coasters—and felt good.

And then, something sinister started cooking. Finally, the last piece of the equation shuffled out from behind a curtain, and I was faced with the finale of my psycho-spiritual-medical-crisis.

In late 2022 I caught coronavirus despite being fully vaccinated. I’ve read that those of us who had an allergic reaction to the vaccines might be more prone to actual infection should the vaccines efficacy be reduced. Either way, I caught it. Miraculously, my usually-life-threatening asthma didn’t seem to flare up nearly as much as another part of my body—a part I had long thought I was quite literally divinely intimate with: my nerves.

It started with intense cold flashes and sweats. I don’t remember much besides the misery of those sensations. I recovered from Covid relatively quickly, so I thought I’d gotten away without incident. As the months past my recovery began to add up, however, I found myself facing a whole new set of symptoms. When the holidays rolled around, my partner helped me piece together that these symptoms were not, in fact, new, but instead were just now very pronounced.

Irritiability, severe insomnia, sleep disturbances, visual hallucinations and convulsions began dominating a week out of every month of my life. It quickly became so disorganizing that I found myself unable to keep up with my diet or exercising as neatly as my health generally required—which I’m certain only worsened things. I didn’t understand it—not at all—and moaned to my therapist about how my rising symptoms simply didn’t make sense.

I’m not ready to address most of what happened next because as it continues to unfold, I still struggle to process it all. What I will say, however, was that my small family was hit with a sobering realization. For a lifetime, I’d been excused away with “mental illness” as many women and people assigned female at birth are. “It’s just anxiety,” they’d say. We discovered something I never could have imagined, thanks to my background; Anxiety isn’t always the cause of something—sometimes, anxiety is a symptom.

And sometimes, meditation isn’t the most reliable treatment, despite its accessibility.

My new understanding might be new, in fact, but I’m told that everything about me has been present from the start, and instead, it’s merely the environment I interacted with that has both emboldened and extinguished various aspects of my DNA. Perhaps, with a stronger, less wobbly neck, I would have a condition with a different name, or have no condition at all. Perhaps if I’d grown up never meditating or playing videogames or sitting much too close to the tv screen or listening to binaural beats very loudly in the attempt to depersonalize from my period cramps, perhaps things would be different. Instead, this is my reality.

Something big awoke in me. It coincided with meeting a friend who herself was so fully invested in the realm of spirituality that she seemed to pull it out of whatever metaphysical box-in-the-closet I’d yet again returned it all to within myself. My crystal garden made it’s way out into the living room. White candles appeared. A pendulum gently rests on a glass end table, reflecting the image of its own crystalline structure, looking four-dimensional.  

If this entire time the very labels of my conditions were little more than unmedicated symptoms, then what else do I have to trust but that intuition that I have found for myself, by myself, and within myself, which I can carry with me everywhere?

I always knew it was real. It wasn’t the presence of ghosts, nor a sensation generated by my psychology—though certainly worsened by its illness.

My own anxiety is a symptom, an aura. My suicidality is nothing more than a temporary, illegitimate side effect. That’s why no amount of cognitive reasoning has ever touched it. It’s not a thing that exists in the realm of reason, but an impulse that exists in the same way of my need for vestibular stimulation during a temper tantrum.

These feelings are not the problem—they’re a cue that the problem is acting up again. Just like the kaleidoscope headaches. Just like the shaking in bed at night.

“Catamenial,” they go on, charting in their little documents. Treatment-resistant. More cancer-causing-hormone-pills, less kundalini-breathing.

No. No, to put it simply. No longer are my experiences merely a collection of human behaviors meant to be labeled and categorized so that I might slip through every possible crack in the system for decades like my mother had. When I learned that my anxiety itself was merely a symptom of something else that was happening inside of my brain—something that apparently, is mostly influenced by the level of estrogen circulating in my body—I felt like the world as I knew it had ended. I know, PMDD, etc., all of these other catch-all labels exist to describe what I suppose one could call hormone-related-mood-changes—but to describe this phenomenon as PMDD, an arm-chair descriptor that people are nearly encouraged to self-diagnose with, would be like describing the alphabet without phonetics. Why PMDD?

Why are the symptoms happening—not “what are they”, and “how can we put a band aid over them and ignore them until whatever underlying condition initially caused them spirals out of control, spills all over the floor and makes a big mess everywhere?”

What mechanisms in the brain are genuinely responsible for the experiences of a patient? Through the lens of psychology, despite the field vocally recommending away from Freudian roots, one human being can quite literally observe—as in, using only their core senses, and making only direct notations—the deeply rooted, totally invisible, mysterious, largely inexplicable interpersonal workings of another human’s brain. Sure, the anecdotal, self-reported status of patients improve alongside the treatment of these “immaterial” symptoms. I told myself I had PMDD, and my childhood counselor agreed with me, and my “treatment” of sticky-notes telling me I’m pretty on the mirror seemed to help. Yet it hadn’t, but to fulfill the social role of psychiatric illness, I told myself, my doctor and everyone else that it did. Meanwhile, the twisted neurological and endocrinological concoction that was actually behind my conditions, one that influenced every single fathomable aspect of my perception, decision-making, executive function and socialization continued to devolve.

It's so easy for this timeline to occur with any condition where physical proof of its very existence is lacking. I don’t mean to discredit the studies of “depressed brains” and such, which of course really do convey meaningful data, but to simply call into question the expediated pace at which someone with profound medical abnormalities might somehow find themselves rapidly re-focused on coping with their deterioration rather than taking accountability to prevent it. Why was my condition labeled as “PMDD” before a single EEG was ever done on me? I’ll answer that—because the psychologist who told me I had PMDD didn’t need to run an EEG for the insurance to pay her for my continued sessions. I don’t blame her, or any psychologist who are part of the many that I believe to be overly diagnosing mental illnesses that might be side effects of untreated physical illnesses—especially in areas where healthcare access is strained. We all just want to feel better and help each other feel better… But at some point, we must take responsibility for the enterprises we subscribe to without protest. Those enterprises may be of science or of religiosity—but in this specific example, in this chapter of my personal story—the scientific truth was delivered to me through a god-fearing scientist. How ironic.

Oh, the book of shadows—the pretty little labeled jars of quartz and things that are just quartz but with pigment, and other, actually precious stones—and the white candles laced with jasmine oil—they all found their ways right back, front-and-center in my home.  Feeling unsafe inside of one’s own mind is quite the experience. Pascal and his wager had nothing to do with it, this time, however. Instead, I was searching for a comfort that I realized no form of science could ever award me with.

At first, my neurology was all over the place, and everything felt spontaneous and pattern-less.  With the practice of my long-locked-away spiritual mindfulness, however, slowly, I have been becoming more able to recognize the semi-conscious patterns in my neurology that I’ve been mislabeling as anxiety for decades. When I meditate, I can feel my brain. I can pay attention to how it feels. I can notice little things. For most of my life, those little things were labeled as evil. Then, they were labeled as some kind of Munchausen or psychosis. Then, thanks to one single doctor, I came to learn that they were in fact my brain experiencing itself and trying to explain those experiences back to me. They are clues indeed, and those very clues will go on to help expert doctors find a long-term treatment for me that isn’t nearly as risky as some of the blanket-treatments for my conditions. Yes, to the experts, these phenomena are measurable and relatively simple to study. Perhaps not with Freudian psychotherapy—but with simple labs and imaging.

Alas, I am finally liberated to begin to take ownership of these experiences. Not a “mental illness” that I must constantly battle against to retain my artificial “I’m a good and normal person” token—not the spiritualist woo that I grew up on, balancing good versus evil—but simply put, biology. On the glass table where I’ve fabricated my little would-be alter, if I were a conventional, non-secular type, a slice of citrine glitters underneath my ceiling fan. It helps me relax during the meditative practices that have found their way back into my daily routine. Only because I, for myself, because of myself, and entirely by myself decided so—I uphold my practice. It makes me feel good, and I now know how integral and critical the sensation of “feeling good” is to my measurable neurological wellbeing. The “feel good” is the absence of severity in many of the neurological challenges I live with. It is not victim to the advice, wisdom, influence or even suggestion of others—not grifting diviners or established churches or stemming from even a single branch of modern medicine.

Instead, I am focused on the philosophy behind the creations of medicine and psychology themselves. 5,000 years ago, when humans were initially preserving information about mental and physical health, the concepts of medicine and psychology were often, if not always unified. A deviation point from this unified perspective, at least in Western thinking, might be, for example, Cartesian dualism. Contrastingly, however, certain concepts associated with early human medicine, often questioned as archaic or outdated, permeate into the everyday lives of many peoples.

Aspects of archaic medicinal cultures continue to suggest the applicability of such concepts through the day, such as in the still-popular techniques described in Ayurvedic medicine. In Ayurvedic medicine, the various more consumable treatments simultaneously affect physical and mental health. Some physical ailments are suggested to co-occur with mental ailments, or there is such a pattern where any one kind of patient complaint would immediately warrant investigation into the corresponding psychological or physiological complaints to those ascribed sorts of issues. I think this juxtaposes well against the western use of medicine that isolates and treats one specific problem, while describing the other, undesirable results of the treatment on other bodily systems, or on the mind, or on the body itself, depending on the treatments context, as simple, predictable side effects. Medicine has long had roots in a more epistemological, relational background, which many people find anecdotally superior to this day.

I, however, have realized, from this sort-of-bird’s-eye-view forcibly provided to me by chronic illness, that subscribing to any single body of thought, particularly any that is absolutist in its declaration, might be provably un-helpful. Once any concept, even a medical concept, becomes well-known enough, I believe it all becomes a bitter game of “telephone” between speakers and leaders and their audience. One can either go to heaven or to hell—one can choose to live the ultimate healthy lifestyle, or a savagely short one—one might be infinitely ethical or practically evil—black and white thinking frames the conversation. As the history, research and data is transcribed over and over across not only thousands of years but thousands of miles, too, observers can become empathetic toward the situation that has resulted in multigenerational agony in my family. Other people will find means to justify the acceptance or growth of the concept they defend. Yet it doesn’t take long for something with a tremendous capacity for healing to be turned into a way to blame an individual for their lack of medical treatment success, or the lack of success in other areas of their lives. Once a tool is being used to shame, limit or restrict other individuals, its capacity for harm has become apparent.

Am I a bad witch for being secular?

Am I bad depression-patient for turning to witchcraft?

A bad patient for not wanting pills?

Am I a bad person because I can’t eat only plants anymore?

Yes, and that is why all of those everyday-extremes warrant talking about. All of these communities might defame, exclude and otherwise seek to quiet my perspective because it breaks their systems of moral justification. Should I, even for a moment, humor any of these ethical extremes, I’ll find my fragile human brain thrown back into the make-believe cycle of spiritually condemning my sin-ridden, selfish-for-wanting-peace self to pain. Similarly, if I throw all of it away and rely on “conventions” to “make me feel better,” then I am simply crazy—as in, the only explanation for my ongoing dissatisfaction with either my state of being or the overt decay of our world—is that I must just be crazy… Until another genius comes around the corner with another test that nobody else had thought to run yet.

Now, this is where this article (err.. novelette) will become challenging as I attempt to convey my conclusion. I have personally concluded nothing besides liberty from this situation. I have come to the realization that the greatest source of “how I’m doing” quite really is myself. I can determine if a treatment, philosophy, or even a particular incident of practice is appropriate and dignifying for me. I don’t have to be vegan to eat fruit salad. I don’t have to believe in Aphrodite to practice witchcraft. I don’t have to take AEDs to control my seizures (at least yet). The liberty of removing myself from the constraints of hierarchical, social labels is unbridled.

So, my experiences have hopefully landed me enough perspective to guide other seekers into a path of their own conviction. I would recommend beginning to simply challenge or question some of the categories we have itemized our personhood into. Analyze the surrounding community of people in the group you’re reflecting on. Do those people live lives that you would like to have for yourself? Do they behave with traits that you want for yourself? Are they as authentic and genuine as you want to be? Rather than targeting an individual, identify more general sources of communication for these organizations or groups. It can be easy to fool ourselves with the help of a singular good-enough-looking role model.

I find it helpful to meditate on the color purple, the rock called amethyst, and other such subjects that express the bridging between what’s perceivable and what might be divine. If a placebo works, then it’s just as good as a drug. If a drug doesn’t work and makes you feel horrible, then regardless of what your blood tests say, is it really any better than just pretending you feel better? Humor my centering of dignity.

At the same time, one must be their own prescriber of placebos to avoid being conned into statistically supporting another capitalized ideology, which is certainly not easy. In a time where advertisements have slowly but surely replaced nearly all of the media we consume, it can be difficult to weave out what part of a persona is authentic—even within our own everyday friendships. Thus, like good little researchers, witches and scientists, we must explore, practice and test the concepts around us. Like in the way that we communicate with one another using words, pictures, gestures and metaphors—the physical world around us communicates back to us, not always in ways that appear quantified in lab work, and not always in ways that we might assume to be experiencing with our souls. Instead, we are left alone with our mindfulness and memories as our only real guides.

Faint words fall onto deaf ears in an audience of people I know are so much akin to me that I might as well be talking into a mirror. Perhaps I am, and I am okay with that. I am not rejecting either wellness or science, but rejecting the full-throttled trust and commitment to any pre-defined system, with or without checks and balances, because all of the logos and data and legends mean nothing next to ones active personhood. Do what feels genuinely, truly, authentically, and completely good.

Spend time with yourself. Check in with your body. Check in with your soul. Have a dialogue with your ethics. Acknowledge and engage with the thoughts in your head because, though it may feel otherwise, they are not happening to you—you are creating them. Justification is a psychological process that means nothing to much of the rest of the animal kingdom, who, thanks to a lack of Big Stupid Words like those I’m typing now, communicate with their natural world using only their most instinctive biology.

Your body is talking to you. Unlike you’ve been told, you might not have ever needed a translator.

   References:

 Palsson, O. S., & Whitehead, W. E. (2017). HORMONES AND IBS. IBS-and-Hormones. Retrieve d January 21, 2023, from https://www.med.unc.edu/ibs/wp-content/uploads/sites/450/2017/10/IBS-and-Hormones.pdf

[ryupioupiou]

This thought just came of from nowhere, but I would like to hear your thoughts on it.

I am in therapy for some shit that happened to me when I was a kid/teenager (31 now and a nice little ball of anxiety for basically anything).

Long story short. Dad and mom divorced cuz dad cheated on her with what is now my stepmom. Married said stepmom and basically washed his hands of us. Meaning that while we still saw each other, my sister and I were at the bottom of the totem pole of dad's priorities. Even to this day.

Stepmom wanted me to be a perfect and feminine little doll, and learned that respecting other people is not in jer agenda.

But at the same time.... i think I may have to thank her for my english reading/speaking level now.

See, she did introduce me to the Inheritance saga by Christopher Paolini. I still love these books even though it has been a while since I last read them.

At first, I read them in French as it is my main language.

When book 2 came out, you bet I bought it like a lunatic. I was like... halfway through the book when I had to go to dad's for the weekend.

Stepmom saw I had the second book and just told me to give it to her so she could read it. Like... i am halfway through it, can't you wait? I am all for lending books, but still....

I was an avid reader at the time, could take me like 1 or 2 days max to read big books. I had to wait 2 MONTHS to get my book back cus stepmom only read a chapter a day max.

I was kinda bummed by this. And decided that, after that, I would buy read the English version of book 3.

And here is me, during my senior year of HS, reading this big ass hardcover book between two classes, in English. Other kids think I am nuts but hey... one of the reasons was "so stepmom cannot take it from me while I am reading it anymore".

And oh boy did it work. Felt guilty at first, but at the time, had absolutely zero self confidence to tell her to wait because I knew I would be guilt- tripped if not yelled at by dad for that.

Still don't have much self confidence tnh, even at 31. To the point of doubting myself, wondering if me liking a media is a mistake or not, but now I can read many books and tons of fanfics in English xD. To some authors' dismay as I dump some shitty headcanons on them :D.

Maybe I am the asshole for having done it this way, but i was so not respected that it was my way of resisting. And yes, I have little to no contact with dad and stepmom. Still trying to heal