#from the addiction running in my family from my lack of understanding concerning any form of social etiquette to the way i choose to dress

[kohakuhibiki]

"It's not easy for everyone to understand" as if I didn't not struggle trying to fit in gender coded shit I couldn't at all my whole childhood and got punished/bullied over it constantly until I got it "right" enough which was never and now I have to pretend that I have any kind of sympathy for adults who received a better education than I did who probably, no, definitely would partake in the bullshit I was subjected to if it didn't give them the impression it would make them be perceived as "bad people™" right now because they clearly did not give a fuck 2 second ago???

Like suddenly? They? Care? And? It's complicated? Well there goes the real value of their overpriced education it seems. Oops.

[blackwidowyael]

One of those days

Hey y'all! I just received my first request from @thoughfulmilkshakeface, and here it is, hope you all enjoy! psa I am taking requests, mainly Natasha/Yelena/Wanda centric, and I dont do reader inserts or anything too smutty so feel free to leave smth in ma inbox ;)

Natasha has bad days. Clint knows this, and he also knows that the bad days will pass, making space for the good ones, where they can go out to the movies, or grab lunch, or take Lucky to play ball in the park without the change of routine sending her reeling.

It is these days that he treasures the most, when he can pretend, even if it is only briefly, that they are just another normal couple, with normal problems like squabbles over who’s turn it is to take out the trash or clean up after the dog.

Today is not one of those days.

Clint can tell from the moment they wake up. He cracks open an eye just in time to see the flash of metal handcuffs disappearing into Natasha’s nightstand.

The handcuffs rarely make an appearance anymore, and only on those nights where she is filled with an anxious restlessness, a sense of uneasiness that only the cool slicing of the metal can satiate.

She never talks about it, refuses to acknowledge that they still have a lingering control over her that she can’t quite shake. Clint understands what it is like to feel that lack of autonomy, and never pushes her to stop.

Lucky knows that Natasha has bad days as well. She stumbles past where he is eagerly awaiting breakfast, straight to the gym without so much as a glance in his direction. It is like she is barely even there.

Clint drags himself into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding hitting Lucky in the face as he reaches down to pat him through a haze of sleep. He fills Lucky’s bowl, and slides two pop tarts onto a plate. A smile almost reaches his face as he thinks about the plan Nat concocted to sneak them past the addicted demi-God upstairs.

And they wait for the last member of their family to return. Sometimes, an hour in the gym is enough to shake whatever demons were haunting her away and she returns more present, having slipped out of whatever funk she is in.

Today is not one of those days.

They watch the clock as the hands trail round the hour, and into the next. Lucky whines, pressing himself against Clint’s leg. He is weirdly intuitive, can always tell when something’s not right. Almost two hours have passed. Natasha’s coffee has grown cold in the pot.

���I guess you’re right, bud,” Clint sighs, rubbing Lucky behind the ears. “I’ll go check on her.”

At first, he thinks the gym is empty. Music blares out of the speakers as he scans every corner.

He finds her huddled in a crack between the wall and a punching bag. From her vantage point, she has a clear view of the entire gym, but she doesn’t even blink as he settles down in front of her.

Nat’s eyes are glassy, unfocused. Clint waves a hand in front of her face, trying to get her attention. He is wary of touching her when she’s like this, but he really needs to get her to the apartment. Clint can see the blood leaking through her pointe shoes, feet white with the ribbons tight enough to cut off her circulation. Slowly he loops one arm around her shoulders, the other under her knees, narrating as he does so.

No matter what, Clint wants her to feel at least some semblance of control.

“Alright, Tash, back to the apartment. I got you, it’s okay.” He glances at her briefly, to see if he has gotten a response, but she has retreated so far into herself that she can’t hear him. Dissociated, the part of his mind that has attended many therapy sessions with her, supplies.

She has frozen by the time he tries to deposit her on the couch. Eventually, he just sits down with her draped over his lap, hoping that the feel of him breathing would help to ground her. He thinks back to the day before, trying to remember what could have triggered it. Nothing springs to mind, although new triggers still pop up now and then. Maybe something from a mission?

Lucky worries when he sees Natasha like this. It makes Clint sad, and then neither of them will take him to the park. He leaps onto the couch, burying his muzzle in Natasha’s face and showering her with kisses. Suddenly, she stirs, breath shuddering in her chest.

“Nat, you’re okay, you’re safe. We’re in the apartment.”

One hand comes up, shielding her face, while she desperately tries to wriggle out of Clint’s lap. Her breath is beginning to come faster as she squirms, unable to escape Lucky’s slobbery hold.

“Natasha, it’s just Lucky, you’re okay.”

“Clint?”

“Yeah. Can you breathe with me?”

She can’t.

She can feel her breath whistling in her chest, coming faster and faster and despite this feel the lack of oxygen in her brain. Lightheaded. She doesn’t think her legs would support her right now if she tried to run.

Run away from all of this. All these emotions, clawing at her chest and anxiety buzzing in her brain and tingling on her skin and she can't breathe, she can’t-

Breathe.

One fist gripping Clint’s shirt, the soft fabric grounding, while simultaneously keeping herself as far away from him as possible, curled on the opposite side of the couch.

Through the icy panic, she tries to focus on his chest. Watching it rise and fall. She manages to take gulps of air to match, feeling the fog slowly evaporating around her.

“Idiot dog,” she mutters, pushing Lucky away from her.

The buzzing panic leaves her as quickly as it arrives, leaving her drained. The world is far too bright, too sharp, now.

Clint is watching as she tries to collect herself. Natasha feels her mask slamming into place, protecting her from the world and hiding her humiliation. She’s not sure how she got to the couch, but she can feel the concern and smothering pity rolling off of Clint in waves and she hates it.

She just wants to be alone, until she can forget again.

“Nat-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Clint presses his lips together. This repression shit can’t be healthy, but he knows better than anyone that there’s no point trying to make Natasha talk when she doesn't want to.

“Fine. We don’t have to talk. Can I at least look at your feet?”

Natasha glances down. Her feet are waxy, apart from the red marks made by the ribbons chafing. Blood has congealed around the box of the shoe, spattering its way up the shank.

“I can do it myself, Clint,”

“Natasha, I swear to God.” Clint pushes her back down as she tries to stand, going into the kitchen to grab the first aid box.

Carefully, he unties the ribbons, prying the shoes off her feet. The blood is sticky, and it takes a while for him to get them off without ripping the skin further.

Eventually, both shoes are discarded and he gets a proper look at her.

“Nat, what happened?”

Clint had hoped it would be an easy fix, just a couple of blisters, but apparently it wasn’t one of those days, and nothing was easy. Hundreds of shards of glass are embedded in the soles of Natasha’s feet, and when he looks back to her shoes, he can see more littering the soles.

He gets to work, painstakingly removing each shard and cleaning the cuts, before covering them in adhesive bandage. Questions can come later, when Nat is not still partially dissociated on the couch with a vase’s worth of glass in her feet. Lucky watches, resting his head on Natasha’s lap. This time, she doesn’t push him away, running her fingers through his fur.

“I needed to know that I hadn’t got soft.”

The words echo in the silence, although they were barely audible. Clint carefully schools his expression, keeping his posture open and relaxed.

“And dancing with glass in your shoes proves that how?”

“We used to do it,” Natasha pauses, staring intently at a spot on Lucky’s back, “before.”

Clint nods in understanding. It doesn’t surprise him, seems very on-brand given the sparse details she had shared over the years.

“You haven’t gotten soft, Tash. Why would you think that?”

“But I have,” she presses, leaning forward, “I see it all the time. They told me I could never form attachments, that it would make me weak. And I can’t do the missions I did before,”

“Can’t or won’t? You didn’t have any choice over taking missions, Tash. Just because SHIELD does things differently doesn’t mean you’re any less of an agent.”

“They’re in my head all the time,” Natasha admits. “I can hear them. Telling me I’m sloppy. Weak. They would be so angry if they could see me now. I just. I just needed to feel like I was,”

She breaks off, staring at her hands.

“Like what?” Clint prompts gently.

“Made of marble. That’s what they used to say to me.”

“They’re not here now, Nat. We are. Your family. You don’t need to be all perfect and tough around us.”

Nat shakes her head in exasperation, eyes roaming around the room as she searches for an explanation.

“But I still want them to be proud of me. It’s fucked up. I’m fucked up. They took everything from me and I still want to make them proud.”

“They tortured you, Natasha. They raised you, that’s not just going to go away. You’re not under their control anymore. I just want you, whatever that is.”

Suddenly, she can’t stand this conversation anymore, ignoring her protesting feet as she stalks into the kitchen. Clint follows, Lucky not far behind.

“Love is for children.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Natasha huffs out a laugh, turning away to reach a mug. “You’d have to be stupid to want me.”

“I guess I really am an idiot then.” Clint reaches out, tugging on her arm until she is facing him.

“Lucky too,” he adds as the dog jumps up, pawing Natasha’s legs.

“Idiot dog.” A tiny smile graces the corner of her mouth.

“You’re more than just an incredible agent, Tash. You’re my best friend, my family. I love you.”

She ducks her head, staring at their intertwined fingers.

“I love you too, idiot.”

Clint grins. It was one of those days.

[k7l4d4]

Owl House AU Ideas, ZA SECOND!!

Hello again. A second AU! That was quick. Admittedly, this had been on my back burner, so there’s that. Just to say it now, this isn’t as fleshed out as my first post.

Lackey!: We all know Boscha, right? Annoying, egotistical, bully, award winning jock, you all know the type, even if only through media. What would she be like if she lost it all, and it was all her own fault? 

(Trigger Warning: This AU deals with drug addiction, and is meant to represent how much of a slippery slope the use of drugs can be, especially when lacking an effective intervention or when people aren’t willing to push the issue and get the addict HELP. More than anything, this AU is a representation of how badly drugs can ruin a person’s life because they can’t be bothered to think that there might be consequences. It is not meant to blame people suffering from drug addiction, I am not a victim blamer, it is merely to represent how badly drugs can affect a person’s life, especially when they have a lot to lose and start taking them anyway. Drug addiction can come about due to a variety of sources, and those suffering from it need help above all else.)

This premise is based on a rather simple idea that quickly spiraled in my mind into an AU: what if Boscha had an addiction, and it set off a chain of events? Boscha basically has it all as far as she is concerned, she is popular, she is a top athlete, she has awesome friends (idk if she actually thinks this), and great social media presence; she's basically on top of the world, so why not see what all life has to offer her? She decides to make (and take) a stim (my version of a drug on the Boiling Isles, in the form of a potion; each stim gives you some kind of high, along with other wacky magical effects), and rapidly takes a liking to them. While under the influence of her stims, Boscha is more active, passionate, even friendlier, the only problem? Stims are hard to make, VERY HARD. Her solution? Buy them! As Boscha starts buying stims in bulk, she gradually starts needing more and more to get the same affect, draining her funds even further, and when not on her stims, she was far angrier and aggressive. As Boscha drained her funds to fuel her addiction, she quickly realize that she would need a fast, untraceable source of income to keep fueling it. And it just so happens that there is a rather infamous Wild Witch running a business right there in Bonesburough! After managing to track her down, Boscha basically demands, then threatens, then bargains, and then ultimately begging on hands and knees for Eda to give her a job. At first, Eda doesn't question it, labor is labor, and while she would prefer it to be free, it still means she can bring in higher profits. However, she quickly takes stock of the fact that, in spite of the money she gets from her parents and Eda herself, Boscha never seems to have any on hand which, in addition to her mood swings, tips her off to Boscha's little habit. And, in true closet bleeding heart fashion, Eda decides to have a sit down with Boscha over her habit. Despite the numerous reassurances from the bold triclops, as well as the promises to be careful, Eda realizes that she cannot help the girl until she is ready to admit she needs help, settling (for the moment) with merely keeping an eye on Boscha's behavior. As Boscha dives deeper and deeper into her addiction, she progressively becomes more and more erratic and aggressive in between her fixes, causing others to draw away from her, with even her parents noticing just how much her behavior has changed. This all culminates in a confrontation two weeks before Canon, in which Willow walks in on her about to take a stim. In the ensuing confrontation, Boscha snaps, brutally pummeling Willow into the ground, the one-sided fight, more an assault, spilling over into the halls, leading the whole school to see Boscha beating Willow in a raving, screaming frenzy. When she finally calms down, Boscha is shocked and horrified to see just how badly injured Willow is, with several students and teachers rapidly rushing to get her away from the downed girl and taking her to the Healers. The fight ends up exposing Boscha's stim addiction to the entire school, casting into doubt all of her Grudgby victories. The fallout is so widespread that Boscha is left completely ostracized; no one wants to associate the girl liable to beat you nearly to death at the drop of a hat and (allegedly) cheated her way to numerous victories after all. Her parents are so embarrassed by her behavior, they essentially disown her, only associating so far as to ensure she has enough money to keep going to Hexside and live in a crappy apartment with food and hygiene, and only at the bare minimum level. At first, Boscha attempts to act in her usual fashion, and tries to complain to Amity about it all. It, understandably, doesn't go well. Seeing Willow beaten so horribly leaves Amity furious, and while she manages to maintain her general demeanor, she delivers a brutal verbal smack-down to the now outcast witch. Something along these lines: "You, you really expect me to help you, don't you? That has to be the most laughable thing I have ever heard. Let's review the facts as to why that will NEVER happen: you've been taking drugs, damaging your body potentially irreparably in the long run and throwing all your so-called "Grudgby Greatness" in to question and embarrassing Hexside for who knows how many generations. You brutalized a fellow witch, never mind that it's "Half-A-Witch Willow," and in doing so alienated every potential ally you could've had in the long run here at Hexside. And most importantly, you embarrassed your family name; how do your parents feel, knowing they raised an out of control Giraffe-spawn? And yes, that's what people have been calling you lately, just in case you haven't figured it out. All that and you really think I'd be willing to help you!? (Breathes in deeply, and exhales) You are pathetic Boscha. You are arrogant, aggressive, and have singlehandedly destroyed all credibility your family has with the school, if not the entire town, because you couldn't control yourself. (Gives a bitter grin) At least now my parents will no longer see a reason to have me associate with someone as UTTERLY WORTHLESS as you." After all is said and done, Boscha falls into a bitter depression, starts cutting classes, and devotes more and more of her time into being Eda's Lackey. Eda, while justifiably furious for what Boscha has done, helps take care of her and putting her back together into a functional Witch, though the events at Hexside have driven a wedge between them.

After 'bout a week, Boscha manages to settle into a rut: help Eda's business, occasionally go to Hexside, go home, go to sleep, repeat as necessary. After Luz arrives, however, she is forced to switch out of her rut. Boscha originally finds Luz annoying, seeing her as a disruption to her daily life, gradually (and grudgingly) building a mild camaraderie with the excitable human. While the two aren't exactly good friends, Luz genuine nature and passion for magic manages to win over Boscha enough that they are comfortable around each other. The revelation of what she had done, however, drives a wedge between them. Luz is torn between disappointment that her new friend was a bully, and empathy over her struggle as a recovering addict.

As always, feel free to ask questions, comment, or use the idea how you see fit. For those out there struggling with addiction, or know someone who is, don’t be afraid to reach out and get help; your life and safety are more important than your pride, and there is nothing to be ashamed of in looking after your health and happiness.

[exdeotm]

river  boyet  mercado  .    empty  church  pews  underneath  heavy  moonlit  stained  glass  –  save  for  one  disheveled  head  of  brown  curls  bent  down  in  furrowed  prayer  at  the  front  ,  careful  attentiveness  as  bread  dough  is  molded  by  bruised  &  calloused  hands  –  masked  as  care  &  kindness  behind  attentive  eyes  &  soothing  smiles  –  but  always  bordering  on  insistent  distraction  from  something  unspoken  ,  &  the  sound  of  a  strained  gasp  accompanied  by  the  stillness  of  a  room  after  being  awoken  from  a  noiseless  ,  boundless  nightmare  .

rumor  .    his  mother  is  currently  serving  life  in  prison  for  murdering  her  husband  &  attempting  to  murder  her  fourteen  -  year  -  old  son  .

out  of  character  .  aubs  ,  twenty  -  one  ,  she  /  her  ,  est  ,  &  i  would  live  &  die  for  andy  dufresne  from  shawshank  redemption  .  i  watch  speed  racer  (  2008  )  unironically  &  it’s  one  of  my  favorite  films  of  all  time  ,  barbie  in  the  nutcracker  is  unequivocally  the  best  barbie  film  &  i’ll  take  that  statement  with  me  to  my  mf  grave  ,  &  sam  giddings  &  josh  washington  deserve  it  all  .  idk  what  ‘  it  ’  entails  but  .  .  .  they  deserve  it  .

✷   *   ˚   𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑒  𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜  𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒  𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔  /  𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒔  𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤   .   ˚   *  

nickname  .    riv  .

character  inspiration  .    frank  castle  (  the  punisher  )  ,  charlie  (  perks  of  being  a  wallflower  )  ,  billy  loomis  (  scream  franchise  )  ,  ben  hanscom  /  richie  tozier  /  stanley  uris  lovechild  (  it  )  ,  gordie  lachance  (  stand  by  me  )  ,  theodore  (  her  )  ,  eduardo  saverin  (  the  social  network  )  ,  &  andy  dufresne  (  shawshank  redemption  )  .

age  .    thirty  -  six  .  

pronouns  .    he  &  him  .

orientation  .    bisexual  .

occupation  .    baker  at  golden  grain  bakery  .

frequents  .    silver  fox  motel  .  he  frequents  the  motel  for  wholeheartedly  sentient  &  selfish  reasons  .  the  town’s  ambience  has  him  in  its  clenched  fist  ,  &  he  knows  he’s  incapable  of  moving  permanently  in  any  capacity  .  however  ,  whenever he needs rest  because  he’s  feeling  the  insomnia  hit  particularly  hard  (  thanks  to  his  record  with  sleep paralysis  &  trauma  /  ptsd  surrounding  being  in  a  homely  environment  as  an  adult  when  his  last  real  childhood  memory  of  his  own  home  is  one  that  feels  horror  movie  -  esque  )  .

tattoos  .    n  /  a  .

face claim  .    bob  morley  .

zodiac  .    aries  sun  ,  pisces  moon  ,  &  sagittarius  rising  .

alignment  .    lawful  good  .

hogwarts  house  .    hufflepuff  .

demeanor  .    he’s  an  incredibly   smiley  person  .  his  gut  instinct  is  charitableness  &  kindness  ,  so  he  often  acts  humbly  /  selflessly  first  &  thinks  later  .  you’ll often find him speaking softly  ,  letting others talk over him  ,  telling jokes only when it’s his turn to speak  ,  being wooed by people the moment they so much as ring the bell walking in  &  offer them a sugary good morning  ,  etc  .  he’s a fool for love who won’t let himself have it because he’s worried it’ll never be real  ,  people switch up too fast  ,  etc  .  however  ,  he’s  simultaneously  a  mess  when  it  comes  to  his  warring  avoidant  &  protective  personality traits  .  he’s the kind of person who will be as soft  -  spoken but forward as he can possibly be during a conversation in order to avoid conflict  ,  but the moment he senses he’s losing he’ll hold on even tighter  &  transition into the overprotective river who doesn’t want anybody to set foot inside what he thinks is his business  &  will go to extremes to make sure someone he loves is safe  --  even if that means walling them in  &  making them resent him  .  he doesn’t understand what it means to balance his need to keep people safe  &  his will to keep himself comfortable by inciting a small conflict in an attempt to stay out of a bigger one  .

positive traits  .    vigilant  /  protective  ,  soft  -  spoken  ,  &  selfless  .

negative  traits  .    aversive  /  avoidant  ,  mendacious  ,  &  fickle  .

phobias  .    the  dark  ,  daunting  changes  &  shifts  in  moods  that  go  unspoken  of  ,  dreams  wherein  he’s  unable  to  scream  ,  large  /  over  -  sized  safes  ,  &  dead  silence  that  lacks  any  kind  of  white  noise  (  he  enjoys  sleeping  at  the  motel  because  he’s  more  apt  to  hear  cars  driving  by  ,  doors  closing  ,  sinks  turning on  ,  etc  )  .

drug  use  .    rarely  .  he  was  never  the  type  of  kid  who  jumped  at  the  thought  of  experimenting  ,  &  that  tendency  to  say  no  trailed  into  his  life  as  an  adult  .  he  was  always  concerned  with  not  being  a  nuisance  to  anyone  ,  which  included  making  sure  he  was  always fully  capable  of  working  &  not  getting  caught  up  in  how  addicted  he  knows  he’ll  get  to  being  under  the  influence  .

alcohol  use  .    rarely  .  see  above  for  an  explanation  !

diet  .    poor  but  consistent  .  river  spends  as  little  time  at  home  as  possible  ,  so  his  diet  largely  consists  of  food  he  bakes  or  diner  runs  .  he’s  the  type  of  diner  regular  who  sits  at  the  same  booth  every  time  ,  orders  the  same  thing  for  dinner  every  night  ,  is  way  too  kind  to  his  waitstaff  ,  &  overtips  everyone  who  had  a  part  in  serving  him  .  he  loves  waffles  &  prefers  sweet  tea  .  he  could  easily  be  a  southern  dime  if  canadian  blood  wasn’t  already  coursing  through  his  kindly  veins  .

physical or mental disabilities  .  he  had  to  have  a  left  -  side  brain  tumor  that  was  impacting  his  ability  to  hear  removed  as  a  kid  (  it  was  removed  when  he  was  seventeen  )  ,  &  has  been  slowly  but  progressively  regaining  his  hearing  in  his  left  ear  ever  since  ;  although  he  only  experiences  a  mild  form  of  his  previous  auditory  function  difficulties  ,  he  still  signs  at  work  or  in  front  of  people  who  know  him  --  especially  when  standing  at  a distance  from  someone  ,  &  ptsd  stemming  from  his  mother’s  outburst  when  he  was  fourteen  .  

birthplace  .    radisson  ,  alberta  ,  canada  .

has  he  experienced  strange  radisson  happenings  ?    he’ll  tell  you  all  day  that  he  hasn’t  ,  but  he  definitely  has  .

family  .     

christopher  &  cora  mercado  :  the  mercado  family  was  ,  at  no  point  in  time  ,  picturesque  .  the  mercado  family  loved  each  other  ,  absolutely  ,  but  river’s  parents  were  still  both  the  type  who’d  go  around  in  circles  with  each  other  in  public  --  all  the  while  ignoring  their  son  as  he  walked  in  front  of  them  .  his  mother  was  in  no  way  stable  ,  but  river  was  far  too  young  to  understand  what  exactly  her  violent  outbursts  entailed  .  to  river  ,  his  father  was  always  the  collected  one  .  they  often  left  river  home  alone  .  one  night  when  river  was  fourteen  ,  he  woke  up  (  after  his  parents  had  been  gone  all  day  )  to  his  father  shaking  him  awake  (  his  left  side  --  his  particularly  bad  ear  ,  especially  at  the  time  )  &  rushing  him  to  get  up  &  be  quiet  .  as  far  as  river  could  tell  ,  his  father  was  on  the  phone  with  the  police  waiting  for  an  in  -  person  response  but  keeping  the  line  busy  .  his  father  left  the  room  for  a  moment  to  check  to  see  if  the  coast  to  the  car  was  clear  &  river  never  saw  him  again  afterward  .  sharp  scuffling  ensued  behind  the  door  ,  &  there  was  no  moment  of  hesitation  after  the  scuffling  dulled  before  there  was  an  insistent  banging  on  river’s  door  .  the  only  thing  that  saved  him  ,  at  the  end  of  the  night  ,  was  river’s  fight  -  or  -  flight  response  to  lock  his  bedroom  door  .  the  police  arrived  about  an  hour  later  &  found  mrs.  mercado  rampaging  blindly  around  the  house  ,  mr.  mercado  stabbed  to  death  in  the  kitchen  ,  &  river  mercado  hiding  under  his  bed  covering  his  ears  .  river  never  went  to  visit  his  mother  in  prison  ,  &  still  hasn’t  spoken  to  her  since  .

education  .    he  went  to  public  school  in  radisson  for  the  duration  of  his  early  youth  &  has  worked  at  the  bakery  since  he  was  fifteen  --  a  year  after  being  placed  in  a  foster  home  .  by  the  time  river  was  eighteen  ,  he  was  living  in  a  small  house  on  his  own  &  hasn’t  left  his  bakery  --  diner  --  home  routine  since  .

languages  .    english  ,  asl  ,  &  tagalog  .

[summersoldier-616]

First Impressions

Chapter 00/Prologue

Sherlock Holmes x Reader

word count: ~3.000 words

warnings: swearing, talk about murder, alcoholism, drug abuse, angst, sulky reader and surely some grammatical mistakes or mistranslations :)

A/N: This is actually a kind of pilot for an actual series I am starting. I am indeed fairly new to writing fanfiction and espacially this little lovely bastard but hopefully I’ll do my fair share. So please enjoy and let me know what you think.

I also wanted to say that I am in no way an expert in forensics, biology or anything similar. All facts I use are either researched or fictitious. However, I try to come as near to the truth as possible.

You found yourself in a dark room devoid of any warmth or furniture, not even a window to determine the daytime. The only light source consisted in a naked bulb which hung still; the light beaming neiter bright nor large enough to illuminate the walls or ceiling as you made your way towards the dirty light source, the floor cracking underneath your feet as you neared.

Standing close enough to touch it, you carefully reached out for the lightbulb. Holding your breath for a second you finally gave it a spin to make the bulb turn around in circles in hope to see more of the foreign room. However, nothing new came into focus as you kept staring into empty space, the spinning light source making the atmosphere even more eerie than before.

As you were about to turn away, a blinding reflection appeared for a second making you halt in your movement. Seconds went by before the action recurred, this time revealing its location. When you took a step forward the sound of breaking glass rang out, making you direct your focus downwards in an attempt to decipher the new sensation.

Picking up a small, oblong object you stepped farther out of the light cone and recognized the item without much effort as a syringe, a dirty one at that. As soon as the term fell from your lips, a low grunt rang out which in return made you turn around. You screamed in horror as a shadowy frame hang underneath the lightbulb, desperately gasping for air while his limbs had been bound.

With shaky steps you closed in on the struggling being but as you reached out, about to touch his shoulder, you felt a hand on your own.

“Ma'am, excuse me“, a soft voice accompanied by a slight shake of your shoulder awoke you from your slumber. As you opened your eyes to find yourself in another foreign environment, in a confined seat surrounded by strangers and backrests, the friendly face of a young flight attendant came into your field of vision. “Ma'am, we're about to begin our final descent. Therefore I have to ask you to fasten your seat belt“, the stewardess repeated kindly.

With a short nod you quickly fiddled with the safety belt, your brain still slightly foggy from the nap and the corresponding dream. At the sound of the fastener clicking into place the young woman in costume gave you a quick smile and then continued her check down the aisle.

As you looked out of the small airplane window and saw nothing but grey clouds, you quietly scoffed; already missing the burning hot sun of Phoenix, Arizona. After graduating from the University of Arizona – the College of Medicine in Phoenix, to be quite exact – you had started to work for the Phoenix Police Department while still participating actively in the Department of Pathology at your former place of study.

However, the work with the PHXPD was not exactly as thrilling as you would have expected. Most of your 'patients' had died by some drug related crime or the drug itself wherefore the actual pathological examination proved to be less difficult than you had hoped. So when your dreaded 30th birthday rolled around and you came to the realisation that you were heading down an impasse, the decision to alter the current course wasn't that difficult.

And that's exactly how the now 32-year old you found herself on an airplane headed to England's capital with all important belonings stuffed into two large suitcases and the letter of resignation back home on your employer's desk. However rash that decision might have seemed and no matter your family's protests, till the moment you boarded the plane almost ten hours ago you didn't doubt your decision; feeling almost encouraged by the outcry you had caused.

With a sigh you teared your eyes away from the cloudy view and redirected your attention towards the slight mess you had created before falling asleep. As your departure was at quite short notice and you didn't like to leave unfinished buisness behind, you chose to take some unsolved cases with you, including a quite unsettling case, a young gang member's corpse being found drifting through the Gila River, which had occupied your mind just before your involuntary nap.

This may not seem out of the ordinary if it wasn't for the man to die from asphyxiation. And although throughout your examination you had found multiple indications for physical abuse, neither of those were from strangulation or the like which could have led to suffocation.

However, as you took another look at the forensic report everything seemed so painfully obvious. Quickly grabbing the toxicologic report you scanned the results for a certain data and as you finally found the object of desire you had to fight the urge to smite your forehead.

You emptied the rest of your overprized gin and tonic in one gulp before rapidly typing away on your laptop, determined to finish the covering letter before deboarding as you had just solved the case in your sleep – quiet literally.

“No, listen to me“, you audibly groaned on your way to the baggage claim, the mobile phone pressed to your  ear since you had stepped out of the airplane, “Bobby, if you'd just shut your mouth for a minute, I might not have to repeat every second sentence.“

You really weren't a short-tempered person, cross your heart, simply incredibly impatient. Since early days you had been irritated by the obvious inability of your fellows to follow your trains of thoughts, always feeling pressured to slow down which in return made you even more frustrated.

However, as time went by and you grew older you found a way to at least dial it down a notch in 'emergency situations'. The initial bad habit to sometimes drink one to many became a slight addiction to more often than not being at least a bit tipsy; numbing your brain to slow down your racing mind.

“Yes, I am well aware of the time difference but as criminals never rest, lawmen shouldn't either“, you reasoned while your destination came into view, the first suitcases and carpetbags already passing by on the baggage conveyer belt. As you heard light snorring instead of an answer you shouted loudly into the speaker, “I finally understand how they murdered him!“

As soon as the sentence had left your lips, you felt countless pairs of eyes on you; some passerby even stopped in their tracks to cut you a look. Looking around you mouthed an inaudible 'What?', forcing yourself to look more confident than you actually felt, and continued your way, hopeful to now have your collocutor's attention.

“I hope this is a good one“, Bob murmured while you heard rustling in the background, he was probably leaving the bed as to not disturb his wife. As he rambled on you arrived at the baggage carousel, standing between other passengers who had already found their luggage.

“Cry me a fucking river, Bob“, you taunted absentmindedly while scanning your surroundings, quickly growing impatient as you waited for your baggage. Looking to your left you saw a small child at the hand of her mother who shot you a deadly glare; probably for swearing within earshot of her offspring that was surely too busy watching items of luggage rolling by on the baggage conveyer belt to listen to some stranger's phone call.

“Do you remember how I had a hard time understanding how someone could die by suffocation with neither external influence nor pulmonary aspiration? And yet it is so painfully obvious that it must have been too easy for me to see. The drugs, Bobby, it's his addiction!“, you explained, earning a few more irritated side glances. “So what?“, Bob asked, his voice still laced with sleep and now additionally incomprehension, “The little junky took an overdose?“

“No, no, quiet the opposite actually. His body did not only show symptoms of regular drug use, which doesn't come as a surprise considering his presumable addiction, but they also found evidence for recent drug withdrawal. That was the missing piece, Bobby, don't you understand?!“, you asked excitedly. Your question was answered by a short peroid of silence, followed by a deep-drawn sigh and a muttered, “Do me the favour and just tell me.“

If it hadn't been for the importance of the current phone conversation, you would have ended the call at this point. Explaining an officer how the cause of death was brought about was basically solving the case for him. However, as your luggage seemed to be long in coming you chose to elaborate.

“Okay, listen and listen closely. The victim showed signs of physical abuse in form of possible captivation which means that he quiet surely wasn't able to satisfy his cravings and therefore went through an involuntary withdrawal. This 'shock theraphy' probably resulted in a seizure which thereupon led to the asphyxiation and due to the lack of medical intervention his death.

I just gave the results from the toxicology a once over and all indications are that his serotonin as well as the noradrenaline level must have been extremely low which would complement my assumption about the deprivation and considering his physical condition I am confident that my presumption concerning the captivity will turn out to be true as well.

I already sent an email to my replacement in the pathology department to run another test on the victim concerning his external injuries and as soon as I arrive at the hotel I'll send you my report on the current data which I worked with. If you'll excuse me now, I still have a busy schedule ahead of me and there are only so many hours in the day.“

Without awaiting an answer you ended the call and with a smile on your face put the phone in your jeans' backpocket. However, as you realised that the conveyer belt had come to a halt without a trace of your luggage your facial features derailed. Spinning on your heel you quickly made your way to the next information while holding your handbag close in a futile attempt to slow your racing thoughts and heart.

You stared wide eyed at the middle-aged woman sitting behind the counter, wearing a sympathetic look on her face. “I am truly sorry, Miss, but it seems like your luggage wasn't on the plane. Our personnel could not find it either in the cargo area or somewhere on the way to the baggage claim“, she explained once more.

“But that is impossible“, you choked out, “All my belonings, clothes were in those two suitcases and you are telling me that you lost them? How is that even possible?“ Just as the woman was about to answer your rhethorical question, the ringing of her phone stopped her before you could, saving her from further embarrasment. While she concentrated her attention on the computer, typing away on the console, you had time to check your phone, only to realise that you had already wasted two precious hours in this maze called airport.

“Thank you, I'll inform her immediately“, the female sighed into the telephone before hanging up. Before she even managed to address you, you stood at the desk and asked hopefully, “So, you did find them? Oh, thank god. I wouldn't have known what to do without them. Where exactly can I pick-“ -  “Miss, we indeed did find your luggage. However, I must inform you that your suitcases are currently in Madrid.“ The last part was a slightly whispered answer, followed by an unsettling long pause.

“I do not expect that you have by any chance a town called Madrid in England?“, you muttered tiredly although the question sounded more like a half hearted joke which the staff member answered with a shake of her head. Suddenly you felt exhausted, tired and absolutely fed up with the whole situation. Massaging the bridge of your nose, you chose to end this conversation as quickly as possible; not like it was leading anywhere wherefore you quietly asked, “How long?“

After a quick look into her computer she informed you that it should take about three days, maximum five. At this point you just accepted your fate silently, leaving behind your phone number and e-mail address if by a fluke your luggage would arrive any sooner. The woman apologized again profoundly before releasing you by wishing you – quite ironically – a 'good day'.

On your way out, you made a quick stop at one of the airports' outpriced shops to buy some necessities. The cashier, probably a student who needed to make money on the side, shot a scornful glance at you as he scanned your purchase consisting of a fresh-perked coffee and a bottle of whiskey.

While the young man put away the cash you opened the bought liquor, opened the lid of your steaming coffee and poured some of the spirit into your caffeinated drink. As you took a sip and tasted the delightful flavor on your tongue a content sigh fell from your lips; answered by a quiet snicker from the male student.

“Listen, kid“, you warned the boy while you stored the liquor away in your purse – your only luggage at the given moment. With a quick once-over you knew that the male behind the counter had it coming; glazed over eyes due to increased production of lachrymal fluid, chapped lips and lastly a light swelling of the lymph node meant that the poor boy would be laid low with a pretty nasty flue in a few days.

A dry chuckle escaped your lips before you rummaged through your handbag, all the while lecturing, “First of, if you haven't heared of Irish Coffee, then you should probably rethink your attitude to life. Secondly, you have no idea how shitty this day has been so far.“ As you finally found what you were looking for, you tossed the item in his direction while adding with a frosty smile, “And lastly, my bad habits surely shouldn't be your greatest concern.“

Whit that you took your coffee and left the store behind with the boy looking back and forth between your departing form and the package of tissues.

You couldn't help the content sigh that fell from your lips as you finally breathed fresh air; and although it was slightly drizzling by now, the cooling effect was more than welcome as you were practically fuming with rage at this point. As you dragged your feet towards the street to hail down a taxi, your rational side managed to regain the upper hand after being too emotional for the last two hours.

Straightening your back and raking your fingers through your hair to look the least bit presentable, you whistled with your fingers to catch some taxidrivers attention. With a small smile adorning your lips as seconds later a taxi stopped you walked towards to vehicle; only to be outrun by two men, the smaller one opening the door while the taller man tipped away on his mobile phone, mumbling to himself.

“Excuse me“, you shrieked furiously, admittedly louder than you intended to but as the one holding the car door open focused his attention on you, it obviously had served the purpose. With a smile that didn't reach your eyes and a bitter sweet voice that dripped with venom you purred: “I believe that is my cab.“

While the blonde one quickly let go of the car door, wearing a guilty expression mixed with a tinge of embarrasment, his friend didn't seem to mind the inconvenience as he began to step into the taxi, not even bothering to spare you a glance. With a quick movement you banged your fist on the car roof which in return made the man stop in his tracks. “I think you failed to hear, sir“, you repeated sibilantly, “This happens to be my cab.“

As you looked angrily at the male he scanned you blatantly, only for his expression to grow even colder as he retorted monotone, “You are already late so I don't see the necessity for your rush.“ Shocked not only by his straightforwardness but the veracity of his claim as well, you failed to come up with incisive answer, only hissing a half-hearted 'You don't know the last thing about me'. Misinterpreting the retort as a challenge the dark haired man turned around, beginning to slowly stroll around all the while ignoring his friend's attempts to stop him.

“Early thirties which would explain your decision for a significant life change like – in your case – leaving Arizona; an age in which the average person decides to conduct a sort of 'life audit' to assess meaningfulness and satisfaction. The farewell must have been quiet tearful considering the residue of lachrymal fluid on your shoulder; your mother must weep easily, doesn't she?

However, considering the evident lack of luggage you either a) had it collected or b) the airline must have made a mistake which is much more likely due to your tense posture and the alcohol you mixed in your coffee; don't you think ten o'clock in the morning is a bit early to drink?

Which overall brings me to my original assessment of your lateness. After all, as an arrival you surely had an appointment for the key delivery which you must have missed by now. Therefore, it shouldn't be to much of a hastle to wait for the next vehicle and leave this taxi to us.“ His deduction concluded with a fatigued sigh from his companion.

You were taken aback. It was neither do to his perceptions and following conclusions being spot-on nor because of the obviousness he stated those facts with but the simple aspect of meeting someone who was able to talk even more than you made you speechless. As you made eye contact with the other man he gave you a compassionate smile, implying that his friend's remarks weren't anything out of the ordinary. But no matter the impressive demonstration, you weren't about to loose this fairly one-sided verbal exchange.

“Impressive“, you cooed, trying to keep your composure which proofed to be a difficult task, “Right down to the last detail, except for one minor exception.“ At these words the dark haired man stopped in his tracks, keeping his back turned to you. You couldn't fight down the smug smile that overtook your features – admittedly, you didn't try to either – as you heared his deep voice asking: “And what would that be?“

You shot his companion a knowing look and although you weren't quite sure why, his features held the same smug look present on your face as he let go of the door, stepping back onto the pavement. Stepping inside the car, you calmly answered, “That this is my cab.“ With that you shut the door while the dark haired man turned around, an unreadable expression on his face as the car drove off with the two men standing at the roadside and you sitting inside the taxi.

“Whereto, Miss?“, the taxidriver asked, a slight tinge of petulance evident in his voice. As you turned around, looking through the rear window to see the tall man standing in the same position as you had left him while his friend hailed down another cab, you answered with a smile on your face, “236 Baker Street, please.“

[hollowedrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, SARAH! — You’ve been accepted for the role of Charity Burbage. What I loved most about your application was the way in which you gave Charity’s newfound fire a source other than her wife’s death. It doesn’t come from death, but life — her wife’s life and the way she lived, ready to take on her own war of sorts. The little details throughout your application kept it a fresh read from start to finish. I’m so excited to see you continue to develop her character. 

Thank you so much for applying. Please create your account and send in the link, track the right tags, and follow everyone on the follow list. Welcome to Hollowed Souls!

Name: Sarah

age: 24

preferred pronouns: She/Her

timezone: EST

activity: I would say my activity should be a 6-7/10 overall. My life can get pretty hectic from time to time but it ebbs and flows and I’ll be around to plot and check in most days and able to write replies 2-3 days out of the week.

are you applying for more than one character?: Not this time!

how do you feel about your character dying?: I mean of course I would be sad to see Charity go down in this war but provided I was able to have some measure of creative input as well as able to return to the rp as a different character I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing how Charity’s death plays out. She’s not a soldier for all that she’s trying to be one right now and it wouldn’t surprise me if she did end up as a casualty. To be completely honest the angst addict in me wonders how her death would affect the Order and the plot, would her light going out bring more hopelessness or would it spark dying fires of rebellion? A terrible part of me would really like to find out.

anything else?: Nothing except to say that you’re a fucking Queen Janelle and this roleplay is everything I dreamed it would be when you first mentioned it and more.

ic details.

full name: Charity Melina Burbage

Charity: Meaning “generous love” it is hard to imagine a name more fitting for Charity who was born with a heart overflowing with love for the world around her. Although Florence would have loved any child just the same, it was her wish that she would have a child who would give back to the world the joy that she herself had received in bringing them into it and she wrote that wish into her child’s name and delighted to see it come true as her daughter grew. For a long time all was as her mother had wished it. Her family was not perfect but it was defined by genuine love and kindness and for many years that was enough to keep the darkness from slipping in through the cracks. Little did she know that there was something else flowing within her precious child that would open the doors to a darkness more cruel than she could have imagined.

Melina: Meaning “honey.” Although it was Florence who swore up and down that all the honey she ate when she was trying to conceive and continued to crave throughout her pregnancy was the source of Charity’s honeyed tresses and sweet soul it was William who insisted, eyes twinkling with gentle mirth, that they pay homage to her belief with a name that would soon become his favored nickname for his only child.  Although many of his mates at work offered veiled condolences on the gender of his much longed for child William could not have been more overjoyed with his bright young daughter who met him every day upon his return from work with gifts of braided flowers and treats from the kitchen. It had put a chill in his heart the day she disappeared, however briefly, behind a barrier that he could not breach into a world that he could not fully understand. Although his wife’s undaunted faith in their child and Charity’s own eager curiosity won him over at the time and he encouraged his daughter to find her place in this strange new world that was hers by right of magic the chill never fully faded away and in time he would come to see there was more reason than fatherly concern behind his apprehension.

date of birth: 23, February, 1953 (Pisces Sun, Cancer Moon, Libra Rising)

former hogwarts house: Hufflepuff

sexuality: Pansexual Panromantic

gender/pronouns: she/her

face claim change: nope!

more.

how do you interpret this character’s personality? how will you play them? include two weaknesses & two strengths.

Charity was born with a bright seed of light inside of her that flourished in a home filled with love and patience until it glowed with the warmth of a small sun. Secure in her parent’s love she was driven from a young age to share the fount of joyful kindness (+) that sprung from within her with the world around her. She could not bear to see anything or anyone suffer and was ever taking in misfit strays and wounded animals to nurse back to health, baking treats to give to their neighbors, and doing all she could to wipe frowns from any face friend and stranger alike. Even as she grew and found that the world was much colder than the loving nest of her hometown her light remained growing even stronger despite all those who hissed at her that she had no right to shine. There are those who would call her kindness weakness, even she has cursed herself more than once since the beginning of the war for not being stronger or harder, but there is value in the ability to lift others’ spirits. There is scarcely person alive in Godric’s Hollow who has not lost someone or something dear to them and Charity does her best to bolster the spirits of those around her with hope and kindness on the days she is able to. Unfortunately those days seem to be fewer and fewer as time goes on.

Once Charity’s inner warmth and kindness was as constant as the sun, but loss has worn away at it until some days it gives off little more light than a smoldering ember. The truth is that Charity is terribly depressed (-). Following her wife’s death she had rallied bolstered by her commitment to the cause of preventing further atrocities and the bonds she strengthened and formed within the Order. For a few years she found a purpose and despite the mounting horrors of war she held on tight to her belief that good would win out in time. The Massacre and attack on the Order Headquarters has utterly shaken that conviction and set her back into a darkness akin to the one that overwhelmed her when she first lost Althea. There is something even worse about the darkest days of this relapse that are tinged with bitterness and self-recrimination. When people look to her for the light she used to shed so willingly she is beginning to shrink away from them. So many of them are ready to give up and let hatred run free through their world, what makes them think she has anything left to give? Her mind is a mass of contradictions. At times she wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and let the world fade away and others she hates herself for even thinking of giving up or holding back from the people who clearly need kindness more than ever. Althea would have never given up or cast blame on the people she loved for losses that many of them also suffered. When hopelessness and bitterness threaten to overwhelm her she remembers her wife who was so determined to save the world from forces that Charity did not fully understand and she shores herself up, brews a pot of tea, and finds someone who needs a hand to hold or a shoulder to lean on.

Although most days she cannot see it, it is her spirit alongside the memory of her fierce beautiful wife that makes it so that Charity is so determined (+) not to give up no matter how dire the circumstances. When she was alive Althea was the ‘strong’ one in their relationship. Charity was plenty happy with a simple life full of beauty and was content when after many years of working at a small tea shop in Diagon Alley she was able to buy it from the owner and make it her own. She treasured the smiles of her customers and their compliments on her charmed teas and honey cakes. Although she too could be sweet and kind, Althea was more of a warrior than her sweet gentle wife. She was one of many scientists who formed the forefront of a movement to address the effects humanity was having on their planet and spent her days arguing against those who would harm the world she loved. Despite not fully understanding climate change Charity knew that Althea was working against the folly of men that could devastate both of their worlds if left unchecked. It is the fire she saw in her wife’s eyes when she spoke of men who would gladly let the world burn if it made their lives more pleasurable that is reflected now in Charity’s as she is faced with a group of people who would let their hatred and greed blind them to the evil of their actions. She has to believe that, despite all evidence to the contrary, good will win out over hatred and cruelty but she also knows that she cannot sit idly by and expect that to happen all on its own. So she remains determined to stand with the Order and make a difference despite the darkness in her heart and the world around her.

Although Charity’s determination remains strong, the fact remains that she was not born a soldier. In school she gravitated towards softer magics. She excelled  in charms and potions that could impart an extra boost of calm or energy to a cup of tea or cake, heal small minor issues, make flowers bloom and last, and photographs move but she was less interested in dueling or defense against the dark arts. As a result she is weak (-) when it comes to battle magic which leaves her at a disadvantage being as she is one of a few remaining members of the resistance. In the beginning her lack of battle prowess had not mattered as much since the Order was better manned and she had other ways of contributing, but now with the Order on its last legs and beginning to fracture she is beginning to feel almost useless. She has learned to cast a Patronus, but is still struggling to learn enough offensive and defensive magic to make her presence in a fight more of a help than a hindrance.

how has the war affected this character, emotionally and otherwise?

There is little the war hasn’t stolen from Charity. It began as a shadow scarcely noticed in the otherwise blue sky of her life nothing more than harsh words hissed and whispered at her in halls and classrooms. By the time she realized how large and menacing the shadow of war had grown it was too late, it had already noticed her and stolen her love right out of her hands. Although it has been years since Althea’s murder Charity still wakes from nightmares with her wife’s name on her lips and tears soaking her pillow. She knows it was hatred, vile and putrid, that stole her wife from her  but on her darker days it is hard not to dwell on her own part in her wife’s death. If it wasn’t for her Althea would have never been in the Leaky Cauldron that day. Althea never would have known there was a world existing alongside her own or that people might wish her dead solely for her lack of magic and the accident of her wife’s birth. If Charity had only paid more attention to the whispers and dark undercurrents that were rising on the streets of the magical world she had come to love alongside the one she had been born into she could have done something differently. If she had known how bad things were getting she could have taken Althea someplace safe. Even if she had only remembered to refill her floo powder her wife might still be alive and well. If…if…if…if, it was a torturous exercise but one that she had trouble stopping once it wormed its way to the forefront of her mind. Although it had felt like the end of the world when Althea’s bright green eyes drifted shut in a darkened alley way it was only the beginning. After Arthur told her about the war and the Order she had fought her way out of the darkness that had descended on her the moment the light had gone dark in her wife’s eyes to devote herself to helping them in any way that she could only to watch her friends suffer and die and finally become refugees of a bloody war.

Along the way she lost her home. After the Ministry was lost Charity had gone home to her parents and begged them to leave. All she could think of was how their home was linked to the magical world and the war that was tearing it apart from the inside out all because of her and the idea of harm coming to them because they had born a magical child terrified her. In turn they had begged her to come with them and she had tearfully refused them. They were safer without her with them and she could not turn her back on the only people fighting to keep what had happened to Althea from happening to anyone else. Her only concession was to give her mother a charmed envelope one of a set that would allow them to trade messages if they needed to and a promise that she would write them when she could. As soon as her parents were safely away she lit her envelope on fire to break the connection between them fearing it would be used to trace them if hers was ever compromised. It broke her heart to lie to her mother but her desire to protect her parents won out against the cries of a small child that lived in her chest who wanted ever so badly to run to her parents and hide.  After her parents left she packed up what she could not live without, including a box full of photographs more precious to her than gold, and moved into the back rooms of her shop on the edge of Diagon Alley. The beautiful town that she had grown up in, had lived and laughed and fallen in love in, held nothing for her now. It was a ghost town full of lovely memories tinged with the pain of loss and like many things it only existed within her reach in photographs.

The Massacre and the combined failed Malfoy Manor mission and attack on the Headquarters dealt a final harsh blow to Charity’s spirit. It meant another home lost since there was enough to link her shop, sometimes used as a safehouse in the past, to the Order that it was not safe to return to. It meant that even more of her friends were dead or lost in a world that seemed colder and bloodier every day. It meant that they were losing, the death eaters took their losses as well she knows but so with Voldemort still living she knows he can continue to spread his vileness and infect new followers to fill his ranks, and that more and more of them wanted to give up. Once they relocated to Godric’s Hollow, a place so cursed by death that not even Voldemort would think to find them there, the already faded light in her chest began to flicker and bleed out. It’s hard for her some days to continue on surrounded as she is by reminders of their losses both in the landscape of the ravaged village itself and in the faces of her remaining friends.

where does this character currently stand? with those who wish to hide in godric’s hollow until the war ends, with those who wish to rebuild the order and continue fighting the war, or on neither side? Why?

Charity is torn when it comes to the schism that is beginning to tear at the center of the Order. On one hand she fully understands those who wants to do their best to remain safe and weather the war in hiding. She loves her friends dearly and wants them all to be safe and knows that there is no way to ever be fully safe while fighting a war. Not to mention there is the fact that given a chance to turn back time and keep her family together and safe far from the ravages of war she knows that she would very likely make the selfish choice to do so. But she also knows that Voldemort and those who think like him will never stop. She saw it in the eyes of the men who stole her wife from her. They knew that there would be likely be no way to avoid the repercussions of their actions, but it was worth it to them to make her and her wife suffer for the mere accident of their blood. Men like them… people like the remaining death eaters will never stop trying to destroy what they think it unworthy to exist in their world. And so those who would fight to keep the thorny vines of hatred from choking out the good in their world have to keep going as well. So as much as she understands the impulse to give in to hopelessness and hide away she stands with those who wish to rebuild and continue fighting. It’s what Althea would have done, it’s what the remaining spark of light in her soul is driving her to do. Kindness is not always soft. Sometimes it burns with all the bright heat of protective love and vengeance against those who would spread darkness. She does think that a secondary safehouse should be set up for those who cannot or will not fight, but she herself refuses to just stand by and let the evil that has infected their world and stolen so much from her and those she loves prevail.

Character Question: What is Charity’s role in the order? Has she found a place or is she still struggling to find her own way to help?

When she first joined the Order she was able to do enough to help in many little ways. She offered up her shop as a safehouse and a place to meet following missions and kept watch with a cup of soothing tea and a hand to hold for when people began to show up and had to wait to see who else would make it back. She kept an eye on the atmosphere at the edge of Diagon Alley and noticed when one by one her muggleborn regulars began to stop in less and less and then not at all. She hid messages in her daily specials and visited fellow members with baskets of food and flowers when they were injured or lost someone. Over time she established herself as a bright spot of hope in the Order by being ready with a smile and a listening ear despite having faced her own terrible loss before ever having joined the war effort.

Since the loss of her shop and her own mounting depression it has gotten harder for Charity to feel as though she is truly benefiting the order. She wants so badly to help and tries her best to remain a bright spot in the darkness for her friends and allies and to support those who reach out to her but there are days that she feels hopeless about her ability to make a true difference. Worse than that she once more feels stretched between two worlds with one foot on each side of the schism that is shaking the core of the Order. She wants to offer her love and support to everyone, including those who cannot bear to fight any longer, but her determination to soldier on causes tension between her own convictions and her desire for everyone to be safe. She wants to fight alongside those who are committed to continuing on, but she feels like she would slow them down in a true fight. She is torn and hurting and trying so hard to find the right balance to hold on to what remains of her light and keep going forward.

However, in many ways I believe she still plays an important part in the Order. Fractured and bleeding though she may be she is still a sign of goodness in a dark world and for many I believe that is important just to see her surviving. I could see her role playing out any number of ways. She is able to understand people exceedingly well and could play a part in bringing together the two opposing sides of the Order. She could also end up a martyr if she isn’t careful.

extra.

Snapshot HC’s

Hometown- Shere, Surrey, England

Parents- Florence (nee Wells) and William Burbage

Charity’s late wife- Name: Althea Quinn. Occupation: Environmental scientist/activist Appearance: Brunette w/ green eyes. They met following Charity’s graduation from Hogwarts as Althea spent most of her summers in Ireland. Charity revealed her magic to her on the eve of her marriage proposal to Althea explaining that she didn’t want there to be any dishonesty between herself and the woman she wanted to spend her life with.

Patronus: Hedgehog- “Cute and loveable inside and out, those who possess a hedgehog Patronus may thrive on giving and receiving love and may feel they need more of it than others realize. While upfront about their endearment and affectionate personality, hedgehogs are also known to be anxious and overly cautious. They often worry about their own and others of their kind’s safety. Those around must approach the hedgehog with care and precision, though, because when defensive and hurt, hedgehogs are remembered not for their sweetness, but for their sharp spikes.” “The first impression of an individual with a hedgehog patronus can be very deceiving. On the outside, they can first appear happy-go-lucky and kind, as well as slightly naive. They are optimistic individuals in the way they want to be happy and have the feeling rub off on others, but this is not who they are completely. Rather, they actually have a tough personality to them, and have the ability to fight and defend themselves. Do not take the for weaklings, because they certainly are not, and are much more perceptive than they appear. The most common house for a hedgehog patronus is Hufflepuff. The most common signs are Cancer and Sagittarius.”

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/salexis19/ch-bleeding-light/

Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/emmavanity/playlist/6yJd5ZF9SMj0Rz3MIuILoe?si=IkH6i6Q9Qq24RYF_p486HA

[blandmemoirs]

Anger

Rage, Fury, Fire, Pain, Momentum, Energy, unyielding emotion. When I am angry my mind is clear of all the torment of anxiety or doubt. I become objective driven, I become focused, I become energized. I am filled with a burning passion to move, and to never stop moving.

In days of old, my anger would manifest through methods of lashing out. Of attacking, of punching back, of inflicting pain on that which upset me. This is unproductive. To hurt another as a result of your frustration is unjustified. It doesnt make a situation better. It makes it worse. It builds further resentment between yourself and the person you are angry at. It prevents solutions. It causes more hurt. I learned this a long time ago and understand it today. I cannot swear to pacifism, but I will not resort to violence unless my safety or the safety of those I love is directly threatened.

I made a choice a few years ago to use my anger productively. If I am to become angry, I cannot lash out. I cannot hurt other people. I have to use it to be productive. Anger, like any emotion, is a flare of passion in the body and mind. It is energy, and it can be redirected in ways that dont further a cycle of violence. That is what I live to prove.

I am an angry person. I get angry, often. Its not a new development in my life. It has followed me since my childhood. Its sources are numerous. I cant attribute it to any one cause or happening. I have always been angry.

I know this because in kindergarten, I would pick fights with other children, often. Just random, chaotic violence. I enjoyed it. I liked hurting other people. Then I would go home to more violence. This time from my parents into me as discipline for my actions. My parents would belt me for more than just violence, it could come from me simply acting out. Sometimes I was spared the physical harm by recieving emotional harm from furious yelling. My parents taught me anger and violence, and their resorting to violence taught me to resort to violence. Might made right. I shouldnt put all of my problems on my parents, but they wear a substantial amount of blame for the way I learned to cope and act.

My father is an angry man. He grew up in harsh conditions with a harsh family that put him through worse than I've ever lived through. He made sure to tell me that anytime I voiced the tyranny in his actions. He resents his older brother, doesnt like his father, and has spent much of his life failing. Deep in debt from his own mistakes, bearing the blame for a fractured household and broken marriage, he is full of anger. He takes out his anger on those weaker than him. From the dogs he can kick when they bark too loud, to the children he can endlessly insult and shout at for minor transgressions. All made worse by alcoholism to cope. My father is not a bad man, but an incredibly flawed and broken one. He does make efforts to redeem and be better, but he has not yet atoned for his actions, and the marks he has left on his children will linger whether he accepts it or not.

My mother is an angry woman. Raised in a split household between parents who live irresponsibly and resent each other. She was a rebellious youth who took her own childhood away when I was conceived. A child raising a child. A lack of freedom as her life is indebted to my survival and later, two more. Dead end job to dead end job. A broken marriage and a dysfunctional family she is forced to raise with no individual progress to be attained. She resents her circumstances. She desires higher living and a fate she can control. She takes out her anger on those weaker than her. From the dogs she can hit to the children she can scream at for "negativity". All made worse by alcohol and weed. My mother is not a bad woman, she is just an incredibly flawed and broken one. A girl who became a mother too quickly. An independent soul tethered to a path of dependence. She makes efforts to be better, but often furthers a rift she created. Her anger will be remembered in the hearts of her children.

I do not know the true extent of my parents lives, I only know what I have seen, been revealed, and assumed. I know one thing for certain, they are examples of how not to grow up. The anger they live with is an anger I live with. To tame their beasts they drink and lash out, I must be better.

Which is why I cling so desperately to the example set for myself by the Incredible Hulk, my favorite character. A genius with deep emotional trauma turned into a monster fueled by rage. Dr Robert Bruce Banner must learn to live with the monster that dwells inside him. The Hulk, limitless rage personified, is a monster that does not want to hurt people, but just wants to be left alone among his friends. He is violent, but only because he recieves violence. The monster is capable of reason, of morality, of seeing through the surge of rage to know what is right and what is wrong. As such, the Hulk chooses to be a hero, to save and protect the innocent and to smash those who do evil. Bruce Banner must live with his anger, to know when it is right to let the beast out and to understand when smashing is the wrong option.

Banner has spent most of his life trying to rid himself of the Hulk, but the Hulk is not something Banner can live without. The Hulk is a part of Bruce, is a piece of his damaged psyche which will always exist. The gamma radiation only externalized these features.

Hulk also resents Banner, and wishes he could exist without him. Hulk doesn't like Banner's weak manner and conniving mind. Hulk doesn't like being locked up in a cage in the back of Banners mind. Hulk wants to be free and Hulk wants to be left alone.

These two characters are inseparable, and two sides of the same coin. Hulk is a manifestation of Banners trauma and repressed anger. Hulk is a destructive force of passion that can be directed to do good. These entities must coexist, for they need each other.

What does this have to do with me? In a less hyperbolic manner, my rage is a part of me. It does not go away. It never ends. It is a piece of my heart and mind. It is a force that makes me want to destroy all that causes harm to those I love. Anger does not cease within the chaotic storm that is my heart, it persists and waits for its time to possess me. When I am angry my body tenses, my eyes focus, my heart beats at rapid pace, my stomach churns, my body shakes. At its worst I lose sight and see nothing but flashes of red as I convulse into shivers of rage. When control of my body is returned the next moment, my mind is clear and I am energized in a way almost as potently as when I am in love. I can do almost anything. It is raw adrenaline. I move faster, harder, and with more force and precision than when I am in a normal state. I make objectives and carry them through. I become a machine fueled by limitless rage. It can almost be addicting. Sometimes I have so much force locked inside I feel an urge to scream. I often repress it for the sake of keeping attention away from myself. Anger makes me more effective in my work. Be it my actual job, my writing, or editing. I am so focused, creative forces flow, all through the red lense of rage. Sometimes I run, sometimes I drive, sometimes I channel this energy into speaking. An endless monologue or a consoling speech to a friend in need. For that is the true root to my rage. A friend in pain. When a friend is hurt, I flare up. The closer and more important my friend, the angrier I get. The angrier I get the more energy I have and the more I cant stop moving. My foot tapping, my leg bouncing, I pace. Anger does not debilitate me, it gives me more ability than I know what to do with.

It is not just that a friend is in pain, it is that I cant do anything to stop it. I can't do anything to change their cirumstance. I cannot save them from their suffering because the forces that hurt them are out of my control, out of my influence. I can only console, and console I do, even as rage paves the way of my actions.

When my anger releases its possession of me, I am left to deep introspection and concern. Did I do enough? Did I help? Did I do anything? Why was I angry? I feel rejuvenated, almost born anew. The passion has retreated to my internal self, and I am left feeling cool and calmer. Sometimes, in truly helpess circumstances, I feel empty. I was not enough. I didn't do enough. Worst, when my anger was used unproductively, I feel guilty. Knowing I was wrong and unjust. It is a betrayal to myself to use anger to harm others.

Today I was made angry at the hurt of one of the most important people in my life whom I care deeply for. Their circumstances are far beyond my powers to control, and they themself live far from me. The only thing I can do is send my love and support in the form of text or voice. It never feels like enough. My anger possesses me, and the temptation to strike out at the world that causes such endless pain for my loved ones exists. A random act of violence to atone for the wrongs done to another. That is not right. There is no justice in that. There is no good to come from it. So instead I made my objective to work harder, to make more money in my shift and to ensure my immediate environment was taken care of. I wished every coworker safe travels and good nights, I greeted and enthusiastically interacted with customers and pedestrians who gave me the time. Spreading good energy and doing good for others while powered up with this anger made for a more productive day. When the anger finally relinquished, I began typing. To explain, and to document for myself. I can do good with the frustration I feel. I can be a good man.

I understand this all very intimately now. A younger, less introspective Robbie did not. I got angry, had so much energy and power in my palms I only thought to make a fist. I would then use those fists for causes of pain and revenge, sometimes on undeserving parties. It built a guilt deep inside me that I will never forgive myself for. I can only be a better person now. Instead of making a fist I pick up a pen, or more truthfully I grab a keyboard. Words, endless words, inspired by anger and made real through my choices to funnel that rage.

I am inseparable from my anger. My anger is a part of me. I have to own it, and I have to admit to it. I cant live in fear of myself for what can happen when I lose control, as rare as such an occurence is. I have to instead use it to be productive, and clean up what messes I make with it. And I will make messes. I will hurt people. It is inevitable for an emotion as potent as anger. Sometimes the lense of rage prevents us from seeing reality as fairly as we might. Sometimes a fist is formed.

It is my responsibility and my burden to bear. I cannot blame others for my own nature. I can not allow myself to resent others for who I am. When I am made angry, instead I must find a way to resolve my conflicts and make good.

The Hulk has been saving the world for decades through his anger, and I can do the same. Its not easy. Living with yourself and accepting yourself is hard for some people who look deep into themselves enough. I used to cage this monster, to repress it. It would always free itself and come to the surface. Pent up aggression and bitterness blinds anger and creates pain. Instead, I will live with this intensity I call my anger, and I will continue to live to make it productive, for the benefit of myself and my friends.

I should not hate myself because I am angry. My anger is rooted in the love I have. There is nothing wrong with being angry unless I choose to hurt others with it. That is a choice I will not make unless the other is someone of truly abominable character.

Robbie Bland is an angry person, but he is not a bad person because of it. Make your anger productive. 'Nuff said. Thanks for reading.

[modernapathy-project]

Modern Apathy

Before starting, I do want to clarify that this is gonna be a purely reflective essay that is not meant to directly put blame on any specific group or person, but instead try to come up with answers for what might have caused modern apathy. It’s going to be a way to express the thoughts that run through my mind and the conclusions that I have come to, which many people might disagree with, which is also absolutely fine. With this project, my goal is to make people wonder about this issue. It doesn’t have to be a complex thought experiment or anything like that; my goal is to share my thoughts with people and maybe even start a discussion, as I am open to changing my opinions and thoughts. I think the best way to start a change is to first gently introduce people to the concept, without being too aggressive or forceful about it. It could be seen as a way to raise awareness about an issue that is quite difficult to tackle from an objective point of view, and it might read as more of a rambling text rather than a proper, MLA style essay. I do want this essay to have an intimate, more human feeling to it, which is why I will be using the pronouns “I” and “We”. I don’t think an objective, robotic essay would be very effective at making people connect with me.

Modern apathy 

According to the Merriam-Webster website, apathy can be defined as “lack of feeling or emotion” or a “lack of interest or concern”. I have personally witnessed this phenomena in various shapes and forms, and have been an accomplice in it. Nowadays, most apathy doesn’t take the form of a war or a hate crime, as we as a society have managed to create societal movements to fight against these, even if things are still not completely solved. Instead, apathy finds its way by dressing itself as a sheep of positivity when it is in fact a wolf. We see hashtags tied to important movements being used as a pure aesthetic choice, a decoration, which people use to give their unrelated selfies some sort of validity. We see people taking smiling pictures in a tragic place such as the National September 11 Memorial & Museum, using such a tragic incident as a nice background. We see people joining societal movements not to empathize and create change, but to actively create conflict and negativity inside the movement itself. We see people monetizing and creating a show out of the death of a relative. This is modern apathy, an invisible parasite that corrupts and kills everything it touches, and manages to infect all of us. 

To understand what might have given birth to this disease, we have to go back in history. Contrary to what the old generations often think, young people are not to blame for this phenomena. It’s not the fault of videogames, drugs, sex or alcohol. We can observe the birth of modern apathy in tragic events such as the Columbine High School massacre, in which Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold murdered 12 students and 1 teacher. This was a highly tragic, dark chapter in American history, which made people raise questions about access to guns, youth violence and such. News outlets, instead of respecting the tragedy of this day and paying condolences to the victims in a respectful way, made a circus out of the event, and gave birth to a giant wave of outrage that turned the shooting into a show, rather than what it was, which is a massacre. Dramatic interviews and movies were made, and the news would constantly use this opportunity to shove their political agenda down everyone’s throats, regardless of their political stance. There was no attempt to genuinely understand what might have caused this, maybe a delicate approach to mental illness. Instead, this sort of aggressive approach made the two shooters, Eric and Dylan into two cultural villains whose fame took away the gravity of the situation and instead made them into tropes. They somehow ended up becoming icons for many young people that also felt as if they did not fit in school. A phenomena called “The Columbine effect” was born, which explains how the Columbine massacre inspired many more future shootings, instead of discouraging them. This is where modern apathy comes in: It came hidden as someone that wanted to stop school shootings, but it ended up causing even more by turning it into a show, instead of raising empathy and awareness.

We can observe a somewhat similar phenomena in the effect that the 9/11 event had in the muslim population. It was a highly tragic event that definitely punched a hole through the safety that many Americans felt in their country, and many lives were lost for no reason. It was sad, terrifying and I can’t even imagine the pain and terror the families of the victims went through. The way the news tackled these events, however, was shameful: Once again, they were used to promote a political agenda which ended up with rampant islamophobia that is still very much palpable in not only North America, but in other countries throughout the world as well. I have to thank my muslim friend for this insight, as she made me realize the fear muslims had to go through after these events, as they were seen as disgusting, potential murderers and still are. They still suffer from this and have to somehow prove they’re “good muslims” by constantly trying to please the media. The way this event was sensationalized caused modern apathy towards muslims.

We can see this sensationalism and apathy in other boomer-oriented shows, such as Dr Phil, in which often mentally ill or unstable individuals are invited in order to be made fun of, under the excuse of them getting help. Most of the guests in Dr.Phil often report not receiving any sort of help and just being made into a laughingstock, instead of receiving the empathy and support they need. Dr.Phil is clearly not qualified enough to help a lot of these people, and he instead turns their tragedy or pain into a show. I have even found myself enjoying this content, as it is weirdly addictive to gain validation by seeing another person who is in a worse situation than me. It is a weird addiction to Schadenfreude that does not help anyone at all. There’s other shows like How to Catch a Predator, in which they set up a trap in order to catch pedophiles. While I agree with the idea that the individuals that get caught in this show should be humiliated and incarcerated, I can’t help but feel that maybe the humorous tone of the show might take away the seriousness of the situation and fail to show how disgusting and dangerous pedophiles are.

Finally, we have social media, the ultimate source of validation. We can see many examples of modern apathy in it: The way we base people on the amount of likes they have, the way we have the need to post every single thing that happens to us online. It’s almost as if you don’t somehow record the special moment, it never happened. If you didn’t take any pictures during your trip, why does it even matter? We see stupid challenges such as the Tidepod challenge actively risking people’s lives, and they do it all for attention. We can look at the situation of Myka Stauffer, who adopted a low-functioning autistic child for views and then gave him back to the adoption agency. There is the incident of Monalisa Perez, who shot her boyfriend on the chest while he was holding a book, all for a Youtube video. He passed away. Incidents like these make you wonder about how much we can turn off our empathy purely for views and likes, to the point where we risk our own lives. 

We can also look at celebrity and sitcom culture, which force unrealistic expectations on us that then are not fulfilled, as reality is not fiction. This sort of Paris effect affects all of us and makes us think we are not good enough. 

With this essay, I intend to express my thoughts in a clear way, and open a discussion to this topic, and maybe hear about what people think about this. They might have other points of view or opinions I never thought about, which I’d love to hear. I want to make people think about this, as that’s the best way to plant a seed of change. 

[novaneedshockey]

During every pregame skate, I used to look into the crowd and wonder what the fans could see.

I mean, like, what could they really see?

Could they see the cuts on my hands — and the blood on my laces — from obsessively lacing and relacing my skates again and again?

Could they see the bags under my eyes from having gotten just two hours of sleep for the fifth straight night?

Could they see the pain I was going through from trying to work up the nerve to tell the coach that tonight was the night when it was just all too much, and I couldn’t play?

I’ve been an NHL player for 11 years. And until very recently, I’ve had untreated obsessive-compulsive disorder, or OCD as we commonly know it.

There is simply no way to overstate the impact it’s had on my career, and on my life. It controlled me, it almost broke me for good. And there were times when I thought I might never be able to tell a story like this. But I’m here, and I am.

I want to tell this story because, really, it’s not about me. It’s about what happened to me, yes — but it’s not about me. It’s about, hopefully, getting people help. Even just one person. I know, without a doubt, that there are athletes and people all around the world suffering from the same thing I do, or something similar. Because I understand what OCD, if left untreated for too long, can do to a person.

The thing is, in the beginning, it seemed harmless. And I remember the beginning.

I mean the very, very beginning.

When I was little, maybe seven or eight years old, I’d count the trees when I would go on car rides with my parents. I’d be in the back seat of our caravan, and I’d watch them go by.

One, two, three, four.

Then I’d restart.

One, two, three, four.

The faster we went, the faster the trees would pass and the faster I’d count.

It didn’t seem out of the ordinary. It was just … I don’t know, the way I was.

My OCD manifested itself in different forms throughout my life. When I was in junior hockey, and even when I played at BU. I worried constantly about injuries. I’d think about my knees when I was on the ice, despite never having had any knee problems before. I had a chronic groin injury from when I was younger, and when it would be flaring up, I’d just drop down into a squat while I was doing everyday things to make sure it was O.K.

It was that feeling of a lack of control that eventually triggered the negative thoughts — like the ones I used to have during pregame skates.

And it’s almost this entirely separate part of your brain that gets activated when this happens. For me, my ability to play hockey never felt threatened when I was young. I grew up in Winnipeg, and like so many kids, I wanted to play in the NHL. And I always knew deep down that I was going to make it. My dad and grandfather had both played in the NHL. It’s all I ever wanted to do. It’s all I ever wanted to be.

My OCD played a role in making me the player I was.

For a long time, I didn’t have negative thoughts on the ice. I obsessed over my game, but in a positive way. I wanted to be the best player I could be because it was … it was everything to me.

My OCD played a role in making me the player I was. And I know there are many athletes out there who have that same connection. They might be afraid to seek help because on the outside they’re “succeeding” and they won’t want to change anything. I know I can tell them that that isn’t the case, but I also know they might not believe me.

Because I probably wouldn’t have believed it, either.

When the Nashville Predators took me in the first round of the draft in 2008, it was such an incredible moment to experience with my family. I had no negative thoughts or concerns about any of my OCD tendencies. I was just me. Colin Wilson, NHL player. That’s what mattered. And at the time I don’t think the term OCD had ever been brought up to me or had even crossed my mind.

I’d always tried to hide anything I did that could have been classified by others as superstitious or odd. But once I reached the NHL, I basically couldn’t anymore.

I remember in 2010, my rookie year, when Predators GM David Poile sat me down with assistant GM Paul Fenton, team psychologist Gary Solomon, and my parents and told me I had OCD..

They had noticed after picking up on a preflight routine I’d go through at airports.

To be honest, I’m a bit hesitant to talk about this part, because my tendencies, my experiences, they’re personal to me. And I don’t want anyone to read this and feel bad for me, or to think I’m glorifying what I went through. But I feel it’s important because the element of control — of having it or not having it — is what pushes people with OCD into dark places.

Before a flight, I had things I needed to do. I had to clean up all the trash around our gate. Every single wrapper, piece of plastic, you name it. Into the trash. Then I had to be the last passenger on the plane, no matter what. Then, finally, I actually had to talk to the pilots. It didn’t have to be about anything specific, but I had to at least talk to them. After I did all that, I felt safe to fly.

It stemmed from a fear of flying I’d had ever since I was a kid — and had grown into this routine. It all revolved around control of the situation. I needed to feel like I had a hand in what was going on.

But at the time I completely discounted what David Poile and everyone else was telling me. I was a 20-year-old living his dream in the NHL. I felt fine, I felt healthy.

There’s no chance I have that, I thought.

I don’t know what would have happened if I had taken that talk more seriously. Which is one of the reasons I want to help those who are facing the same things I did, because I know what it’s like being on the other side of the table. It can be hard to accept what you’re hearing. And I didn’t. I just ignored it and told them I would be fine. I hid myself, and my issues, from everyone.

After that, I basically spent the majority of my career in what I’d call fight-or-flight mode.

To this day, I honestly have no damn clue how I scored 20 goals in the 2014–15 season. I played each game, for years, in this state of panic because my OCD had begun to take over every element of my life. I went from obsessing over injuries off the ice to thinking I was going to get hurt every time I stepped on it — thinking I'd get hurt every shift. Or feeling like my skates weren’t tied properly. I’d have to stay in the locker room and tie them over and over again, as tight as I could, until my hands bled. And that was just a short-term fix. For years, I felt like I was skating on stilts because my skates never felt right. But I just got into this terrible state, like a petrified animal trapped in a corner. I was almost unconscious on the ice, in a way.

I was so energized after games that I couldn’t sleep, and the lack of sleep led me down a road that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I truly mean that.

There’s a version of this story where I tell you what happened next.

I read those kinds of stories all the time, and I think they’re very powerful and important. The bravery and honesty of those who have gone through the darkest of moments and can share their experiences with others should be applauded. But what I went through is just for me to know right now, and I hope you’ll respect that.

All I can say really is that, during the Stanley Cup finals in 2017, when we were playing the Penguins — I hit bottom.

My brain blew up.

I was a shell of the person I am today.

For the three or so years leading up to that point, I had been taking Xanax and Seroquel to help me sleep. One is addictive and gets you high, the other I would refer to as a horse tranquilizer, because it would knock me out. One night I would take Xanax, the next Seroquel. During that playoff run, I had started partying more as well, to numb the pain. The combination of those pills, mixed with alcohol, and years of untreated OCD … I found rock bottom.

Those had been prescribed to me to help me. But they didn’t do that at all. They made me lose myself. The stressors I had — the OCD, the lack of sleep, the pressure of playoff hockey — those pills just seemed to amplify all that and drive me to a place I never wanted to get to.

The combination of those pills, mixed with alcohol, and years of untreated OCD … I found rock bottom.

It became so bad that I remember when we beat Anaheim to win the Western Conference finals, everyone on the team was, of course, really happy. But all I wanted to do was go home and bawl my eyes out. I was a complete emotional wreck. I felt like I hadn’t been playing my best. I felt like I hadn’t contributed enough to the success of the team and it was driving me insane.

One of the things about OCD is that you have this internal critic that nags at you — that constantly reminds you that, no matter how hard you try, you aren’t ever in control, and because you’re not, you aren’t good enough.

And in the Cup finals, I was barely able to function. I was running on fumes, my head felt like it was on fire — I felt like I was going insane.

I knew I couldn’t live like this anymore. The team and my family had noticed that I wasn’t myself. When the season ended, after we lost the Cup finals, I realized that the only choice I had was to truly heal myself. I had started talking to a therapist earlier that season when I was really struggling, but what happened in the playoffs pushed me to work on myself even more.

After Nashville traded me to the Avalanche that summer, I continued to keep my issues from nearly everyone. But one of the most important connections I’ve ever made in my life was when I was introduced to a trained plant-medicine facilitator after the trade.

The way in which so many mental health cases are treated with pills and other addictive, unhealthy measures, really didn’t sit well with me. So under the guide of my facilitator, I started taking doses of psychedelics and other similar medicines that may seem unapproachable for many. But it was that sort of alternative help that did so much for me.

The word psychedelics might put people off, I get that — but I can’t stress enough how critical they were in my recovery. That experience showed me a completely different side of myself and gave me a deep sense of spirituality. It put me in touch with a part of me that I didn’t even know existed. I felt like what I was experiencing was greater than myself, my journey, if that makes sense.

Finding this differing approach changed my life, without a doubt.

Alternative medicines are important and should always be considered when treating mental health issues.

I have a plan for how to help introduce it to others, but it wasn’t just finding myself spiritually that helped, of course.

In 2019, during my second year in Colorado, I made another really significant breakthrough — I contacted the NHLPA, which put me in touch with an OCD specialist. And meeting that person changed my life. It was like meeting with a psychic, in a way.

He asked me if I’d ever felt like I was going crazy, if I’d ever felt like my world was completely out of control. My jaw was on the floor. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He was asking me — almost telling me — about myself and connecting with me like someone who actually got it. He wasn’t just there to prescribe some numbing drug or tell me to just think about something else.

For the first time in my entire adult life, I felt understood.

In those sessions, I began to understand that one of the key steps in the healing process is not only acknowledging that what’s going on in your brain isn’t normal, but also, more importantly, acknowledging that it isn’t your fault.

Since I started with the specialist, I’ve learned to develop a sense of self-compassion that I didn’t have before. It’s so difficult to not blame myself when I feel my mind going to … that place. So now I do my best to be aware, to tell myself that things like that will happen from time to time, and to just assure myself that it’s going to be O.K.

I knew my OCD wouldn’t go away just because somebody could see it for what it was. And I won’t lie to you ... every day since then has been hard. I still have an internal alarm that goes off when I feel like I need to be in control. It can be exhausting to deal with. But every day since that meeting last year, it has also gotten easier.

But this last year has been tough. I had to have double hip surgery in December 2019 because of issues that came from the groin problems I’ve had since I was a kid. But my hips haven’t healed properly, and I haven’t been able to walk normally all year, so I just had to have it done again. It’s hard because I haven’t been on the ice in a long, long time. I haven’t had much control.

I don’t know when I will again, either.

If I’m being honest, I think my days of playing hockey are probably over.

I haven’t quite come to terms with it fully. But that is the truth.

I’ve done a lot to prepare for my next step in life. I’m completely sober. I’m back at school in Boston working on a psychology major. The last few years I’ve been working with a new, more traditional talk therapist who has been one of the pillars that I lean on as I transition toward life after hockey. They’ve helped me think through everything and see the next chapter of my life in a positive light.

I’m also working with a group of people I got connected with over the last three years of getting help, and we’re going to open a space in Austin for alternative medicines and approaches to mental health issues — OCD included.

Mental health, and what we know about it, is evolving and so must the ways we treat it.

We want to help people, both physiologically and neurologically, through things like neurofeedback, floating, assisted psychotherapy, and other alternative therapies that aren’t widely accessible. We’ll also have teaching programs to ensure that once you leave, you’ll know how to keep up your routines on your own. It’s going to be a space that completely strips any stigma away from mental health issues. It will be a place that will be nourishing and safe, for all those who desperately need it.

Mental health, and what we know about it, is evolving and so must the ways we treat it.

I want people to know that there are spaces where you can be yourself, where you can feel understood and loved and know that there is help there for you. I want that to be what you take out of this story.

The human experience includes an incredible amount of suffering, even if you’re living your dream. There are lots of people battling OCD right now. I know how brave they are, how strong they are for fighting it. I know it’s probably taken over their lives, and they feel like there’s nowhere to turn to, or nobody to help them … to understand them. But I want them to know that there is someone. And I hope that they know I’m here to help.

We can’t get through it alone.

If it weren’t for the people who truly helped me — my spiritual counsel, my alternative medicine facilitator, my OCD therapist and my talk therapist — I wouldn’t be the person I am today. That’s my team, and they have given me the opportunity to help others.

That’s my focus in life right now.

And like I said, I don’t know if I’ll be back out on the ice anytime soon. But I know that, no matter what the future holds for me, I did it. I played in the NHL. I lived my dream. And I fought through hell to make a career for myself. My name might not be on the Stanley Cup, and that’s fine. Because I know there is an opportunity ahead of me to not just leave my mark on the game of hockey, but also on lives all across the world.

I don’t want to pretend like I have it all figured out, because I don’t. I’m still learning as I go. But what I do know comes from what I went through. So if you’re going through it, remember this:

Be kind to yourself, to your mind.

Have patience with your soul, your body.

And know that you don’t have to do it alone.

—Colin

[alexdmorgan30]

Stopping Psych Meds as a Form of Self-Sabotage

"See...it's not that bad." My friend was responding to a text with an image of the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas. It was the first road trip my husband and I took after moving to Houston. My friend was right, the Alamo wasn't bad; but having to move back to the States after living in the UK for three years sucked. In all fairness, we were given a choice, and I was the one who pushed for Houston over New York. I wasn’t ready to return to the crowds and chaos of Manhattan, and due to the nature of my husband's work, Houston made logistical sense."We'll only be there for a year," my husband assured me on our last night in London. "It'll go by so fast." I wanted to believe him, but I wasn't ready to.Taking a "Break" from Psychiatric MedicationThere's much planning and reflecting involved in making a big move and my biggest concern was managing my anxiety and depression medication. Not only did I need to make sure I had enough to last me a few months once I got back to the States, but I also needed to sort out insurance and find a new doctor.But I kept avoiding these tasks.Once we were settled in Houston, every time I thought about the process of meeting a new doctor and running down the lengthy list of addicts and alcoholics in my family, describing my abusive childhood and my almost successful suicide attempt while remembering all of the medications I'd tried in vain, my brain flatlined. What I needed to do to ensure my mental health suddenly felt impossible. Instead of asking for help, which felt like a herculean task, I assuaged my anxiety by deciding to let my prescriptions run out. Besides, after five years on medication, my body could use a break, and despite clear evidence to the contrary, I felt stable enough to handle any anxiety or depression that could pop up in the future. However, at the time I neglected to give any credit to the role my medication played in supporting my relative calm and stability.As the months passed in Houston, I started to notice subtle dips in my mood, but each time I'd dismiss it as being part of my monthly PMS package or something that could easily be fixed with a long walk or a quick afternoon nap. But about six months in, I found it exhausting to even think about putting on my sneakers. My occasional mood swings turned into full on sobbing sessions and instead of experiencing PMS one or two weeks every month, it slowly became four and then five until I lost track of when my last cycle ended and the new one began.Depression, Anxiety, and Suicidal IdeationMy deepening depression wasn't the only issue. One sunny Saturday afternoon, my husband and I took a road trip to Austin. As I was driving us home, I became increasingly anxious. The roads were dark, I couldn't see beyond the headlights, and my mind began to spin. Mid-panic attack, my husband convinced me to pull over so he could take the wheel. I was so angry at myself for not being able to handle something as simple and routine as driving.The more I struggled, the more I believed there was just something wrong with me and as a result, my medication or lack thereof never came to mind. I'd spiraled so quickly down a black hole that it didn't even occur to me to ask for help, although it was becoming undeniably clear that I desperately needed it.It's impossible to explain to someone who's never had suicidal thoughts what it feels like to be in a space where the only option you think you have to end your suffering is death. There's no way to put into words the void that enters your mind when you no longer feel the pain, but it continues to seep into every second of your life. And there's no making sense of the relief you quietly experience when death, something you may have once feared, suddenly becomes your very own golden ticket. Sadly, during the year I lived in Houston, off medication, I reached this low.Finally, my husband sat me down and gently asked if I'd stopped taking my meds. At that moment I surrendered. In a freak moment of clarity, I knew what I had to do - I needed to find a doctor. We were getting ready to move back to New York in a few weeks, but before I left Houston, I got on the phone and scheduled an appointment.Why Did I Stop Taking My Meds?At our first meeting, I jumped through all of the usual hoops, getting my new doctor up to speed on my background and mental health history. I dove into the details about my alcoholic mother and father, the physical, sexual, and emotional abuse I sustained as a kid and was completely honest about the suicidal thoughts that had been roaring inside my head. And of course, I told her I’d stopped taking my medication."When did you decide to stop taking your meds?" the doctor asked.I answered hesitantly, "um...about a year ago." I was embarrassed by the choice I'd made, and I kept my fingers crossed that she wouldn't ask me why."Why?" she asked."Honestly I don't really know," I told her. "I had insurance...I had everything I needed to find a doctor here in the States. I just didn't do it.""So, when you needed your medication the most, you stopped taking it?" she gently asked."I don't understand.”"You sabotaged yourself, Dawn," she explained, leaning back in her chair. "As I understand it, living in Houston was rough for you, and you stopped using the one tool you had to help yourself get through it," she said. "It's self-sabotage."Self-CareI've been back on my meds for two years now, and while I still occasionally get snagged with depression or get overly anxious about a work deadline, for the most part my life has become manageable again. I added therapy back into my mental health regimen about a year ago, and that too has helped tremendously.Now, without hesitation, I give my meds the credit they deserve. As it turns out, they've done more than balance out the chemicals swirling around in my head; in their absence I eventually discovered one of the many tricks I use to get in my own way, especially when I appear to be making progress. Today, taking medication isn't something I have to do, it's something I choose to do because I know it’s right for me. Instead of self-sabotage, I choose self-care, health, and stability.

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8241841 http://bit.ly/2XJJYwj

[pitz182]

My Recovery Journey: From Trauma and Abuse to Understanding and Forgiveness

I always wanted to be a writer. I started writing in the fifth grade and wrote many short stories. I lacked imagination (or maybe it was too vivid, I’m not sure), and so I took my inspiration from stories already written. Most of what I wrote as a child was straight out of Judy Blume books. I couldn’t have picked characters more different from my own family.In Blume’s books, even the most challenging issues were always solved with a hug and a huge dose of love and encouragement. I would share these stories I “wrote” with my class and not only was it obvious I’d stolen the plots from Blume’s books, but nobody was fooled that my home life resembled these Leave It To Beaver-esque families.The black and blues on my little body had a way of telling a different story.A Concerned TeacherAfter about the fourth or fifth story, trying to pass off some fictional family as my own, my teacher—who’d taught my two older brothers before me—asked me to stay after class. He asked if everything at home was okay. He knew my brothers were hellions, the products of an abusive father and a drink-at-home mom.Unlike my brothers, though, I was a good girl. I had never once acted out—until that day. I had learned how to stay out of the way of my father’s explosive trigger hand. I was also a master at avoiding my mother after her third glass of “candy.”I felt cornered. I had to get out of there.I looked at my teacher square in the eyes and said, “You have no fucking clue what’s going on in my home. Stay the fuck away from me!” I flipped over a few chairs and desks before I grabbed my knapsack and ran out of his classroom. I was kind of half-crying, half-raging. I had never become unglued before. I was always the one my parents could count on to be polite and obedient, no matter what.My oldest brother was waiting for me outside school. He noticed I was on the verge of hyperventilating.“What happened?” Marco* asked.“Mr. Brendel asked if things were okay at home. I don’t know why he thought that. I have never been anything but what everyone expects me to be. What’s happening??”“I’ll take care of it,” Marco told me.And he did. I was never in trouble over the incident, and two days later Mr. Brendel apologized and we never discussed it again. Marco told me grownups weren’t stupid, and they knew things weren’t as peachy at home as they were in my fairytale stories. And then he said something that scared me: “Adults are going to want to help you. Accept their help. At some point I won’t be able to protect you.”My Brother’s Advice“What do you mean? You’ll always be here to protect me.” I fought back tears.“I won’t, Sarah. One day you’ll have to make your own decisions, and all I can do is guide you to make the best ones—for you and nobody else. I’ll be here as long as I can, but the sooner you can be independent, the better. One day you’ll wake up and see how fucked up things are at home. Don’t fear that day. Welcome it and get help.”I continued as the dutiful little girl living in my bubble and writing stories about people who bore no resemblance to my family. But when I turned 16, I decided I didn’t want to live at home after I graduated. Both my brothers were already out of the house.I looked into having myself emancipated. I even talked with a lawyer. While my brothers were tired of carrying the weight of responsibility, I was ready to be an adult, living on my own.My godmother and aunt convinced me to defer college for a year. Instead, they recommended therapy. I was reminded of the conversation I’d had with Marco outside my elementary school years earlier, so I took their advice.I graduated from high school and got a job in a photocopy shop. I paid for therapy and, by working six days a week, I saved enough for first and last month’s rent and a security deposit on a future apartment.I moved out of my parents’ house when I was 17, but it wasn’t exactly how I’d planned. I got this bug up my ass to do an intervention on my mother, but I had no idea what I was doing. It blew up in my face with my mother kicking me out of the house. Talk about an epic fail.But it was the first time I realized how protective of one’s addiction someone can be.I was estranged from both of my brothers and my parents. It felt right. I was (and still am) eternally grateful to my oldest brother for taking care of me growing up, but he’d started drinking heavily—like our mom. And the other one had graduated to bigger and badder drugs. He discovered cocaine.PTSD and an Abusive RelationshipWhile in therapy, I was diagnosed with PTSD and a panic disorder. As my brother promised, just because I pushed all that shit away didn’t mean it never happened. As my mom used to say all the time, “You push it down here, it comes up there,” meaning you can run from something for only so long. I had to deal with the dysfunction I grew up in, and I had to work really hard to keep myself from repeating their mistakes.Sometimes echoes of that dysfunction showed up in my life despite my best efforts. My boyfriend at the time started using coke and became abusive. How had I chosen someone who was a perverse combination of both my parents? I was trying to figure out a way to leave without him coming for me. With his continued coke use, he was paranoid and controlling. I hadn’t communicated to him or anyone else my intention to leave but somehow, he knew.I was taking a creative writing class, and the first assignment was to write an essay using five descriptions to portray a person or an event. The professor gave us just one bit of instruction: “Show, don’t tell.” The next time I was in my boyfriend’s car, leaving Manhattan for his place in Brooklyn, I paid close attention.The tires slicked against the wet pavement; it had rained while we were in the midtown Manhattan movie theatre. Focused on the road in front of him, his left hand was on the steering wheel. He tilted his head slightly to meet the outstretched fingers on his right hand, so he could twist his newly forming dreadlocs. He turned his still tilted head very slowly to look at me. His forehead wrinkled, and his eyes like big beads of brown glass, narrowed. He peered at me from over his wireframe glasses. He said, “Mookie, I have loved you my entire life. Even before I knew you, I loved you. The thought of you no longer being in my life scares me. I can never let that happen. Besides, nobody will ever love you like I do: not your parents and definitely not your brothers.” He didn’t look at me long enough to see my reaction. He was like a dog who sensed fear and he was prepared to act on it. Now, with his eyes back on the road, his voice lacked emotion. “Mookie, I can make life for you as sweet as honey or as bitter as unsweetened cocoa. It’s all in your power.” After I finished reading my essay aloud, I looked around the classroom. The instructor and other students all had very large eyes. One student said, “Um, Sarah, that scared the shit out of me. You are planning on leaving him, aren’t you?”I wanted to leave, but I didn’t realize just how serious he was about preventing me from going. As his coke use escalated, he became more violent and things ended very badly. A few years ago, I finally admitted to people how bad things had gotten between us. My very first published piece is a personal essay about the last violent moments we were together. Trigger warning!It’s no surprise to me that even with seven years of therapy I still chose an abusive addict as a partner. What else had I known growing up the way I did? Both my parents died without any reconciliation between us. My mother, who never stopped drinking and smoked four packs of cigarettes a day, died suddenly of a stroke when I was 27. My father died eight years later of cancer. I never had the chance to reconcile with my mother, so I tried very hard to correct this with my father. But it takes two people, and he wasn’t willing.Understanding and ForgivenessAlthough I hadn’t consciously chosen an addict for a partner, I understand why I did. People have asked me whether I blame my mother, brothers, and my ex-boyfriend. Much as I want to, I can’t. There are many misconceptions about growing up in a home with an addict or an alcoholic, and while it might seem my brothers embody all those misconceptions, I also know for a fact that nobody chooses to become an addict and that many times it’s the result of trying to escape the realities of one’s surroundings. I believe my mother drank because she married a mean and abusive person who prevented her from realizing her dream of being a writer. Given the environment I grew up in and the likelihood of an inherited gene, I could easily have become an alcoholic. Because I had relatives who intervened and I started therapy early on, I believe I was spared and that I must forgive rather than blame. This includes my ex-boyfriend, who saw his father get drunk every Friday night and beat the crap out of his mother.As I evolved, I became better at taking care of myself and 18 years ago, I married a really wonderful man who is the antithesis of my ex-boyfriend. He’s the only person outside of my therapist who knows my entire story.I also tried to reconcile with both my brothers. Marco quit drinking 15 years ago, so I thought there was hope. But I quickly discovered he was white-knuckling it. I think he’s still angry about losing his childhood so he could be our full-time caregiver. My other brother quit using cocaine after he overdosed, but he still drinks heavily.They both know I’ll be here when they’re ready.

[emlydunstan]

My Recovery Journey: From Trauma and Abuse to Understanding and Forgiveness

I always wanted to be a writer. I started writing in the fifth grade and wrote many short stories. I lacked imagination (or maybe it was too vivid, I’m not sure), and so I took my inspiration from stories already written. Most of what I wrote as a child was straight out of Judy Blume books. I couldn’t have picked characters more different from my own family.In Blume’s books, even the most challenging issues were always solved with a hug and a huge dose of love and encouragement. I would share these stories I “wrote” with my class and not only was it obvious I’d stolen the plots from Blume’s books, but nobody was fooled that my home life resembled these Leave It To Beaver-esque families.The black and blues on my little body had a way of telling a different story.A Concerned TeacherAfter about the fourth or fifth story, trying to pass off some fictional family as my own, my teacher—who’d taught my two older brothers before me—asked me to stay after class. He asked if everything at home was okay. He knew my brothers were hellions, the products of an abusive father and a drink-at-home mom.Unlike my brothers, though, I was a good girl. I had never once acted out—until that day. I had learned how to stay out of the way of my father’s explosive trigger hand. I was also a master at avoiding my mother after her third glass of “candy.”I felt cornered. I had to get out of there.I looked at my teacher square in the eyes and said, “You have no fucking clue what’s going on in my home. Stay the fuck away from me!” I flipped over a few chairs and desks before I grabbed my knapsack and ran out of his classroom. I was kind of half-crying, half-raging. I had never become unglued before. I was always the one my parents could count on to be polite and obedient, no matter what.My oldest brother was waiting for me outside school. He noticed I was on the verge of hyperventilating.“What happened?” Marco* asked.“Mr. Brendel asked if things were okay at home. I don’t know why he thought that. I have never been anything but what everyone expects me to be. What’s happening??”“I’ll take care of it,” Marco told me.And he did. I was never in trouble over the incident, and two days later Mr. Brendel apologized and we never discussed it again. Marco told me grownups weren’t stupid, and they knew things weren’t as peachy at home as they were in my fairytale stories. And then he said something that scared me: “Adults are going to want to help you. Accept their help. At some point I won’t be able to protect you.”My Brother’s Advice“What do you mean? You’ll always be here to protect me.” I fought back tears.“I won’t, Sarah. One day you’ll have to make your own decisions, and all I can do is guide you to make the best ones—for you and nobody else. I’ll be here as long as I can, but the sooner you can be independent, the better. One day you’ll wake up and see how fucked up things are at home. Don’t fear that day. Welcome it and get help.”I continued as the dutiful little girl living in my bubble and writing stories about people who bore no resemblance to my family. But when I turned 16, I decided I didn’t want to live at home after I graduated. Both my brothers were already out of the house.I looked into having myself emancipated. I even talked with a lawyer. While my brothers were tired of carrying the weight of responsibility, I was ready to be an adult, living on my own.My godmother and aunt convinced me to defer college for a year. Instead, they recommended therapy. I was reminded of the conversation I’d had with Marco outside my elementary school years earlier, so I took their advice.I graduated from high school and got a job in a photocopy shop. I paid for therapy and, by working six days a week, I saved enough for first and last month’s rent and a security deposit on a future apartment.I moved out of my parents’ house when I was 17, but it wasn’t exactly how I’d planned. I got this bug up my ass to do an intervention on my mother, but I had no idea what I was doing. It blew up in my face with my mother kicking me out of the house. Talk about an epic fail.But it was the first time I realized how protective of one’s addiction someone can be.I was estranged from both of my brothers and my parents. It felt right. I was (and still am) eternally grateful to my oldest brother for taking care of me growing up, but he’d started drinking heavily—like our mom. And the other one had graduated to bigger and badder drugs. He discovered cocaine.PTSD and an Abusive RelationshipWhile in therapy, I was diagnosed with PTSD and a panic disorder. As my brother promised, just because I pushed all that shit away didn’t mean it never happened. As my mom used to say all the time, “You push it down here, it comes up there,” meaning you can run from something for only so long. I had to deal with the dysfunction I grew up in, and I had to work really hard to keep myself from repeating their mistakes.Sometimes echoes of that dysfunction showed up in my life despite my best efforts. My boyfriend at the time started using coke and became abusive. How had I chosen someone who was a perverse combination of both my parents? I was trying to figure out a way to leave without him coming for me. With his continued coke use, he was paranoid and controlling. I hadn’t communicated to him or anyone else my intention to leave but somehow, he knew.I was taking a creative writing class, and the first assignment was to write an essay using five descriptions to portray a person or an event. The professor gave us just one bit of instruction: “Show, don’t tell.” The next time I was in my boyfriend’s car, leaving Manhattan for his place in Brooklyn, I paid close attention.The tires slicked against the wet pavement; it had rained while we were in the midtown Manhattan movie theatre. Focused on the road in front of him, his left hand was on the steering wheel. He tilted his head slightly to meet the outstretched fingers on his right hand, so he could twist his newly forming dreadlocs. He turned his still tilted head very slowly to look at me. His forehead wrinkled, and his eyes like big beads of brown glass, narrowed. He peered at me from over his wireframe glasses. He said, “Mookie, I have loved you my entire life. Even before I knew you, I loved you. The thought of you no longer being in my life scares me. I can never let that happen. Besides, nobody will ever love you like I do: not your parents and definitely not your brothers.” He didn’t look at me long enough to see my reaction. He was like a dog who sensed fear and he was prepared to act on it. Now, with his eyes back on the road, his voice lacked emotion. “Mookie, I can make life for you as sweet as honey or as bitter as unsweetened cocoa. It’s all in your power.” After I finished reading my essay aloud, I looked around the classroom. The instructor and other students all had very large eyes. One student said, “Um, Sarah, that scared the shit out of me. You are planning on leaving him, aren’t you?”I wanted to leave, but I didn’t realize just how serious he was about preventing me from going. As his coke use escalated, he became more violent and things ended very badly. A few years ago, I finally admitted to people how bad things had gotten between us. My very first published piece is a personal essay about the last violent moments we were together. Trigger warning!It’s no surprise to me that even with seven years of therapy I still chose an abusive addict as a partner. What else had I known growing up the way I did? Both my parents died without any reconciliation between us. My mother, who never stopped drinking and smoked four packs of cigarettes a day, died suddenly of a stroke when I was 27. My father died eight years later of cancer. I never had the chance to reconcile with my mother, so I tried very hard to correct this with my father. But it takes two people, and he wasn’t willing.Understanding and ForgivenessAlthough I hadn’t consciously chosen an addict for a partner, I understand why I did. People have asked me whether I blame my mother, brothers, and my ex-boyfriend. Much as I want to, I can’t. There are many misconceptions about growing up in a home with an addict or an alcoholic, and while it might seem my brothers embody all those misconceptions, I also know for a fact that nobody chooses to become an addict and that many times it’s the result of trying to escape the realities of one’s surroundings. I believe my mother drank because she married a mean and abusive person who prevented her from realizing her dream of being a writer. Given the environment I grew up in and the likelihood of an inherited gene, I could easily have become an alcoholic. Because I had relatives who intervened and I started therapy early on, I believe I was spared and that I must forgive rather than blame. This includes my ex-boyfriend, who saw his father get drunk every Friday night and beat the crap out of his mother.As I evolved, I became better at taking care of myself and 18 years ago, I married a really wonderful man who is the antithesis of my ex-boyfriend. He’s the only person outside of my therapist who knows my entire story.I also tried to reconcile with both my brothers. Marco quit drinking 15 years ago, so I thought there was hope. But I quickly discovered he was white-knuckling it. I think he’s still angry about losing his childhood so he could be our full-time caregiver. My other brother quit using cocaine after he overdosed, but he still drinks heavily.They both know I’ll be here when they’re ready.

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8241841 https://www.thefix.com/my-recovery-journey-trauma-and-abuse-understanding-and-forgiveness

[mrmichaelchadler]

Obsession and The Void: The Performances of Christian Bale

In an early scene in Mary Harron’s “American Psycho,” youthful and Adonis-like stockbroker Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) runs through his almost pornographically detailed morning routine: a workout with 1,000 crunches, an array of hair and skincare products, all in an exact order to present “an idea of a Patrick Bateman.” Bale performs the scene with a blank fastidiousness, showing no joy or even stray morning wakeup feelings of exhaustion or boredom, all while narrating in a calm but detached tone of a magazine readout. There is a similar scene in the opening of “American Hustle” that functions as a parody, in which Bale’s con man Irving Rosenthal, flabby and balding, puts just as much work into maintaining his elaborately pathetic combover with a far more careful level of focus, a sense that what he’s doing to prepare himself has a real function. The two men are at different ends of the food chain, one obscenely wealthy, the other scrambling to get by; one is cold and unfeeling, the other empathetic and desperately human. Their commonality, then, is how much they have to work to do just to maintain a sense of self, to show that they have a reason for being, even if only to those on the outside looking in. 

That’s in line with much of the praise, and sometimes the criticisms, of Bale’s career. He’s undoubtedly skillful at reshaping his own appearance—often gaining or losing weight to extreme degrees—but the focus is frequently put on the surface external appearances, lauding how he’s become “unrecognizable” (both an exaggeration and more accurately praise for the makeup crew) or knocking his work for being too focused on nailing an impression or a physical quality at the expense of emotional connection. This misunderstands Bale’s strengths, however: he is an actor for whom physical transformation is but an anchoring facet to a depiction of obsession, be it Patrick Bateman’s pathological need to project normality to hide his depravity in “American Psycho,” Irving Rosenthal’s need to project success to attain some sad measure of it in “American Hustle,” or Dicky Eklund’s fixation on his one brush with greatness as a fighter to stave off the truth of his all-consuming crack addiction in “The Fighter.” They’re people who feel a deep need to construct or pursue some idealized form of self as a way to succeed or survive. It’s reflected in Bale’s own process, in which he seemingly constructs a façade, an attempt to hide himself, in order to find something authentic in his roles. The prosthetics, the hair changes and the punishing fluctuations in weight can sometimes be a crutch, but they’re also directly tied to the ring of truth in his best performances.

Bale’s new film, the Dick Cheney biopic “Vice,” has drawn fiercely polarized responses, with criticisms thrown both at typical Great Man Movie problems (lumpy one-thing-after-another structure, an over-explanatory script) and writer-director Adam McKay’s own additions (divisive fourth wall breaks and an uneasy tone that walks a thin line between “lacerating” and “lecturing”). The actor's deceptively sensitive work as Cheney, however, does showcase much of what makes him interesting as a performer beyond the bodily transformations and close attention to detail: he plays people with a single-minded obsession that outweighs other concerns, a need to pursue it at all costs or else fall into the void of their lives, and a self-presentation meant to prop it up.

One could look at any number of Bale performances to highlight this, but these five best discuss the range of emotions and tones he’s able to explore while exemplifying this theme.

"Empire of the Sun" / Warner Bros. Pictures

1987: “Empire of the Sun”

When Steven Spielberg cast 12-year-old Christian Bale as Jamie “Jim” Graham in his adaptation of J.G. Ballard’s semi-autobiographical novel, he had no way of knowing his young lead actor would grow up to become one of the biggest stars of his generation. Even so, “Empire of the Sun,” the story of an English boy coming of age in Japanese-occupied China, marks the breakthrough of an extraordinarily gifted young actor, one with a real skill for sketching out the death of innocence. Bale’s early scenes show a classic Spielbergian dreamer, one whose fixation on airplanes shows no real understanding of the ideology behind the battles or the life-or-death situations that people find themselves in. He looks to everyday misery (beggars in the street) with curiosity but not compassion, and his casual cruelty to his family’s Chinese servant (a matter-of-fact, disinterested “you have to do what I say” when told his mom doesn’t want him eating before bed) is less out of a sense of superiority than a total lack of understanding of how his privilege dictates her life, to the point where he's completely shocked when that same servant slaps him after the Japanese invade and she no longer has to pretend to respect him. 

As Jamie falls in with John Malkovich’s savvy crook Basie and they’re both sent to an internment camp, Bale shows a child’s adaptability, rushing through the camp and carrying out chores to win over everyone from his mentor to his captors. He’s at once a young opportunist and an earnest child, one whose mimicry of Malkovich and company (adopted American clothing, repeated jokes without understanding their cruelty) never quite gives way to comprehending that they don’t care about him (his sincere declaration that Basie is his friend is met with little more than amusement from the older man). At the same time, his admiration for the Japanese—a childlike fascination both with their aircraft and their sense of honor—protects him from the harsh realities of the camp, where people are beaten and starved or left to disease. In a late scene, Bale’s shift from unbridled joy at seeing bombers in action (hugging himself, cheering) to emotional breakdown after he’s rebuked by an elder (“I can’t remember what my parents look like”) show how much he’s depended on a fantastical sense of the world to escape how little he has left. His adoption of American habits and Basie’s theory of survivalism, paired with his salutes and bows to Japanese military men with a palpable sense of respect, is a child’s way of playing war games, an ideology- and nationality-blind view of war straight out of boys’ games and comics. Jamie has to act it out, or else realize that there’s little honor in doing whatever it takes to survive and that he’s unlikely to make it out in one piece. If the film and performance show a child’s resilience, they also show how quickly their views of the world can crumble, yielding only pain.

"Velvet Goldmine" / Miramax

1998: “Velvet Goldmine”

A few notable exceptions like his cocky performance in “Newsies” aside, Bale spent much of the ‘90s giving quietly sensitive, soulful supporting performances that he’s since only reprised on occasion (most effectively for Terrence Malick, who yielded one of his very best performances as John Rolfe in “The New World,” where Bale somehow makes unfailing kindness magnetic). Bale is very good in literary adaptations such as Gillian Armstrong’s “Little Women” (as the charming, lovelorn Laurie), but his best work of this period is in Todd Haynes’ “Velvet Goldmine” as Arthur Stuart, a music journalist reminiscing about his self-discovery as a gay man in the glam rock era. Haynes’ film borrows its structure from “Citizen Kane,” attempting to find how Jonathan Rhys-Meyers pop superstar Brian Slade disappeared, but it also works as a “Kane” for Bale’s character, who’s introduced in the middle of a youthful, “A Hard Day’s Night” rush to a concert, all teased hair and youthful excitement. Then we’re yanked to 1984, and his eyes are sunken, his demeanor sad and reticent. What happened that brought him to this place?

Bale’s greatness as a physical actor is often yoked to his extreme dedication to losing and gaining pounds, but “Velvet Goldmine” can serve as an example of how he can use his body to tell a story. He plays teenage Arthur with a measure of shyness that suggests a boy who hasn’t yet found an outlet for his dreams or a place to be himself; he hangs his head in embarrassment when he’s told his musical hero is a “poof” and that he himself is “disgusting.” Contrast that with his first strut on the streets of London minutes later, in a tight purple shirt, a moment of freedom that’s both liberating and frightening, his gait more open but still uncertain. The rest of his journey in the ‘70s scenes of the film is a navigation between those two poles of repression—his heaving frame as his father shames him for his homosexuality—and short-lived freedom, including a first romantic connection with rock star Curt Wild (Ewan McGregor). It makes his scenes in 1984 all the more painful, in which a withdrawn, older (and older-looking) Arthur shuffles through the streets, looking as if he’s trying to blend in with everything rather than stand out on his own. 

Bale plays the role not as someone who’s found a permanent new identity and acceptance, but rather as someone who, briefly, saw a better life and the first stabs of individuality in the music and fashions that meant so much to him, before those small gains were rolled back and a new, more powerful form of repression turned his world to gray. Perhaps Arthur wouldn’t have stayed glammed up his whole life—most people don’t look and dress like they did when they were teenagers—but he’s stuck in a point in time where he can’t even find a modest form of self-expression. Bale the actor locates that moment of temporary self-discovery and shows just how it’s so intoxicating: it’s a first assertion of self, even in an idealized form. That adult Arthur can’t fully break from that fixation is understandable; that he should be required to totally deny any semblance of it is tragic.

"American Psycho" / Lions Gate Films

2000: “American Psycho”

Bale really arrived as a Great Actor™ with “American Psycho,” the first film that showcased his ability to dramatically transform his appearance for a role. Bale hasn’t shaken his attraction to these challenges, and while he usually manages to transcend the stunt-y nature of these roles (“The Fighter,” “Rescue Dawn,” the otherwise tedious “The Machinist”), there are times where the trick is more impressive than the performance (“I'm Not There,” the “Dark Knight” trilogy). Still, none of this detracts from his work as psychopathic yuppie Patrick Bateman, which remains his most iconic performance. 

“American Psycho” director Mary Harron has spoken about Bale being inspired by a Tom Cruise talk show appearance in which the star displayed “intense friendliness with nothing behind the eyes,” and the film itself draws parallels between him and President Ronald Reagan’s use of sunny optimism to sell cruel policies. Either comparison works: in his public life, Bateman has a near-permanent tone of unfailing cheerfulness, discussing the importance of ending apartheid and world hunger as he flashes a killer smile. His eyes, however, always have the glint of predator, a coldness that only occasionally breaks through in creepy remarks, delivered with the same psychotic chipperness (“Not if you want to keep your spleen”) that might not hide their perverted nature if any of his friends were a little less self-absorbed and a little more perceptive.

What’s brilliant about Bale and Harron’s conception of Bateman is that they’re able to convey the character’s essential loneliness without losing the humor or downplaying the grotesque nature of his (possibly imaginary) crimes. Most talk about Bale’s performance focuses on his informercial slick delivery of Huey Lewis factoids before chopping up Jared Leto with an axe. More telling, however, is his scene with Chloe Sevigny’s secretary, in which Bale shifts from blithe morbidity (bringing up Ted Bundy’s dog, Lassie) to psychotic fixation on consumerism (lashing out at Sevigny for almost leaving an ice cream-covered spoon on his coffee table) to insincere, monotone openness (“I guess you could say I just want to have a meaningful relationship with someone”) to, finally, a real recognition of his own hideousness (“I think if you stay, something bad will happen,” delivered with something that approaches but doesn't quite reach sadness).

Bateman’s cruelty and emptiness couldn’t be plainer, and yet he finds no release in his actions or his confessions. We see that morning routine, the search for the perfect business card, the hunt for the reservation at the best restaurant, and see an attempt to assume the role of the idealized yuppie, but it’s all work ... no soul, no joy. The same goes for Bateman’s more sociopathic actions, whether it’s a self-regarding attempt at a threesome (in which he’s more enamored with striking godlike poses than the sex itself) or stabbing a homeless man on the street. He has the impulses that give him a brief flash of life, but there's little catharsis. Bale plays his compulsions, both murderous and consumerist, as those of a joyless man who attempts to approximate enjoyment. His intense commitment to the role’s physical requirements mimics the character’s own intense commitment to a lifestyle, but where one finds a pulse, the other finds a pit. If most of Bale’s characters attempt to outrun an emptiness or pain in their lives, Bateman is his own emptiness, and no amount of heavy lifting and slashing can change it.

"The Prestige" / Warner Bros. Pictures

2006: “The Prestige”

If “American Psycho” made Bale a name actor and “The Machinist” cemented his reputation for near-deranged commitment, “Batman Begins” and “The Dark Knight” made him universally recognizable, physical transformations be damned. Truth be told, his most famous films with Christopher Nolan aren’t his most notable, succeeding primarily on the basis of their villains and thematic ambition. While he’s admirably grounded and present as Bruce Wayne, Bale never quite dives into the monster that Batman's alter ego is fighting so hard not to be; his line readings are too glum, his face too stoic, rarely registering the internal struggle that Nolan’s scripts try (a little too hard) to give him (for a better heroic Bale performance, see “3:10 to Yuma”). It’s his other collaboration with Nolan, “The Prestige,” that best exemplifies that inner conflict and, indeed, the defining theme of Bale’s career.

There’s no way to talk about Bale’s performance in “The Prestige” meaningfully without diving into spoilers, so here’s your warning.

Bale’s Alfred Borden is established as the more risk-taking of “The Prestige’s” central characters, compared with Hugh Jackman’s Robert Angier, something hinted in early scenes as the actor speaks to Angier and Michael Caine’s Cutter with an air of arrogance and almost demented devotion to the craft. This extends to his personal life, which is eventually revealed to be a literal double life: Bale’s playing both Borden and his twin (dubbed “Fallon”), who loved separate women (Rebecca Hall and Scarlet Johansson) and ruined their lives through a total obsession and commitment to their craft over all else. Observant viewers can spot the moments in which Bale’s warmth with Sarah (Hall), Borden’s wife, is genuine and when “Fallon” is speaking to her with nothing behind the eyes. One particularly painful scene, a final confrontation between “Fallon” and Sarah, features one of the most gutting moments in Bale’s career, in which his anger at her realization of the truth prevents him from even attempting to maintain the illusion. Asked if he loves her, he spits out a “Not today” with a level of coldness worthy of Patrick Bateman.

The performance is, on some level, as much of a stunt as “The Machinist” or “Batman Begins,” but the trick of it feels all the more appropriate, given the subject. Bale imbues his twin magicians with a combination of mischievousness and palpable sadness, showing a flash of joy in their eyes after showing a child a magic trick ... and a sense of loss as the twins face each other, knowing only one can exist. Perhaps Bale found something moving in the idea of men who find purpose in deceiving viewers in order to entertain them, and in the idea of men who are madly committed to realizing an idealized form of craft at the expense of their personal identities. The dual performance shows two men who are constantly amused at their own ability to pull off a trick (especially at the expense of bitter rival Angier) and simultaneously aware that they’ve sacrificed true happiness for an obsession that they seem to be pursuing without any real thought as to why.

"The Big Short" / Paramount

2015: “The Big Short”

By the late 2000s, Bale’s own commitment to his craft seemed to have lost real direction, lapsing into self-seriousness (“Terminator Salvation,” “Harsh Times,” his dull work in the otherwise sturdy “Public Enemies”) or pure imitation (“I’m Not There,” in which he’s by far the weakest Bob Dylan). Whatever the weaknesses of post-“I Heart Huckabees” David O. Russell (shapelessness, self-satisfaction, volume over everything), he managed to get Bale to loosen up as few directors beyond Gillian Armstrong and Werner Herzog had, directing a pair of lively performances in “The Fighter” (for which Bale won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor) and “American Hustle” (another nomination). Bale is at his best as of late when tapping into his comedic side, as best demonstrated in his first collaboration with Adam McKay, “The Big Short” (a third nomination). 

Playing hedge fund manager Michael Burry, the oddest of the men who made millions by betting the U.S. economy would collapse, Bale roots the comedy of the character in his behavior. A whiz with numbers, Bale’s Burry nevertheless has no social skills; the humor of his bizarre compliment (“That’s a very nice haircut. Did you do it yourself?”) to prospective employee is not only in its inherent strangeness, but in his halting delivery and blank expression, as if he knows he’s not good with these interactions but not exactly why the thing he’s about to say is weird. His gestures are similarly uncomfortable, whether he’s flashing a smile for no reason or awkwardly rubbing at his glass eye while stammering about subprime mortgages. And yet, Burry is one of the least deceptive and most honest characters in Bale’s three-decade career, focused entirely on the tangible at the expense of more difficult-to-pin-down things like social niceties and gut instinct. It is a very different, but equally telling, echo of Bale’s own methods that one can find in his more deluded characters. If Dicky Eklund or Irving Rosenthal act in self-deception to convince themselves and others of something, Burry concentrates only on what he can see empirically to find his truth, not unlike how Bale drills down on tangible external details (hair, weight, voice) as a way to find his own.

If Bale’s performance in “The Big Short” is his funniest, it is also among his saddest, as his character’s obsession with numbers at the expense of person-to-person interactions make him both the ideal person to predict a market collapse and the worst person to convey it. When confronted by angry investors, he does little to assuage their concerns, instead speaking in a low but self-assured tone (at the idea that nobody can see a bubble: “That’s dumb ... ”) that he can’t see is doomed to only further enrage people. When he’s rebuked, he can admit his weaknesses, but not without reinforcing his total conviction in what he does. “I don’t know how to be sarcastic,” Bale says with a slight shrug and a tone that’s equally confessional and weary. “I just know how to read numbers.” It’s the rare Bale character where one’s obsession is what can help spot the looming, soul-and-economy-destroying void, even if it can’t help avert it. 

"Vice" / Annapurna Pictures

This makes for a fascinating polar opposite to his most recent McKay-directed performance. Like Bateman and others before him, Bale’s Cheney in "Vice" is a cold-hearted cipher, a man so consumed with the idea of power and the need and ability to wield it that questions of ethics, morality or popularity never elicit a moment’s thought. His measured cadence and small gestures (a small head jerk on “different understanding,” a shift from a guarded posture to a hand wave on “mundane” to suggest a helping hand) show someone who has weighed exactly what he has to do to pull someone over to his side in a way that makes them think he’s nudging them along to where they always wanted to be, rather than totally manipulating them. 

Bale actually almost played George W. Bush himself in Oliver Stone’s “W.” before finding the prosthetics weren’t to his satisfaction (another case of needing tangible details, or self-deception, for a successful performance), but he feels like a better fit for Cheney, a man hiding behind a façade of reserved normality to hide an all-consuming desire for expanded empire, denying ulterior motives to the public and possibly to himself. The world is remade in his cruel image in a way that persists to this day, and that will be near-impossible to change. If Burry, like Bateman, can clearly see the void, Cheney, like Bateman, is the void.

from All Content http://bit.ly/2FvN4OM

[misselenah-blog]

Types of Outdoor Barbecue Grills Which Usually should You Buy

Want to become able to impress your buddies and also relatives at birthdays, ballgames and holidays along with juicy burgers, veggie skewers and more? Just About All cooked for you to perfection on your outdoor grills should you select the proper someone to use. Coming From sizzling special occasions in order to easy, delicious everyday meals which you will make throughout minutes, Whether As Well As Not you're currently any certified grill master or just searing a steak, acquire every one regarding the equipment in order to fulfill your own BBQ grill fantasies right here, and you will be everyone's favorite host inside no time. choosing the barbecue grill is personal. Beyond your own personal diet plan and schedule, knowing the numerous styles of outdoor grills as well as what each as well as every are capable involving doing for anyone personally is actually crucial. you may watch videos or flick through our getting manual for grills and also outdoor cooking equipment pertaining to expert suggestions about the way to select the right barbecue grill to your lifestyle as well as needs. Understand your ins and outs of outdoor grills and what every type can easily carry towards the table. Summer is actually here. Carry out you feel exciting concerning that? Since it means its time to suit the needs to acquire outside and like the fantastic nature. The explanation why certainly not cook outside regarding entertainment? Cooking your meal outdoors will become the much more environmental approach to prepare food, right? Barbecue one of probably the particular most popular ways to prepare meals outside and is actually also in addition an American pastime. Individuals arrive and also gather around the grill along with cook up several good food. Right now there is no better option to just take pleasure from an afternoon or perhaps evening along with family members as well as friends. Imaging the taste of the caramel in the meat as well as the smoky flavors, these things really drive me crazy. I suppose you're feeling hungry now. Therefore here I would really like talk about along with many different types of outdoor barbecue grill. Additionally I will demonstrate his or her positive aspects and also disadvantages. Hope my phrases can enable an individual to have the one anyone really want. You might want to request me why not reveal with a new few indoor barbecue grills as many Korean like to roast meat indoor. Inside my opinion, you'll become able to by a electric grill. Right now there is certainly not any choice for you nevertheless the electric grill. because it a lot more safe along with easy to control. Area dwellers tend to be prohibited simply by fire laws via making use of fuel or even charcoal grills also use this kind in order to roast. but I believe which it is far more fun once we use outdoor grills. Its simple to buy a wrapped up inside the display associated with shiny, new grills. Along With since many of them seem consequently similar, we sometime cannot look pertaining to a suitable 1 with regard to ourselves. We may purchase the only according for the prices but the high quality associated with grill can differ dramatically. in order to be able to find the very best grill to your budget, an individual must view the advantages as well as disadvantages of various kinds of grills, also since the different supplies accustomed to construct them. Gas Grill This will become the many universe sort involving backyard grill throughout America. That They may run on bottled propane or even gas in the utility provider. 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To sum up, your gas models supply certain advantages: zero need to construct and ignite coal fire, speedier heat-up time, stove-like temperature controls, predictable cooking results, no ashes to wash up. Charcoal Grill These grills use charcoal briquettes as the gasoline as well as fire power regarding cooking. charcoal briquettes are usually great for producing long-lasting, smoky heat to prepare all of your grilled foods. Utilizing the charcoal grill for you to toast is a conventional way. Cooking by simply utilizing charcoal is a fantastic deal more time-consuming. And Also but coking like this is a excellent deal more expensive when compared in order to a gas grill, many people will always prefer and also addict in the taste associated with roasting using charcoal, especially when it is made regarding all-natural wood. In case anyone truly love these smoky, grilled flavors and incredibly take pleasure in the smoking meats, the only way to obtain these each will be with a charcoal grill. Charcoal uses up with a higher temperature when compared with gas, allowing a skilled grill master to simply sear meat. Along With cooking along with charcoal is a distinct romance approach as you could image with regard to clearly lacking with a modern gasoline grill. Smoker Grill A smoker grill makes it much simpler to slowly smoke food items with low heat utilizing aromatic smoking woods regarding intense flavor and tender meat. while you do not have to have a dedicated smoker to complete this, it can help make it easier. In case anyone truly benefit coming from the smoke meat, you'll always be in the position to just get one along with supply these kinds regarding food to your loved ones and also friends that are furthermore exact same crazy loving in this way to create meat along with sausages. 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It is really a grill that is lightweight, but also durable. A Person in simply no way want one that will are certain for you to get dinged up around the 1st outing. Also, if you understand you'll continually be cooking with regard to no less than any particular small variety of individuals similar to 4 or 6, you can pick this grill that has the area to cook much meat with once. There are many organization product grills, but the many famous brand name can be Weber grill. With Regard To it have numerous different varieties of grills. And Also these people are very produced. The Actual classic Weber kettle grill will be familiar coming from miles away. Properly Weber grills may furthermore be well built and ideal regarding grilling delicious barbecue meals! You can find numerous models available. Along With furthermore there are a quantity associated with other manufacturers you can choose, such as Char-Broil Grills. Have you bought a manufacturer new grill in preparation for that summer barbecue season? I you still dont get one. The reason why not necessarily reading my words carefully then get one regarding summer barbecue? Your 4 forms of grills I stated earlier could be effortlessly locate along with acquire in the market. Consequently a person can pick the suitable 1 to your special use.

[alexdmorgan30]

My Recovery Journey: From Trauma and Abuse to Understanding and Forgiveness

I always wanted to be a writer. I started writing in the fifth grade and wrote many short stories. I lacked imagination (or maybe it was too vivid, I’m not sure), and so I took my inspiration from stories already written. Most of what I wrote as a child was straight out of Judy Blume books. I couldn’t have picked characters more different from my own family.In Blume’s books, even the most challenging issues were always solved with a hug and a huge dose of love and encouragement. I would share these stories I “wrote” with my class and not only was it obvious I’d stolen the plots from Blume’s books, but nobody was fooled that my home life resembled these Leave It To Beaver-esque families.The black and blues on my little body had a way of telling a different story.A Concerned TeacherAfter about the fourth or fifth story, trying to pass off some fictional family as my own, my teacher—who’d taught my two older brothers before me—asked me to stay after class. He asked if everything at home was okay. He knew my brothers were hellions, the products of an abusive father and a drink-at-home mom.Unlike my brothers, though, I was a good girl. I had never once acted out—until that day. I had learned how to stay out of the way of my father’s explosive trigger hand. I was also a master at avoiding my mother after her third glass of “candy.”I felt cornered. I had to get out of there.I looked at my teacher square in the eyes and said, “You have no fucking clue what’s going on in my home. Stay the fuck away from me!” I flipped over a few chairs and desks before I grabbed my knapsack and ran out of his classroom. I was kind of half-crying, half-raging. I had never become unglued before. I was always the one my parents could count on to be polite and obedient, no matter what.My oldest brother was waiting for me outside school. He noticed I was on the verge of hyperventilating.“What happened?” Marco* asked.“Mr. Brendel asked if things were okay at home. I don’t know why he thought that. I have never been anything but what everyone expects me to be. What’s happening??”“I’ll take care of it,” Marco told me.And he did. I was never in trouble over the incident, and two days later Mr. Brendel apologized and we never discussed it again. Marco told me grownups weren’t stupid, and they knew things weren’t as peachy at home as they were in my fairytale stories. And then he said something that scared me: “Adults are going to want to help you. Accept their help. At some point I won’t be able to protect you.”My Brother’s Advice“What do you mean? You’ll always be here to protect me.” I fought back tears.“I won’t, Sarah. One day you’ll have to make your own decisions, and all I can do is guide you to make the best ones—for you and nobody else. I’ll be here as long as I can, but the sooner you can be independent, the better. One day you’ll wake up and see how fucked up things are at home. Don’t fear that day. Welcome it and get help.”I continued as the dutiful little girl living in my bubble and writing stories about people who bore no resemblance to my family. But when I turned 16, I decided I didn’t want to live at home after I graduated. Both my brothers were already out of the house.I looked into having myself emancipated. I even talked with a lawyer. While my brothers were tired of carrying the weight of responsibility, I was ready to be an adult, living on my own.My godmother and aunt convinced me to defer college for a year. Instead, they recommended therapy. I was reminded of the conversation I’d had with Marco outside my elementary school years earlier, so I took their advice.I graduated from high school and got a job in a photocopy shop. I paid for therapy and, by working six days a week, I saved enough for first and last month’s rent and a security deposit on a future apartment.I moved out of my parents’ house when I was 17, but it wasn’t exactly how I’d planned. I got this bug up my ass to do an intervention on my mother, but I had no idea what I was doing. It blew up in my face with my mother kicking me out of the house. Talk about an epic fail.But it was the first time I realized how protective of one’s addiction someone can be.I was estranged from both of my brothers and my parents. It felt right. I was (and still am) eternally grateful to my oldest brother for taking care of me growing up, but he’d started drinking heavily—like our mom. And the other one had graduated to bigger and badder drugs. He discovered cocaine.PTSD and an Abusive RelationshipWhile in therapy, I was diagnosed with PTSD and a panic disorder. As my brother promised, just because I pushed all that shit away didn’t mean it never happened. As my mom used to say all the time, “You push it down here, it comes up there,” meaning you can run from something for only so long. I had to deal with the dysfunction I grew up in, and I had to work really hard to keep myself from repeating their mistakes.Sometimes echoes of that dysfunction showed up in my life despite my best efforts. My boyfriend at the time started using coke and became abusive. How had I chosen someone who was a perverse combination of both my parents? I was trying to figure out a way to leave without him coming for me. With his continued coke use, he was paranoid and controlling. I hadn’t communicated to him or anyone else my intention to leave but somehow, he knew.I was taking a creative writing class, and the first assignment was to write an essay using five descriptions to portray a person or an event. The professor gave us just one bit of instruction: “Show, don’t tell.” The next time I was in my boyfriend’s car, leaving Manhattan for his place in Brooklyn, I paid close attention.The tires slicked against the wet pavement; it had rained while we were in the midtown Manhattan movie theatre. Focused on the road in front of him, his left hand was on the steering wheel. He tilted his head slightly to meet the outstretched fingers on his right hand, so he could twist his newly forming dreadlocs. He turned his still tilted head very slowly to look at me. His forehead wrinkled, and his eyes like big beads of brown glass, narrowed. He peered at me from over his wireframe glasses. He said, “Mookie, I have loved you my entire life. Even before I knew you, I loved you. The thought of you no longer being in my life scares me. I can never let that happen. Besides, nobody will ever love you like I do: not your parents and definitely not your brothers.” He didn’t look at me long enough to see my reaction. He was like a dog who sensed fear and he was prepared to act on it. Now, with his eyes back on the road, his voice lacked emotion. “Mookie, I can make life for you as sweet as honey or as bitter as unsweetened cocoa. It’s all in your power.” After I finished reading my essay aloud, I looked around the classroom. The instructor and other students all had very large eyes. One student said, “Um, Sarah, that scared the shit out of me. You are planning on leaving him, aren’t you?”I wanted to leave, but I didn’t realize just how serious he was about preventing me from going. As his coke use escalated, he became more violent and things ended very badly. A few years ago, I finally admitted to people how bad things had gotten between us. My very first published piece is a personal essay about the last violent moments we were together. Trigger warning!It’s no surprise to me that even with seven years of therapy I still chose an abusive addict as a partner. What else had I known growing up the way I did? Both my parents died without any reconciliation between us. My mother, who never stopped drinking and smoked four packs of cigarettes a day, died suddenly of a stroke when I was 27. My father died eight years later of cancer. I never had the chance to reconcile with my mother, so I tried very hard to correct this with my father. But it takes two people, and he wasn’t willing.Understanding and ForgivenessAlthough I hadn’t consciously chosen an addict for a partner, I understand why I did. People have asked me whether I blame my mother, brothers, and my ex-boyfriend. Much as I want to, I can’t. There are many misconceptions about growing up in a home with an addict or an alcoholic, and while it might seem my brothers embody all those misconceptions, I also know for a fact that nobody chooses to become an addict and that many times it’s the result of trying to escape the realities of one’s surroundings. I believe my mother drank because she married a mean and abusive person who prevented her from realizing her dream of being a writer. Given the environment I grew up in and the likelihood of an inherited gene, I could easily have become an alcoholic. Because I had relatives who intervened and I started therapy early on, I believe I was spared and that I must forgive rather than blame. This includes my ex-boyfriend, who saw his father get drunk every Friday night and beat the crap out of his mother.As I evolved, I became better at taking care of myself and 18 years ago, I married a really wonderful man who is the antithesis of my ex-boyfriend. He’s the only person outside of my therapist who knows my entire story.I also tried to reconcile with both my brothers. Marco quit drinking 15 years ago, so I thought there was hope. But I quickly discovered he was white-knuckling it. I think he’s still angry about losing his childhood so he could be our full-time caregiver. My other brother quit using cocaine after he overdosed, but he still drinks heavily.They both know I’ll be here when they’re ready.

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