#gnashing my teeth crying on the floor etc etc

[bombusbombus]

It is vitally, vitally important that Clark Kent is boring.

I don't mean 'boring' in an inherently bad way. A desk job is boring. Data analysis is boring. Due process is boring. All of these things are imperative for a functioning society but almost nobody will ever be praised for them.

When my car got stolen a year ago, the guy who took it stole a bunch of other stuff too. I was sitting with a cop in a backroom of the campus police station for almost an hour while he was doing paperwork (to make sure everyone would get their stuff back), and at one point he looked up at me and he said, "sorry about this. It's not all shootouts and car chases like on TV."

And I almost said, "well, due process is sexy" (I didn't, for obvious reasons). But he looked surprised when I told him I thought due process was pretty cool. Like nobody is supposed to think due process is cool. Things are only cool if they're glamorous or flashy.

The guy who stole my car was horribly addicted to meth. The sheriff told me, "you should press charges so we can put him away for as long as possible."

The sheriff was lost in a world of heroes and villains. He was the "hero." The addict was the "villain." But the person who helped people was the guy at a desk, who went back over the mile long paper trail and returned every stolen item to its owner. The important stuff is when some guy in an office writes an algorithm to save endangered whales, or when the third double blind test finally shows sufficient evidence for the efficacy of a new cancer treatment. The goose that actually lays the golden egg almost never cackles.

This is why the 'Glasses' comic is so important, to me. We live in a world which glorifies exciting acts of heroism but not "boring" ones. We live in a world that thinks people like Clark Kent aren't important, when they're often doing the most important work, solving the systemic issues, saving people who aren't lost yet. Sometimes we need firefighters, but in a perfect world, we'd only need safety inspectors.

And sure, Superman is necessary within the story. There are disasters and villainy he can prevent. There are lives he can save. But being Superman is ultimately a terrible sacrifice, and if the heroism wasn't necessary he'd be Clark Kent all day. That's what makes him not a cop: he's not enjoying the car chases and shootouts. He avoids letting things get 'interesting' at all costs. He avoids glory.

The comic Strong Female Protagonist (by Brennan Lee Mulligan and Molly Ostertag, BRING IT BACK) has several fascinating pieces of philosophy on superheroes and society, but my favourite is this:

Kal-el, living solar battery, isn't just someone who contributes to society from the outside or the top. He plugs away at boring, everyday kindnesses just like other humans. (This can make for great contrasts with Lex Luthor, who is the epitome of a light bulb person and could never understand why Superman would want to be a battery.)

Clark Kent is boring. Clark Kent plays things by the book. Clark Kent is sexy in the same way that due process is sexy, and any character who thinks the Clark Kent side is 'less than' the Superman side, is textually a goddamn idiot. "No glory save honour" and he will always have both.

[lyonfreddie]

prolonged wailing and gnashing of teeth under the cut!!!

let me just preface this by saying that i never get super personal on here anymore but i really just need to vent!!!!

i love my job mostly because i love my coworkers. i work in development/fundraising at a pretty big museum and our team of 5 is all a bunch of young professional women with Good Taste and Witty Banter. like we are all successionpilled. i would hate my job so much if i didn’t work with these people. last week, my favorite coworker announced she was moving to another city and got a job there to be with her long-distance fiancé (he got a tenure track job and obviously... cannot move lmao), and i was SO SAD because she is SO COOL and SO POISED and i want to be just like her, but i took comfort in the fact that we would still have 4/5 of our lovely team still together.

and then my boss pulls me aside first thing this morning and tells me SHE’S LEAVING TO LMFAO

like. i’m literally going to go insane. after march 16, our team of 5 will be a team of 3, and we won’t have either a leadership giving manager OR a membership manager. i print member cards and assemble renewal/new member packets once a week each week as my Big Project but before my boss leaves she’s going to teach me how to do pretty much everything she does that she hasn’t taught me yet. which is really, really nice of her, and also kind of a vote of confidence—i seriously doubt she would take another job if she wasn’t absolutely sure she was leaving her membership program in capable hands. 

my boss is the best boss i’ve ever had. she’s so organized and she knows everything about our museum’s institutional history because she was working there before it was even built. she has always given me clear instructions and honest feedback and she’s just so, so funny. she’s great. we’re practically the same person and have the same interests. and i still have so much left to learn from her. it almost feels unfair that she’s leaving, but i’m an actual adult now and i know this is the correct career move for her. she’s not even going that far. she’s going to work at another museum that is like 800 feet away from us.

but i’m still SO fucking sad. i’ve been crying on and off all day, including at work, where i had to hold it all in. the major gifts officer saw me at the printer and was like ‘you must be feeling sad, huh’ and all i could say was ‘yeah’ and she patted me on the back and i almost lost it in the middle of the office. like... GOD

it’s so embarrassing. i pride myself on being very cool and calm and collected, and the rest of my team always tells me it’s nice how i’m so calm all the time, especially when we’re running events. but i literally walked home today and then sat on the floor of my apartment and bawled for 5 straight minutes until i was out of breath. lol. i am going to be a wreck for every single bit of their farewells and it is not going to be pretty. i’m so sad. i’m so scared. what the fuck.

i’ve also just like... been On Edge for the past week or so in a way that hasn’t really manifested since grad school. my first semester of grad school was when i developed really bad anxiety that only manifested as physical symptoms—nausea, diarrhea, constipation, loss of appetite, insomnia, weird painful muscle cramps, etc. to the point where i literally thought i was on the verge of death! i’ve been reading a book about the salem witch trials and couldn’t help but notice that the “fits” described by the “afflicted” were weirdly similar to how my anxiety jumped out, save for, like, hallucinations. it’s a good book and i want to finish it but just thinking about the similarities almost gave me a panic attack one night... which is crazy. and then i woke up this morning and found out my stupid hemorrhoid is flaring up again. which, in retrospect, just seems like an omen. lmao.

if there is any silver lining to this at all, it’s that there is a possibility i may be promoted to membership manager. i’m currently at the coordinator level, but when my boss broke the news to me, she said that we’d be working with our external membership consultant (who i’ve met! she’s great.) to help keep renewal notices and regular mailings going out. presumable until i’m up to speed. i’ve been at this museum for over a year, and full-time for 7 months. they might wait a few months, until i get closer to a year as a FT employee. or they might just hire a new boss for me. i’m ok staying at the coordinator level for a little while longer; it’s nice not having to worry a TON about budgets and financial goals. but i could probably do it if pressed. and getting a big ass salary bump would be nice.

if you made it all the way to the end, thank you for being cringe with me 🤝 the reason this is here and not in my journal is because there was clearly too much to put into my journal without having my hand cramp up. i’ll be ok. i’ll get through this. but it’s gonna fucking suck 😭

[dreamyjoons]

Last Light ⥋ 01

⥋ Alone was how you preferred it. People came with feelings, feelings get you killed - and death in the new world wasn’t permanent. But not everything is avoidable, and Kim Taehyung is no exception.

Genre/Warnings: zombie apocalypse!au, slight gore, blood, swearing, some angst.

Future chaps will include violence, character death, angst, smut, some gore, etc. You know what apocalypses entail. But there will be some good too, fluff and jokes, some calm in the eye of the storm.

Words: 3k

A/N: finally finally, i’m getting around to posting this. Zombie fiction is in my blood, dudes, my favourite genre of anything ever. I can’t wait to begin this series! Thanks to my girl Lucy (underthejinfluence) for pushing me to finally do this. I hope you’re all excited to join me on this journey.

⥋ Chapter 01: tarmac

Masterlist

An engine splutters off in the street below.

The noise bounces off every silent surface, echoing through your small end of town.

You hit the floor, a string of silent curse words falling from your lips.

Carefully you shuffle to the window, debris rolling awkwardly under your feet as you peer into the street below.

You blow out a steadying breath as you use two fingers to slowly separate the blinds, eyes scanning the once deserted street.

You follow the trail of smoke, passing your eyes over the weave of cars and debris that littered the street. Smashed glass and blood are splattered across the street. It wasn’t an unusual sight any more, the chaos mere background noise to what you were on the lookout for.

You see two men climb out of the car parked haphazardly at the end of the road, both tall, both holding weapons. A brunette and a dirty blond, decent athletic builds, both clutching heavy melee weapons. Definitely not people you wanted to cross.

Mercifully they were facing away from you, jogging towards the looted stores a little way up the high street. And by the looks of it, they had left their vehicle unlocked.

You snuck back from the window, grabbing your rucksack and stuffing your recently looted items into the raggedy pockets. The pack had lasted you decently long enough, but soon it was gonna fall apart. But that was a bridge you had to cross when you get to it. Now wasn’t the time to get bogged down in the future when the present was so delicate.

You’d made it this far without being cornered by people, you weren’t about to change that now.

Tucking an ugly-looking can of prunes in your rucksack, you pull the cord and knot it tightly. You hoist it up on your back and pull your bandana back over your mouth and nose, ready to face the world outside. Well, ready was an overstatement, but needs must. You pick up the hockey stick you had recently looted and turn it over in your hands, letting it sit comfortably.

If you were careful, this would be a clean getaway, no one would even know-

Gunshots.

A gasp rips through you, panic seizing in your chest. You sink to your knees, the feeling of liquid seeping into the leg of your tatty jeans.

Your eyes subconsciously move to the source of the damp, wincing when your eyes come across the mess.

He had been young. Barely out of his teens, dirty blond hair and skinny. A crumpled suit and tie sit on his figure, good quality and well fitted.

It had only taken three blows to kill him. Again.

This was the reality now. The dead had refused to stay down, and the country was engulfed in less than a week. Who knew what happened to the rest of the world.

Those left alive that hadn’t been bit and turned had grown cruel. It was less dog eat dog, and more human eat human.

You were determined not to be caught up in it.

Days had stretched into weeks, weeks into months and before long time wasn’t something to record, but just survive. There was nothing left of your family, your friends, the life you once knew. The only thing that you had left was a heightened sense of anxiety, a hockey stick, and an unappealing tin of prunes.

And now, a difficult escape.

You could hear two raised voices. The men must have realised how dumb it was to shoot their gun, the noise ricochetting off the barren street.

At least, there was no-

Moans. Unmistakable and blood-curling. Dozens of them.

You stagger to your feet and sprint to the window, all worries of subtlety gone. You rip open the blinds and scan the street, watching as a shambling herd of the undead move into the outskirts of the street.

The summer heat had rotted their bodies, a haze seemed to follow the falling-apart mass as they shuffled closer to your location. You knew the smell that rolled off them. You’d been too close to the nightmares more times than you cared to count. But there was never time to focus, just the imperative need to escape. You rip your eyes away, heart thudding in your chest.

“Fuck!” You shout, turning and sprinting to the door.

The noise of the engine must have drawn them in your general direction. The gunshot signed your death warrant.

There was no way you could stick around - once you’re trapped, they will find you. And no matter how much your stamina had improved since everything had imploded, you didn't think fighting off twenty of the undead bastards was entirely possible.

You leap over the oozing body and scramble down the stairs, throwing open the door and stumbling into the street, hockey stick brandished. You draw in a staggered breath through your bandana, heart beating erratically in your chest.

The herd hadn’t gotten too close, but you were rapidly running out of options. You scan the area for the best route out of the town, over high fences and back-to-back buildings.

Then, in the midst of unnatural and close rumbles of growls, you spot it: the vehicle, the one the men had left unlocked. You didn’t have time to play nice, it was either them or you.

But then you spot them, two figures jogging up the high street, weapons in hand. The smaller one slows, finally noticing you. You use his hesitation as your moment to strike.

You begin sprinting, ignoring the immoral guilt that builds in the depth of your stomach. Seemingly noticing your plan, the blonde one shouts at his companion. The smaller brushes him aside, tearing towards the car.

You had to get to the car. It was the only way to safely get away from the horde for good. It was the only way to survive, and if that meant living with the guilt of leaving survivors behind… well. You’ve had to survive worse. They would too.

Your feet smack loudly on the tarmac as you run, the sound drowned out by the shambling horror emitting from the undead.

You’re not far from the car, and the men are slowed as they weave through cars and debris in the street. Escape is hot in your veins, the tentative touch of escape brushing on your skin.

But then one of the undead staggers out from an alley, and you’re blindsided.

It catches you by the shoulder, sending you both tumbling into the debris-covered road. Your skin burns from skidding on the ground but you force yourself to ignore it, rolling away from the creature. It lands next to you, oblivious to the noise it’s brittle bones makes as it hits the tarmac. Its fingers grasp at your jeans, clawing itself closer to you, teeth gnashing angrily.

You crawl away, getting just enough distance to raise your hockey stick and bring it down on the creature’s temple. There’s a loud crack, and the grip around your leg loosens. You kick the undead mass away from you, ignoring the dark congealed splatters of blood that coats your clothes and hockey stick.

The gargle that was forced out of what was left of its mouth ceased, but you didn’t have time to celebrate your victory. The mass of bodies were close, only twenty yards away and shambling closer. And the stench they brought with them was pungent, threatening to make your eyes water.

The adrenaline courses through you as you race back to your feet, stinging plaguing your skin. You trip, body aching as you push on, pulse thumping in your ears.

But you force one foot in front of the other, hurtling yourself at the car.

Your fingers graze the plastic trim of the handle when you’re shoved by the shoulder, slamming you back into the rear door.

Fear seizes you as you claw desperately at your hockey stick, only to be met with dark eyes. Living, angry dark eyes.

One of the men stands opposite you, a frown so deep on his face that you thought he was going to kill you there and then. Blood splatter is dotted over his smooth skin, freckles hidden under the dark drops. An angry mist settles over his face, along with something all too recognisable - fear. Your lower lip trembles, but it remains hidden behind your bandana.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He snaps, furious eyes probing your face. His voice is low, dangerously low, striking you right in the centre of your chest.

“Trying to survive-“

“Tae, we gotta go. Let her in-“

“No way, Joon. She was gonna take the car! Why should we?”

“Make your mind up, or we’ll all die!” You shout, bashing his hand from your shoulder and eyeing the horde over his shoulder. They weren’t far - just a few moments and they’d be on you.

“Taehyung, we save lives first.”

The angry one, Taehyung, stares at you, eyes burning bright as he sizes you up. You hold firm, determined not to buckle under his pressure.

“Get in.”

He steps back from you, ripping the driver door open and jumping in. You don’t hesitate, opening the door and throwing yourself inside, your rucksack digging into your back and your hockey stick propped against the door. The other man, Joon, gets in the back beside you, heavy pants palling from his lips.

Taehyung turns on the engine, the vehicle slowly rumbling to life. You spin, staring out of the dusty rear window as hands slam onto the glass, making you cry out.

The car lurches forward as shadows begin to cover the windows. Your heart is in your throat as you heave in a breath, eyes scanning around you as the rev of the engine drowns out the hollow groans that surrounded the car.

Soon you’re flying, Taehyung throwing the car through the gears as he tears through the streets. The growls growl distant, and you stare out of the rear window, your breathing slowing beginning to even out.

As the adrenaline slowly begins to wear off, you feel the scrapes and aches from your knock in the road. Your joints ached, lack of sleep pulled tightly at your bones, your lungs burned from exertion.

“God that was way too close.” The long man next to you sighed, slumping in the chair and huffing in a breath. He virtually slides off his seat, hands slapping across his chest.

Despite yourself, you smile, watching as he squishes in the tight space. You were almost giddy, the ebb of adrenaline and the taste of survival swirling in your mind. You promptly stop the noise when you see Taehyung jerk awkwardly in the front seat, harsh eyes glaring at you through the rear-view mirror.

“Thank you. For not leaving me.” You state, straightening in your seat.

“It was the right thing to do.” Joon shrugs in the seat, though the move is jerky.

“Kim Namjoon.” He smiles, thick lips stretched across his teeth, dimples poking out as he reaches a hand to you to shake.

You’re floored at how nice he was being, and concern prickled under your skin. You gripped your hockey stick tighter, ready to strike, as you reached out to shake his hand. But all he does is bounce your hands a few times, his big warm hand enveloping yours.

You want to trust him, you realise. You know you shouldn’t, you know that you shouldn’t be in the car with them like this. But your gut twists, the chance at finding someone decent in the world too good to be true.

“Y/N.” You state, lips forming half a smile.

“Nice to meet another living breathing human. Up front is Taehyung.” He gestures, finally wriggling up into a sitting position.

You flick your eyes to Taehyung and smile weakly at him. All he does is meet your eye for the briefest second before turning his harsh gaze back on the road, thick brow furrowed.

“Charming. Sorry, he’s not usually this cold. Half our group are still missing and-”

“Namjoon! We can’t trust her, don’t say anything else.”

“This is about humanity, Tae. Stop being-”

“Look, uh, Namjoon. Honestly, it’s okay. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. It’s really fine.” You assure him.

He offers you a sad look before giving Taehyung a withering one. He looks at you in the rear-view mirror, and you do your best to avoid his icy glare. You didn’t want to be here any more than he did.

You flick your eyes away from him, letting them land in your lap. Bloody covers nearly every inch of your jeans, tears from your skid on the road gaping across your knees and thighs. Every inch stings, but now wasn’t the time to lick your wounds. You needed to be safe before you let your guard down. And that meant being alone.

“Look, thanks for helping me out there, and I’m sorry for trying to take your car but we all have to survive somehow. If you can just pull over, I can get out anywhere and-”

“Alone?” Namjoon gasps, and you look at him, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure? We have plenty of space-”

“Joon, no way!” Taehyung shouts from the front, his voice dangerously low. His fingers are gripped tightly over the wheel, knuckles paling under the pressure.

The world whips past you, the outcrops of the town faded into motorway and forest that surround it. The car moves fast, Taehyung careful to avoid debris and abandoned cars that litter the motorway. The evening light slowly creeps over the world that surrounds you, and if you keep your eyes up, it's a pretty sight.

“No, it’s fine.” You say eventually, you stab of offence rippling through you. You would do the same in his situation, but it still stung.

However you realise that these men didn’t seem so bad. At least, not right now. You shuffle in your seat, your rucksack digging awkwardly into your back.

“But you’re alone!” Namjoon shouts, spinning in his seat to face you.

“Yeah, I’m just fine. I’ve been on my own since the beginning, I can handle it now.” You smile sadly at him, and you watch as his face appears crestfallen.

“But that’s not right.” Namjoon whispers.

“Truly, it’s fine. You’re the first survivors I’ve met in the last two months who haven’t tried to kill me or whatever. I don’t want to wait and see if you will.”

Your words are harsher than you intend, but the truth rings painfully loud. A silence settles in the car, the thoughts and sights you had all seen in such a short time playing out. The world was different, harsh and broken.

The minutes tick by, the occasional undead falling behind as you plough past. The sky dips into a deep purple, the dark whispers of the night coming into view.

Taehyung shifts in front of you, and you meet his stoic gaze, and for the slightest of moments, he seemed softened, his humanity peeking through his world-beaten shell. But it passes in an instant, his eyebrows creasing as he closes himself off once more.

The car begins to slow, the steady rumble doing little to still the worry that swirls into your gut.

Yes, these men are strangers. But inside that car, the chaos of the world outside was removed, forgettable. People as a whole couldn’t be trusted, but a certain person or two could be.

You move slow, the hockey stick tightly held in your fist as you move for the door handle.

“Look, you don’t have to survive this alone-“

“Namjoon-“

“No please, Y/N. Let me finish. If you do decide that you don’t want to be alone, I'll come back here at noon for the next two days. If you change your mind, I’ll be waiting.”

“Joon! That’s not for you to decide.” Taehyung eyes you warily before looking back at his friend, concern pulled tight on his face.

“Tae, you’re not this heartless.” Namjoon spits, anger bubbling hotly on his face.

“Someone has to be.” He mouths, facing forward again, hands balling into fists on the wheel. You swallow thickly, sliding to the edge of your seat.

“That’s kind of you, but really. I’ll be okay.”

Namjoon huffs, lips pulled tight as he examines your face. But you hold firm, and finally he relents, letting out a sigh.

“I’ll still wait but… good luck. Good luck with everything.”

You nod at him, a pang resonating through your chest. You cast a quick eye around the area, eyes hovering over the random outcrop of cars and overturned tanker that sat awkwardly across the central reservation. You open the door, the warmth of the evening hitting you like a wall.

“Thanks for not leaving me.” You offer weakly to Taehyung.

He clears his throat awkwardly, moving to meet your eyes in the mirror. A frown crosses his face, his deep gaze locked with yours.

“Don’t.. uh, die.” He offers, deep voice barely above a whisper.

You feel Namjoon wither on the seat beside you, an exasperated sigh leaving him. But you smile, despite yourself.

“Yeah, you too.”

Finally you force yourself out of the car, shutting the door behind you and walking off the road down the grassy embankment. You couldn’t look back, they were offering you something you couldn’t accept. Not in this world, not any more.

The engine rumbles away from you, and you know you need to get moving. But something tugs at you.

People. The only people you’d seen in two months that hadn’t shot at you had just… driven away. And although you’ve survived for so long on your own, the pit of loneliness that had made a home in your chest seemed to grow.

But you stamp that feeling down as far as you can. Feelings will get you killed.

So you grip your hockey stick tighter and take a deep, steadying breath. With staggering finality, you sprint towards the trees, the sound of engines now a distant memory.

[squid--inc--writes]

Inktober 2019 day 26 prompt: dark

Masterlist

Art + story.

Warnings: death, general horror, maiming, etc.

Mother always sang to me a special song, it was short, the length of a sentence. It went, "Spinning Mirror Or Portal View, Let Me See Through Darkened View."

She would sing this to me as I held her favourite mirror, and she styled my hair. Mother owned such obnoxious things. 

She had a hat made of taxidermied swans, foxes, all sorts of awful things. She had a cabinet entirely dedicated to cutlery encrusted in pearls, not able to be used practically, although she always yelled to not use them anyway. This one, however, she held precious.

She had a mirror, with a frame the shape of a diamond, however it was thin at the top, and squashed at the bottom, connecting to a long stem. The mirrors in it were also diamond like, similar to the shape of the frame, but much further reaching on one side to the other. I've seen her spin them before.

When she died, it was a very humid night. It looked ready to storm. I heard her making a ruckus, and became aggravated, as it woke me from my sleep. She liked to do ridiculous things, like washing the dishes in the bathroom, when they were completely clean.

But I see her, standing in the middle of the hallway, staring down the hall, which appeared almost impossibly dark. I couldn't fathom what was going on. She looked at me, over her shoulder, eyes red, like she busted every blood vessel in them.

She spoke, " They've come. They've come for me. I tried to keep them from coming for any of you."

I stared, frightened, "What are you talking about?"

She turned her head back to the hall, and I stepped closer, as she spun the mirrors, using joints I wasn't quite sure how they worked. I saw them as she sang.

"Spinning Mirror Or Portal View, Let Me See Through Darkened View"

The mirrors would alternate, one side would show the reflection, the other would reflect onto the other side. Always a mirror image of a mirror image.

She said to me, "only a few need suffer from the sight, but so long as one does, they are distracted." I stared at the horrifying images swirling in the dark. Gnashing teeth; claws the clutched forward; eyes of the inhuman variety.

She said, "You must take it, and go. Take your sisters with you, hide where you can."

Before I could say more, she threw the mirror at me. It smashed against my face, and landed on the floor, while she sprinted forward,

disappearing.

I st there for a moment, crying from my wounded face, salty tears making it hurt more. But I did as she said, and ran. I took my sister's to the church. Later, when the sheriff came around to speak with us, they tried to hide things. But I heard.

I heard how she was found torn to shreds. I heard how they couldn't figure out what happened, as no animal could do THAT kind of damage.

They also saw to my wounds. Murmured, "what a shame.". Even after, as I walked the streets, "She had been so pretty."

So, I picked all of the things we could, and we ran and hid. We would be found again, but I'd be ready.

For even without the mirror, a ring can still spin.

[colitisandme]

There seems to be some kind of misconception, that having an invisible illness makes you invisible. It does not. Although it certainly can make you feel like you are. An invisible illness, by its very nature may present no visible symptoms, may appear like nothing is wrong. You may look perfectly ‘normal’, you may sound ‘normal’ but an invisible illness is sneaky and disguises itself so it can surreptitiously slink it’s way into situations, circumstances, meetings or gatherings undetected and rip apart your body from the inside, cause chaos and general destruction in every part of your being whilst leaving no trace on the outside. Much like a spy, a ninja or an assassin. And yet whilst silent and unassuming on the outside, on the inside this invisible illness is violent, loud, angry, suffocating, deadly and consuming. It can consume your whole world and just because it’s not seen, it doesn’t mean it can’t devour everything in its path.

My first invisible illness of glandular fever was met with raised eyebrows and suspicious glances. “You don’t look ill” my teachers would say. What the hell does that mean? Don’t look ill? If they meant my leg wasn’t hanging off then no I didn’t look ill. If they meant I wasn’t vomiting on my fellow classmates then no I didn’t appear ill. If they assumed because I wasn’t standing in the middle of R.E wailing and clutching my stomach whilst turning a lovely shade of puce, foaming at the mouth and gnashing my teeth I wasn’t ill, then no, obviously I wasn’t ill. Not at all. Sure. On the outside my body was playing tricks with people. I may have looked okay. I may have been able to speak in coherent sentances, bid hello to my fellow man, and go through a whole day without turning yellow, develop cold sweats and break out into a pox. It doesn’t mean I wasn’t ill. I was ill. I assure my bullies who liked to debate if I was ill or not whilst verbally and physically pummelling the crap out of me, that every day my body and mind felt like I had run a marathon wearing a space suit, weights and flippers, that to concentrate on the joys of Physics, I had to harness every ounce of concentration I could possess, not to curl up on the floor and go to sleep because the tiredness was enveloping me coaxing me to give in and take a nap on my study book. That the shaking in my right arm was not there for shits and giggles, nor was it because I woke up and decided that a fun way to spice up my English lesson was to become a human vibrator. Funnily enough it wasn’t on my agenda.

Why does an invisible illness have to have a face? Why, because you can’t understand it does it make it, any the less real or any the less life changing? It’s ironic that the more invisible the illness made me feel, the more I wanted to scream out “I’m here” so people would see me, understand my illness, accept my illness and as a result would treat me like I was visible. But the more visible the symptoms were, the worse treatment I would get, so I tried to make myself just as invisible as the illness and hide the symptoms as much as I could to stay safe and in control.

An invisible illness doesn’t have to be a physical illness. Depression, anxiety, MH difficulties, Chronic fatigue syndrome, self harm, ME, IBD - there are so many numerous invisible illnesses. Although different in their make up., The results of having an invisible illness can be very similar. Isolation, loneliness, lack of finances, sadness and frustration can all be bi-products of an invisible illness, and several of these made me feel worse than the diagnosis itself.

When I became diagnosed with IBD, My life changed over night. I have always been incredibly sociable. My whole world revolved around people and making others happy. Because I couldn’t fix myself I would help others. I guess I wasn’t comfortable being around my own self nor listening to my own thoughts, which to me sounded like a very loud, very enthusiastic, one man band, playing the one tune he knows over and over again, and even though the audience has gone home, he yells the lyrics anyway, screeching over the symbols and accordion hoping to get some attention and maybe applause, but instead he gets shouted at to ‘shut the hell up,’ and ends up with fruit thrown at him by angry neighbours trying to sleep. But when I imploded in spectacular fashion, I was forced to spend huge amounts of time on my own. I had no choice. My husband worked, my friends were busy, my family doesn’t live near me. I couldn’t get out of the house because I was physically and also mentally too unwell.

At the beginning, just walking to the bus stop felt like I was drowning in quicksand. Being in a crowd used to make my heart race, eating out used to cause me distress and anxiety. Because my body and mind simultaneously waved the white flag at the same time I had no reserves. I was signed off sick, so was let go from work, I couldn’t pop out to see my friends so I spent days by myself. I was stuck. I couldn’t fight. Whereas before I would stubbornly kick and scream and drag myself through what ever I was thinking or feeling until I saw light on the other side, I couldn’t do that. I had to ask for help (which I hate doing) but even when I did, help didn’t come. I waited 3 months to get mental health support for depression and anxiety and I have so far had zero help, support or guidance from conventional doctors since being diagnosed. I became incredibly lonely, isolated and invisible again. All those feelings I dealt with when I was in Secondary School came flooding back. It was an effort to get myself out of bed in the beginning. It was hard to eat, I looked like a ghost but because my body likes to deceive others, especially my doctors, my blood work, my temperature my SATS were all okay and so I remained invisible. Even though I was admitted to hospital because I felt like my insides were being torn apart by wild horses, I remained invisible. Every time my surgeon came round to my bed he genuinely looked like he might cry, because he couldn’t patch me up, take something out or put something in to ‘fix’ me. At this point I felt like I was being held together with blue tac and sticky backed plastic, but still remained invisible. I left hospital with 9 boxes of drugs, still in pain and feeling like I might turn into a human sprinkler due to all the holes they put in me, not fixed, not better and still very invisible. Apparently looking like the Crypt keeper was not enough to make me less see-through, and because my illness was invisible I was thrown to the back of the line.

I am not going to lie, spending every day by yourself bar a couple is hard. Evenings were better because I had company, but the days were hard. I spent huge amounts of time by myself and I was very scared, as I only had myself for physical company and I didn’t like myself. I was worried how myself and I would get along in confined spaces, and I had genuine concern we would tear each other apart like savage dogs. But then a wierd thing happened. Because I was so physically ill, I had no room to deal with my mind. The physical symptoms took over my body with such force, I had no time to think. I had no mind space to worry about anything other than my body and getting through the next moment. And so all those worries and anxieties and pressure I piled on myself that seemed so important before, pailed into insignificance. So strangely little by little, I started to get along with myself. I tried crafts for the first time (my friends got me a care package when I first became ill and one of many items was a make your own felt sloth) and when I finished him I was truly proud. I got a happy diary and wrote in that, every single thing I accomplished, be it walking to the bus stop by myself, chasing up an appointment, cooking dinner, having a shower, getting dressed etc took on such huge significance, I truly became proud of myself, because of the monumental effort it took to complete each task, every little thing I did was a victory. Every step I took in the right direction I congratulated myself, and so the negative thoughts I had about myself faded and I started to live for myself. Which was a novelty.

As my confidence grew, I began speaking to inspiring, beautiful people. I nourished my soul by meditating, practicing mindfulness and gratitude as well as working on healing my body and as I did I realised, that my whole life I hadn’t just been living with an illness without visible symptoms, and wasn’t just invisible to others, I was invisible to my self. And now slowly, I was beginning to see myself without the criticism and self hatred and it was eye opening.

Even though IBD is still invisible to others, to me, it’s visible. It raises holy hell in my body and makes me look like a bum with eyes. I hate that there is such a stigmatism and lack of awareness and understanding surrounding invisible illness. I despair that professionals and the community close their eyes because it’s easier to do that then look at the bigger picture. And I am sad that there is not the same help and services around for those living with invisible illness than other illnesses. And I guess that even though others may not see, understand or accept us and the illnesses we present, the most important thing is we make ourselves visible. That we see, love and accept ourselves and not let our invisible illnesses control us, govern our lives with fear or isolate ourselves. By loving ourselves. By celebrating our achievements and our victories and by embracing ourselves, illness and all, We come out of the shadows, push through loneliness and isolation these illnesses bring, and with a little bit of self love, and self kindness, we cease to be invisible to others but most importantly, we cease to be invisible to ourselves anymore.

[mendedhope]

Shock and Awe

So, Juni throws fits. Some smaller ones where she cries LOUDLY, wails and gnashes her teeth. Other bigger ones which include rage screaming, shaking her fists and flailing about. Occasional dramatic floor flopping or trying to pinch/scratch/bite/hit me and S. She has thrown these since the day she came into our lives. Once they were like 15+ a day. Now after almost 2 years, we average about 3-6 per day, sometimes less, rarely more. Drastic improvement, guys. 

They used to be worse in the sense that her cry sounded like a literal donkey. I am not exaggerating here. The first time I heard it she was in another room and I was literally like “WHAT IS MAKING THAT DONKEY SOUND. DID THE NEIGHBORS GET A NEW ANIMAL. Oh, it’s my (foster) daughter. Hm.” To cope with this we have named her Donkey Cry “Nester” (after Nester the Long Eared Donkey) and it really works. (Yes, I know this was from trauma, etc, but you have to cope somehow.) Instead of “Omg she’s throwing a fit again!!!! *internal rage*” It’s like “Aw, Nester came to visit!”, said with a smile. She rarely cries like that anymore and occasionally I find myself missing Nester. Key word here being Occasionally. She still cries, it just sounds more like your typical kid. Again, progress.

Today was a Bad Day. I teach her Preschool Worship class (like kids church during the adult service) on rotation and I rotated in today. She normally does great when I am in there. Not today. By noon we were up to 5-6 fits and she had earned a nap. By about 4pm we were well beyond our typical 6 fit limit. I had tried taking away her tablet, positive praise, earning rewards. Nothing was working. 

I was desperate. She was on fit number 10 or so with increasing decibels and rage. 

So, out of options, I told her throwing a fit was a privilege that she had lost, and that she was not allowed to throw anymore fits today. 

It. Worked.

I don’t know how, I don’t know why but thank all the higher powers that exist IT WORKED.

She immediately ceased the fit, pouted that she lost it and cleaned her room up. She followed the rules and kept the defiance and sass to a minimum the whole rest of the day/evening. No time outs, no other punishments. It was a...peaceful evening. At one point S reminded her when TV time was over she was not to throw a fit and Juni looked at her like “...duh, I lost that today.” 

New tool in the tool belt? CHECK. 

[onbeingdivine-blog]

Life Story - Written for a Course

I was born in a tiny place called Ardvary on the west coast of Ireland. My parents were total dreamers, and built a house with the ambition of living off the land. My earliest memories were quite idyllic. We were a vegetarian family (unheard of) whom lived within the company of animals, even chickens and goats. Both my parents were home in my early years, and I was incredibly close to them. My dad worked from a garden shed making children’s toys and I wouldn’t let him leave me in playgroup. I remember money being a constant issue though - dole queues, phone being constantly cut off etc.  I also remember my mum crying, and suffering badly from asthma. The environment was isolated, damp, and sometimes the air was so thick with midges we couldn’t go out.

I remember talk of moving to England was in the most optimistic tone - I would have new school shoes in England, I would learn how to ride a horse in England etc. My mum was 6 months pregnant when we eventually moved over. My sister was two. We had two dogs and two puppies. My dad had to drown a litter our dog Tess had suddenly given birth to just before leaving.

We moved over when I was 5, and lived in a number of places over the course of a year; mostly my nan, two of my mum’s sisters, my dad’s best friend’s brother in law, and finally with my mum’s old work colleague. We weren’t wanted anywhere we stayed. I remember my aunt hostilely criticising my mum over how she organised our family’s stuff in the fridge just after my sister was born. My nan hated my dad, and wouldn’t allow him to nurse my baby sister. At my aunt’s I lived alongside a cousin, and at my mum’s old colleagues house a girl called Jane, both of whom were the same age as me. They hated our family staying in their home, and I took the flack through a rolling the tide of being befriended and ignored.

I started school while still living with Jane although she was in another class. In my class, I remember being instantly disliked. There were Irish, vegetarian references, the fact that I was poor etc. I think I was a kind of trampy looking kid. I was mortally ashamed of unpopularity, and felt Jane had been proved right. I managed to bribe my school bully into not harassing me, and we became a friendship in which bullying continued up until secondary school. I was terrified of everyone and everything at primary school, and couldn’t walk into a room without blushing.

In parallel with an unhappy school life, our family circumstances declined. We moved into a small flat locally. My sisters and I shared a room, and my parents slept on a sofa bed in the sitting room. My father became an incredibly angry man. Rows often involved us being cornered and screamed at. I would hear him harassing my mum at night for sex she was unwilling to give. My mum bottled everything up, but had routine outbursts that “once Ciara (my youngest) was 18”, she didn’t care if she was dead. They couldn’t communicate at all, and I would often run between them trying to make peace. There were routinely meetings in our sitting room with declarations that they were going to separate, but nothing ever came of it.

Secondary school was turbulent. I changed schools twice and never found that I fit in anywhere. I started in a bitchy all-girls school, then following an accident a rough catholic school where I was put in the lowest set. The kids were rough, and I was far from street wise. I befriended some girls in my class who insisted I could only hang around with them if I smoked. Following my parent’s intervention, I was moved up to a higher set. No one spoke to me in my new class, and the kids from the lower had disowned me for moving. I walked the playgrounds alone, and ate my lunch in toilet cubicles for about 6 months.

An old friend had started another secondary school in a ‘nice’ area surrounded by fields - it sounded like the refuge I needed. I begged my parents to let me move, believing that this was truly the new start I needed (again). Upon starting this new school, an exhausting commute of 8 miles away, I quickly found that I did not belong. Some girls in my year group took a massive disliking to me, and would hurl abuse at me across the corridor. My friend from before bailed on me completely, too scared to compromise herself I’m sure. I made a few friends in my class I clung onto for dear life, and endured cycles of being excluded.

I was solely responsible for looking after my sisters for the most part. We cooked (mostly alphabites - we were very sickly children) and mostly amused ourselves at home with board games and watching tele. Although I had this responsibility, I was fiercely overprotected. I was never allowed to meet friends outside, although later my sisters were granted much more freedom which I did greatly resented.

I also found in secondary school, kind of to my surprise, that I was extremely ugly. I had massive gums which invited comment wherever I went, by adults as well as children. I was greeted in class in the morning by lads who would gnash their teeth at me. I just tried to ignore them and pretend that nothing was happening. I was never defended by any of my ‘friends’. I remember the girls who hated me graffitiing on my leaving book to “go to hell you gummy bitch” etc. Intellectually, I was pretty disempowered. I was put in the lowest classes again (based on where I was from and my previous school I think), but was literally too exhausted by this point to ‘achieve’ anything. I just dragged myself through.

Following my GCSE’s, I went on my first holiday with my friends. We met a group of lads, and all hoped for romantic encounters. I had my first sexual grope, was ecstatic, and so excited for more when the ‘gummy’ chants came back to haunt me. My romance had been shamed into ever even talking to me again. I swallowed everything, and tried to pretend that nothing had happened. Upon returning home, for first time I really spelt things out. If I didn’t do something about this ‘gummy’ problem, I was going to die. I went to a dentist, and got a referral to a maxillofacial unit where I commenced a complex three year orthodontic process.

Determined to step out of my social anxiety, I went to a new college for A-levels hoping for a more mature environment. I made some friends, but again encountered people who just didn’t like me and ‘gummy’ taunts continued. I remember catching my main tormenter’s reflection in a window flashing her gums behind me when I was talking to a guy. I swallowed all of this humiliation, but felt hopeful that following my surgery, life would be fine.

My surgery was 4 weeks before I started university. I couldn’t wait to leave home and start my new life with a new face. The surgery was intense - it involved removing a 5mm layer of bone across my top teeth, and both jaws broken. Upon starting uni, I still looked like I had been knocked over by a bus, and had to wear rubber bands across my braces to keep my jaws together. I couldn’t eat, but still went out for freshers week to get wasted and attempted to make friends. Through the first term, I had to return to London regularly for appointments, and was ravaged with panic attacks.

In my second year at university, I went out and got wasted, and brought a boy home. I had to get the virginity thing over and done with as the pressure was becoming too much. His attempts at penetration were painful, and bloody. When I refused to carry on, I ran to the bathroom and had a massive panic attack. I returned to my room, and attempted to pretend that nothing had happened. He tried to force penetrating me anally, and I got off the bed and slept on the floor. I told everyone the next day how great the night was.

I studied Chinese as part of my degree in an attempt to be a more interesting person, a decision that impressed everyone I met. I daren’t have bailed on something so worthy of respect. I studied with some public-school types, one of whom was a girl known as ‘the hottest girl in Newcastle’. I found them all utterly terrifying. During my year in China, panic attacks returned. I moved into an apartment with two Chinese girls further adding to my alienation. During this period, many nights I went to sleep hoping that I would never wake up. I couldn’t bear the drama killing myself would create. I got through university by the skin of my teeth.

Following uni, I slept through a year in London in an office job, and going through the motions of after work drinking and drug fuelled weekends. My sister and I got a flat together as we both had nowhere to live. I had always been aware of being a dark cloud in my sister’s life. She enjoyed freedom, a healthy rebellion, solid friends and a strong sense of her sexuality. I resented her massively which culminated in a bust up that led us to not talking for over 6 months.

A lastminute.com holiday to India enlightened me that there was magic in the world, and I then saved up to go travelling. Although I found travelling alone a bit melancholic, I met interesting people and had some spiritual awakenings via vipassana meditation and a yoga ashram.

I found a vigour I had never experienced before upon completing my trip, and I decided to move to Beijing, a city I had really enjoyed as a tourist in an attempt to give China a second shot. The first six months were possibly the best of my life. I quickly made a lot of friends, partied a lot, and happened upon a number of fascinating jobs, one of which working on a film which I then went on to act in. It was so powerful a dream come true, I remember going back to my hotel one day and crying for hours. I met a boyfriend around this time. He was kind and gentle, but the vulnerability required to connect with him didn’t correspond in any way with the outgoing party girl persona I had newly adopted. He told me that sex with me was weird, and I found out shortly after that he has started seeing someone else. I felt relieved.

I got an ‘amazing’ job offer working for a film post production company in which inexperience was traded for training. I became quickly aware however that I was hired as a bit of a Chinese speaking gimmick which resulted in massive resentment among my Chinese colleagues and what I can only describe as work place harassment. One colleague whom I actually befriended and developed a very deep romantic attachment to manipulated my vulnerable position in the firm to elevate his status. Higher management took on ridiculous contracts that involved hiring large teams working crazy hours which I was responsible for. I felt like I was running a sweat shop. I finally quit after 2 years and felt somewhat shell shocked.

I returned to England a year later to do a masters I didn’t really want to do, and had the first encounter with what I can only describe as a breakdown. Whenever I cycled in front of an HGV, I thought about throwing myself under it. I remember my dad bringing me to the train station after Xmas, and crying as the train departed as I was sure I would never see him again. I commenced a course of psychotherapy with a pretty unqualified student psychotherapist. The organiser asked me why I hadn’t sought out support years before, like at university. I told him that the thought had never crossed my mind.

Over the past 5 years, I have really struggled to hold down a job, although am fairly resourceful and so always seem to keep my head above water. I don’t know anyone in my position - 35 and never had a relationship. I go to weddings, and am completely bewildered by how I got to this place. I just keep hoping that something is going to fall into place.

A year ago, I had my first pleasurable sexual experience. The guy wasn’t interested, but the experience did put me on the path to exploring my sexuality. I met a guy on the first night at a conscious sexuality festival (at Leela last November). He was handsome and gentle, and we closed the love lounge. The next morning, he really supported me when I freaked out upon seeing him - an experience I have never had with a man. I have just got back from visiting him, a massively intense experience. I felt cold and resistant the whole time, and still feel full of tears that I wasn’t able to bring down my fortress with him.