#having to sit with your guilt and grief is part of the healing process apparently but boy does it suck big time

[clovernment]

currently at an all time low, folks

low dopamine really really really fucks you up. im watching a train hurtling towards me at full speed and im sat on the tracks cant be bothered to move an inch

as always the anticipation of worse times is somewhat suckier than the worse times. like throwing up.

i hate that i can make my life a bit better by working hard right now but tism brain really really does not want to

[summahsunlight]

can you do 5,10 and 46 in angst for Poe. Really like your oneshots:)

Hi anon! Thanks for the request! It is super angsty. Hope you like it!🥺

Title: Damage

Rating: M (for mentions of addiction) 

Word Count: 2071

Pairing: Modern!Poe x Reader

Summary: From 50 Angsty Questions Prompt list (here), #5″Hasn’t this addiction done enough damage?”, “#10 “Do you know what a gunshot wound feels like?”, and #46 “Do you want to die?”

Warnings: Mentions PTSD and addition, swearing, this is probably the most angst filled one yet... it hurts 💔

Poe woke in a cold sweat; sitting up in bed, gasping and clutching his heart.

Nightmares had been common once he’d been released from the hospital six months ago; in the hospital they had given him sedatives to help him sleep. He didn’t have that luxury at home. He was lucky he got two to three hours of sleep a night at home. Shifting, Poe glanced at you, praying that you had not woken up with him.  It wouldn’t be fair if you suffered sleepless nights because of him. Thankfully, you were still asleep.

The movement sent a shockwave of pain up his back and Poe winced.  Biting down on his lip, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and made his way through the dark to the master bathroom. Not bothering to flick the light on, Poe shuffled around in the medicine cabinet looking for the prescription pain meds his doctor had prescribed him after his surgery.

He came up empty. The only thing he could find on the shelf were some left over flu meds from that winter and a bottle of generic Advil. Maybe he had left his meds downstairs in the kitchen.  

It was excoriating climbing down the stairs. He just needed his meds, once he had his meds the pain would stop and maybe he’d be able to sleep. Poe did turn the kitchen light on and began the long process of searching through each and every cabinet for the bottle of pills. But, as it became more and more apparent that he’d run out, he started slamming the cabinets shut in desperation. What the fuck was he going to do without his meds?

“Poe?” your sleepy voice called down the stairs. “Are you okay?”

“Just great!” Poe snapped, angrily. “Actually, I’m fucking great!”

Cautiously you proceeded into the kitchen. Poe had tossed everything out of half the cabinets in his search--and you knew exactly what he was looking for--you’d watched his addiction to the pain medication consume him for the last month. When you voiced your concerns to Poe’s doctor, the prescription had not been refilled, inside he’d referred Poe to a therapist.  “Are you in pain?”

Poe glared at you, fists clenched. “Of course I’m in pain. I’m always in fucking pain, Y/N. Do you know what a gunshot wound feels like? It’s fucking painful! So, yeah, I guess you can say I’m in pain!”

You anxiously glanced around the kitchen. You were used to his anger. He had a lot of it the last six months. No one blamed him. He’d been performing a routine patrol with his unit in Syria when they been ambushed. Poe had been shot three times, the worse one in his back--the bullet narrowly missing his spinal cord.  “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do? Maybe I can rub some of that cream I use on my legs after working out on your back?”

“Wow, you honestly think that natural shit is going to help?” Poe scoffed. “I wasn’t doing yoga; I was shot in the back with a 22 caliber pistol.”

“How about some Motrin?” You suggested, softly. “Your doctor said you could take some of that to ease the pain.”

“I need my fucking medication that you convinced my doctor I didn’t need anymore. Now when I call, he refuses to return them.  The nurses keep referring me to a pain specialist.  I don’t want a specialist, I don’t need a specialist, I just need the damn pills!”

“Those pills are killing you, Poe! You’re dependent on them, even when you aren’t in pain! The doctor, the nurses, they’re just trying to help you.”

Poe kicked the pile of plastic containers he’d tossed from the cabinets. “If they wanted to help me, they’d listen to me when I said that the pain was getting worse, not better! They’d take my word over yours! Not ignore my suffering! Those pills are not killing me, they’re helping me function!”

You felt tears welded in your eyes.  He’d been aggressive and angry since coming off of the medication. The doctor had warned you of this.  You just wanted to help him, but just like tonight, when you offered to help, he shouted at you, pushed you away.  The relationship you both cherished so much was beginning to crumble under the constant strain of his addiction.  “Hasn’t this addiction done enough damage?”

Suddenly all the fight left his body.  Poe saw the tears running rivers down your cheeks.  “You’re right,” he whispered. “Tomorrow, I’ll be out of your hair.  I’m sure I can find an old Army buddy to take me in for a few days until I find a place of my own.  Maybe...maybe you should keep BeeBee.”

“I don’t...I don’t want you to leave,” you cried.

“What else can I do?” Poe questioned. “Our relationship is broken.”

“Broken beyond repair?”

“Not much left to fix, Y/N.”

He was just giving up on you; in retrospect, you should have seen this coming. The grief counselor at the hospital that had worked with Poe while he was recovering had warned you that this might happen. PTSD and addiction didn’t just tear the person up who was a victim of it--it tore up their families as well. And the fact that Poe was giving up his beloved corgi, BeeBee, to you, just signified that perhaps he was giving up on life.

Poe ran his hands through his thick curls.  If he could have left right at that moment, he would have, but he couldn’t think of anyone that would open their door for him at three in the morning.  Growling in frustration, Poe glanced at the stairs, knowing he was going to have to climb them in order to go pack his things. He was just going to have to grit his teeth and fight through the pain.

You stood in the kitchen, containers scattered about, watching as Poe sized the stairs up.  Please, please don’t leave, you wanted to scream at him.  If he left, you knew that he wouldn’t make it.  He would be another statistic. “Do you want to die?”

Refusing to look at you, Poe paused at the bottom of the stairs. Did he? At first, when he woke up in the field hospital, he’d been happy to still be alive--until he found out he was one of the only survivors of the ambush.  Three of his brothers had not made it.  Survivor’s guilt, that had been the fancy term the counselor used. “Somedays I think it would have been better if I’d died.”

“Would it have been better for me? The grief I would have been in...”

“You’re in pain now. And I’m alive.”

“I’m only in pain because I love you and I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’ve already lost me.”

Crying, you moved towards him, noticing that he still refused to look at you. “No! No, I haven’t, Poe! What you went through was terrible, but you need to realize that you’re sick and you need help.” You gently grabbed his hands, lacing your fingers through his. “Please, Poe, please let me help you. Don’t you remember that one time you told me we could do anything we put our minds too?”

Poe’s jaw twitched. In the dim light of the kitchen you could see tears reflecting in his chocolate brown eyes. Suddenly, he wrapped his fingers around yours, and squeezed your hands hard. “What if I never get better?”

You set your jaw, now both of you were crying. “Poe, you will and you don’t have to do it alone. We can fight this together. Tomorrow, we’ll go see the pain specialist, we’ll make an appointment with the therapist... and I’ll go with, to as many appointments as you want me to go to, even if I just sit in the waiting room waiting for you.  I got quite good at waiting for you while you were deployed.”

This was usually the part of the fight that Poe scoffed at you, declared that he didn’t need a therapist, and storm back to bed. And you were expecting it to go this way... but then he looked at you, looked at you like you were his lifeline.. and something snapped inside of him. “After everything I’ve done and said, you’d still wait for me?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t you wait for me?”

“Forever if I had too.”

Letting go his hands, you hugged him, tightly.  Poe wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your hair. You could hear him softly crying and it broke your heart, but this was the first step towards healing, wasn’t it? “What do you need from me?” you whispered, leaning into his embrace.

Poe closed his eyes, letting the tears run freely down his cheeks. “Maybe that natural shit you use after yoga...and some Motrin. Let’s...let’s start with that.”

You smiled against his shoulder and nodded. “Okay. Baby steps. My dad always said slow and steady wins the race.”

“I want... oh God, love, I want to get better...”Poe sobbed.

“Poe, baby, you will,” you assured him, rubbing the back of his neck. “I promise, I’ll be there every step of the way--I’m not giving up on you.”

He finally believed you, after months of fighting himself, fighting his doctors--fighting with you--he finally believed that no one was giving up on him. That had to include himself too. Poe had to believe himself if he was going to get better.  He couldn’t give up.  

You helped him back up the stairs to your bedroom, helped him sit on the bed while you went and retrieved the pain cream from your yoga bag, then went into the master bathroom to find the Motrin.

Joining him in the bedroom, you saw that BeeBee had climbed up onto the bed and had his head in Poe’s lap, his high brown eyes looking up at his human with adoration. Poe was languidly scratching the dog behind his ears. You sat down on the bed behind him and lifted up his tee shirt, squirting some of the cream in your hand, you began to massage it into his tense muscles--over the scar in his back where the Army surgeon had removed the bullet that almost ended his life.

Poe hummed in appreciation. “That stuff smells fucking awful,” he snapped, even as it began to tingle and dull the pain.

Chuckling you held his shirt up while it dried. “Yeah... but it’s working, right?”

“Yeah. Even if I smell like a disinfectant.”

“Still want the Motrin?”

“Sure.”

Releasing his shirt, you handed him a glass of water and two pills. “We’ll start with two, okay? If it doesn’t help in an hour, I’ll give you another one.”

He nodded taking the pills.  Poe finished the water and handed you the glass, watching as you set it down on the nightstand. “I want to get better,” he told you, again, “I don’t... I can’t live like this anymore.  You were right all along, I should have... I should have listened to you... but I didn’t want... you asked me if I wanted to die. No. I want to live, sweetheart. But the nightmares...the pills... the pain... that isn’t... that isn’t living.”

You pushed his hair back from his forehead and then kissed him, tenderly. After a year of watching him fall apart, especially these last six months that he had been home, this was the first sign that he wanted to fight back, that he didn’t want to let his PTSD or his addiction to the pain killers ruin his life. “I love you, Poe. Battle scars and all.”

Poe sighed, sadly. He grabbed you into his arms and laid down, BeeBee ruffed and climbed over you, curling up against Poe’s back before falling back to sleep.  For the first time in a long time, Poe felt a real smile tug at the corners of his mouth.  It was one that was filled with the sadness he still felt, but he had  BeeBee, he had you--he knew that it was a long road he had to travel to get back to something that resembled the man he used to be--however, as he watched you fall asleep against his chest, he knew he wouldn’t be walking that path alone.

[charlottemadison42]

On Good Omens and Faith

Here follow personal thoughts on what Good Omens has meant to me as an Exvangelical. There’s a lot of healing & hope here, but it gets a bit dark first, as worthy stories do.

CW: I wasn’t badly spiritually abused in church, but I’ll be discussing things that are spiritually abusive: purity culture, sexphobia, queerphobia, abortion, mild self-harm, failure to treat mental health appropriately, ableism -- plus the special ways church authority makes all of these especially hard.

I’m personally an atheist but this message is not an argument against faith itself, rather against the specific subculture I grew up in. If you are a person of faith you’re welcome here.

I grew up in the American Evangelical subculture of the 80′s and 90′s, in the Keith Green/DC Talk/Left Behind/Veggie Tales era. I got saved at a Carman concert in sixth grade, and re-pledged my faith just to be extra sure every year at summer camp and youth group retreats.

This upbringing is not unusual. Doesn’t make me special. But its effects were real.

I’m finally engaged in a reckoning with it, in the “I should maybe talk this over with a support group or therapist” sense. I was a worship leader and youth leader at a Vineyard church when I left my faith abruptly in 2007*. It took me ten years to tell my family and friends that I was an atheist. For that decade I didn’t think about it -- but when I confessed to my loved ones two years ago, the processing began in earnest.

If you came up Evangelical, you already know how literal our belief in angels and demons can be in certain strains of the church. Until I was 26, I believed they were real entities genuinely and invisibly at war all around me. The End Times were real and we were in them. The Antichrist was whatever high profile democrat could be weaponized at the moment, the Rapture was nigh, and Armageddon was imminent (which explained why tension kept building in the Middle East).

My church community regularly discussed friends and neighbors’ problems in the language of  demon possession or harrassment: depression was a demon, addiction was a demon, promiscuity was a demon. I was part of casual and formal exorcisms and the occasional healing. No holy water, but there were hours of fervent prayers and tears, speaking in tongues and anointing with oil. It’s like a fever dream looking back at it now.**

Shout out to my other teens and tweens of the Frank Peretti era, forbidden from reading books of fantasy any later than Lewis or Tolkein -- Xanth was forbidden, Hogwarts was demonic. We were given instead (retrospectively) horrifying books about spiritual warfare, Christian takes on historical fiction, and end times fantasies. But they weren’t sold as fantasy to us, it was all real. Adults in positions of power confirmed it over and over. Narnia might be allegory but This Present Darkness supposedly illustrated spiritual truths.

I remember telling a trusted church teacher at age 10 or 11 that sometimes I would get scared at night, in the dark, and feel a palpable terror that kept me awake. They told me with no hint of comfort, “That means a demon is visiting you and sitting on your chest, trying to oppress you with fear so you will sin. Don’t wake your parents or read a book, instead you should pray or read only the Bible until the demon is compelled to leave, either by an angel or the presence of God.” This adult was affirmed by amens and mm-hmms.

I took this teaching to heart. I also understood, by implication, that if the bad feeling stayed with me then I was praying wrong -- that no angel would rescue me that night. I knew that my fear as it compounded in the dark was itself a sin that made God harder for me to reach.

These are not things that should be told to children.

Then there were the prophecies. (read more if this resonates with you, if not I’ll clip it here so I don’t take up your whole screen)

Anyone could prophesy in most churches I attended. Dreams were prophecies, visions were prophecies, vague feelings were prophecies. (That gave nightmares / being hormonal / being really hungry an awful lot of sway at Bible study.)

I had a woman prophesy over me weeping, with her hands buried in my hair, that she felt overwhelming grief for my future child. I was 23.

I have no child, and I harbored the secret at the time was that I didn’t want one -- a rebellion for me as a married woman. I feared she was prophesying an abortion in my future, and I was inconsolable for months at the damning choice that would visit me someday. (As of this writing at age 38 I’ve never been pregnant, for which I give all thanks to modern birth control.) I still wonder what happened to that woman’s child, or pregnancy, or perhaps her desire for a child, that this was her prophecy for me.

I heard much darker things prophesied over other people. I remember career changes (ill-advised) and marriages staying together (they shouldn’t have) and mission trips undertaken (that assuredly should not have been) because of prophesies.

Last, of course, I didn’t know it yet but I had many queer friends at the time. Some of them didn’t know it. We had no context in our small town -- and no corners of the internet to hide in and learn context, because the internet didn’t do much more than access our local library catalog at the time. I was told that demons sat on my chest to oppress me as a child, but I was shielded from understanding what a lesbian actually was until I was sixteen.

I remember feeling vaguely guilty when we prayed over this or that person in youth group, entreating God that they could resist their base urges. We prayed that they could choose a life of abstinence if they had to, rather than enter sexual sin and be cast out. I felt guilty but I still joined the circle to pray.

I’m sorry. I was wrong. Part of me knew it at the time. I wish I had listened to that part of me because that it was correct. There are fragments of my former faith I still treasure, but those prayers were rotten to the core.

Sidebar: Luckily that feeling of guilt bloomed quickly into rejecting queerphobic doctrine. By age 20 I decided I could only attend churches that did not preach homophobic takes on scripture from the pulpit, and that did not advocate/imply advocacy for any particular political party. The reason I mention this: if YOU are currently a person of faith in this position, uncomfortable with what you hear from your leadership, go find a church that’s queer-affirming, gives to the poor, and advocates for immigrants. Live in a conservative area? Create or join a home church. That’s what the early church looked like anyway. Don’t shrug off this responsibility. Shine a light.

Anyway. Several years later, I fell.

I had to step down from multiple church leadership positions in one day. My entire life changed in two months; marriage, job, home, friends, everything uprooted when I could no longer pretend to believe. I didn’t tell my family why everything fell apart, even as they let me crash their couches.

I had wanted to be a good believer. I read apologetics, the mystics, eschatology, theophostics. I taught and attended study groups, I took troubled teens out to coffee, I served the homeless, I waited til marriage. I was in church as many as thirty hours weekly. When I first felt my faith slipping I said “not yet,” and I read the entire Bible straight through twice, in different translations, while journaling through “My Utmost for His Highest.” Then, unsatisfied, I read and annotated the New Testament in interlinear Greek. I gave it my everything.

What could replace all that?

Time, it turns out. And freedom.

Freedom to not think about it was perhaps the kindest freedom. The constant labor of self-evaluation and thought policing that goes into Evangelical Christianity is exhausting. Letting it go of it felt like getting my mind back. Or owning it for the first time, since I never knew this freedom before. I had even been seeking counseling because I was hearing multiple voices in my head at once, all mine, often arguing. That problem vanished the hour I deconverted. I heard only one voice anymore, and it was my own.

For ten years I was free to just not think about it.

When I decided to remarry I realized that I didn’t want to explain to anyone why my ceremony would not include prayers or communion. So I told my loved ones at last that I was an atheist, a decade late. They received it graciously, and I’m sure they had known-but-not-acknowledged it for a long time. I hope they don’t worry about me or pray behind my back for my salvation. But if they do I can’t accept responsibility for it anymore.

Since that confession I’ve finally felt compelled to back at what all actually happened in church. It seemed so normal to me at the time. But wait, it wasn’t:

I exorcised people. I laid on hands for healings. I encouraged episodes of religious rapture, falling out, and speaking in tongues, and as a worship leader I knew the music cues to bring them about (yes, there are certain chord and tempo changes for that). I was present for prophecies that changed people’s lives and might have issued some myself, I don’t remember. I alienated people who didn’t fit in, whether because they were queer or just because they didn’t conform to church culture. I witnessed abuse and had no language to report it or even comprehend it. I hurt people. I was hurt.

I was told there were real demons in my room and I had to pray them away all by myself.

The work of undoing this mindf*ck (sorry friends of faith, that’s how it felt) suddenly turned urgent after being ignored for a decade. I can’t afford therapy, but thankfully Twitter chats and message boards and podcasts exist (thank you, @goodchristianfun​ and @exvangelical​).

And then -- out of the blue -- along came my own personal angel and demon, along with Frances McDormand herself. I watched it on a whim. (Actually no, David Tennant’s hair made me.)

Apparently Good Omens had a few things to say directly to my mindf*cked subconscious:

1) Are you scared of demons in a pathological childhood trauma way? Here, have a helping of this amalgam of your favorite Doctor and scariest ever Marvel villain tearing it up as the demon Crowley.

2) Does your mild bookish personality and respect for the culture you grew up in keep you reflexively deferential to authority, even as it gaslights you and hurts others? Enjoy some Michael Sheen as the angel Aziraphale.

3) Are you stuck still mentally assigning a male gender to the god you always claimed was beyond gender? Boom, meet Her in all Her ineffable wisdom.

4) Are you terrified of the End Times, both as a Biblical horror of childhood and as an adult who reads the f*cking news? Let’s fantasize awhile about a solvable apocalypse (because what would that even look like, yo).

5) Do you keep reflexively binarizing good and evil? Still giving in to the temptation to characterize humans as righteous or fallen, especially celebrities and political prospects? Spend some time on Our Side with Adam, the utterly human Antichrist, as he makes choices that matter -- some goodish, some baddish, all with mixed consequences, because that’s what humans do.

6) Do you need more queer love stories in your life? Yes you do. Yes. YES. Here it is. The good stuff. Whether it’s gay, trans, genderfluid, asexual, agender, metaphysical, whatever (I’m enjoying reading all these takes and more on AO3) it’s a hell of a love story.

Good Omens was a f*cking revelation.

I’m not sure why the show hit me as hard as it did in the Exvangelical feels. It’s not that it’s a perfect show, but it was the right thing at the right time for me, and it brought a truck full of dynamite to the excavation I was just beginning with a trowel and a makeup brush. I finished watching ep 6 and thought “why do I feel like I’ll be thinking about this every single day for years?”

And then I looked down, and lo and behold I had an open chest wound -- inside of which I found the banished memory of a child trembling and praying in terror in a dark room.

There was a lot that I forgot about in the ten years it took me to hike away from Evangelical life. It all came rushing back.

I had forgotten the sweat and cries during exorcisms and the heat of laying on of hands. I had forgotten fits of ecstatic tears of self-hatred and self-denial so strong they were almost blissful, as I sang and chanted mantras like “I am nothing, You are everything.” I had forgotten giving away ten percent of my income until I was 26. I had forgotten the constant mental effort of Being A Proverbs 31 Woman, about submission and complementarianism and feeling responsible to guard the virtue of men by never tempting them. I had forgotten the pressure to not even masturbate before marriage and to become a sexual athlete the night after.

I had forgotten the hours and hours of daily prayers. Every phrase was carefully carved in language my superego ran by my doctrine, to make sure no hint of rebellion ever bled through. I washed words of need and doubt and frustration from my mind so they could never slip between me and my Heavenly Father. I didn’t just want to hide thoughts God wouldn’t like, I would have cut them out with violence if I knew how. As a result I picked and ticced and cut and exhibited symptoms of OCD.

It hurt to remember all of this at once during a BBC Amazon Prime miniseries. It confused me. It confused my spouse. I looked at all these feelings, exposed and piled in a massive dirty heap -- and I spotted the straps I used to haul it around with me for decades. Who knew I could carry all that? The weight of faith?

But I don’t have to pick it up again. I had a new story to help me frame my story. I felt equipped with a flaming sword to face my past and a new syntax to describe the old ideas I'm ready to let go of.

I got to recast Heaven and Hell. I was invited to ask myself whether a cozy cluttered bookshop doesn’t beat them both hands down.

I got to reimagine angels and demons, good and bad, intentions and consequences. I was invited to live in the reality that we’re all of us humans in between, and that I’m probably still overinvested in the value of Good and Bad as yardsticks.

I got to reimagine western history. The show’s perspective of history is very limited and Eurocentric, but it’s also the version of history I was taught at an early age, which made the story a useful lens to deconstruct what I learned before I knew much about critical thinking.

The opening of Episode 3 in particular f*cked me up. First Aziraphale lies to God and She vanishes, then Crowley starts poking holes in the story of the Flood, then at the Crucifixion -- I started breathing hard on my first viewing, experiencing a real physiological threat response. I was loving it, of course, but distressed panicky love.

The second time I watched it I realized what was happening: I was going back to Sunday School to revisit ideas I absorbed before I was fully sentient, and examining them in the light of fully formed adult secular morality. They look different from here.

When God withdraws Her presence from Aziraphale in the first few moments of Ep 3 as he prevaricates (well, lies) I remembered the one great fear of my faithful life: that I could sin a particular sin and as punishment I would be cut off from God’s presence. As a believer in the End Times, that meant the Rapture could occur at any moment and I might be rejected, be left behind to experience the Tribulation.

Now, from some remove, I realize that I always had one fear larger. It’s a thought I never allowed myself to entertain consciously. Good Omens unearthed it like a vein of flowing lava:

If the Apocalypse as my church describes it is real, how could God want it to happen? And if God does, is this a God I want to worship? If I don’t, but I’ll be damned for that, is my faith freely chosen?

Whose side could I really be on, in the End Times, if not Heaven’s or Hell’s?

These are not small questions.

I’m relieved that I answered them a long time ago for myself.

But even after the answering, there’s fallout; a million little knots to untie and ideas to unlearn. We all get to spend our lives doing this sort of archaeological dig through our childhood baggage, I suppose. My Stuff is certainly not unique. It’s just a lot. Same as everyone’s.

But once in awhile a story comes along and helps us with the process. A sharper spade, a better tool for the work. In my case, through Good Omens I received demolition-grade explosives. It gave me a framework, characters, and a personal shorthand to speed my own digging and contextualize what I find.

If your history is kinda like mine -- whether you’re still in the faith or not -- be sure to talk to someone about church stuff from your past. The weird stuff, the dark stuff, the things you did/people did to you that now seem “off.” Even if you’ve grown past the point of “mental illness requires an exorcism” there are still dangerous ideas buried like land mines in our moral matrices. Self-hatred, intolerance, fear of abandonment, fear that failure is damnation, presumption that “we’re” on the “right side” of everything and “they’re” not, fear that we the apocalypse Is Written by powers above and so we can’t change it.

I’m so happy I know a story with an Our Side now.

I’m so happy I know a story in which the true test of devotion to God’s Ineffable Plan is turning away from the dictates of Heaven and turning toward the World.

I’m so glad I met Aziraphale -- so like me, still seeking Heaven’s approval far too late in the game. I’m so grateful he found the courage to walk away, and I’m so glad I did too. I love that I know Crowley now, self-pwning lovelorn disaster demon of minor inconveniences and imagination and free will. I’m so happy Crowley was there to tempt his friend with questions from the start, and to receive him when he was finally ready to break away.

I’m so proud to know Adam and the Them and Anathema and Newt, inept humans trying their hardest against unstoppable cosmic forces, getting it right not just despite their flaws but through and because of them.

I’m so grateful I’ve finally managed to completely swap to female pronouns for God (thanks, Frances). I still love stories about Her, I still enjoy talking theology and religion. And after 20+ years of insisting God is above gender but masculinizing him, it’s about time I switch to thinking of God as Her for a spell to even things out.***

I’m so thankful for the nicest fandom I’ve known in ages and all the glorious queer beautiful amazing body-positive art and writing growing in this fabulous garden.

Confession accomplished.

CM

P.S. I might not have the time/resources you need to chat with you if you’ve had similar experiences or want to discuss. If you need help be sure to reach somewhere healthy to get it. If you witness abuse, online or in church or otherwise -- report it, block it, mute it, shut it down, whatever is in your power.

P.P.S. If you have words of rebuke for me from a churchy place, and/or critiques about gender or politics, sorry, don’t give a f*ck. This is my story to tell and I am secure in my spiritual status. I am free indeed.

++++++++++++++

*Re. Deconversion: Or rather, I had my faith zapped out of me in what turned out to be the truest rapturous religious experience of my life. It happened in a church service; I almost fell out and spoke in tongues with the tingling power of understanding that I was truly and finally faithless. It’s an interesting deconversion story if you're familiar with charismatic church stuff, ask me sometime over tea. It felt like this.

**Re. Exorcisms: Most disturbing was the regular practice of exorcising people who clearly needed professional help for their mental health. I was present when prayers against demons happened over cases of depression, manic depression, epilepsy and other seizures, addiction, schizophrenia, and psychotic episodes. My particular church did acknowledge the role of modern medicine, but felt that the true core of these issues was spiritual and that medication ultimately could not solve a problem of demonic infestation. Looking back now I shudder and weep to think that this happened, that I was part of it once, and that it still happens daily at churches everywhere. It can be unspeakably damaging to the people being prayed over. If this practice happens in your church, leave. If it happens at a church where you’re in leadership, end it.

***Re. God as She/Her:  I encourage you to find your own appropriate pronouns for God, whether you believe in Them or not. For me personally, still reeling from the Proverbs 31 upbringing, She/Her is very healing for now. But gender is a construct etc. etc.

[jnlnyaface]

Duality

This story takes place during the party in 2x01. Let’s pretend, for this story, Macy didn’t tell Maggie about the move until after Mel called Harry to the attic. Please forgive any spelling and/or grammar mistakes

Can be found on AO3 here

Duality was apparently going to always be a tentpole in Macy’s life. Being a Charmed one with demon blood. The freedom and independence of being an only child versus the inclusivity and acceptance that came with having siblings. Her need to always be in control and reserved  outweighing her want to be fun and spontaneous. That fact was made even more evident by her current situation. Stuck between her dream job 2 hours away and her new found family. Macy felt like a hypocrite. Wasn’t it just a few months ago she was trying to guilt Maggie into staying in Hilltowne over the summer so they could spend time together. And now here she was. Considering moving away. And not just for the summer. Indefinitely.

It wasn’t just the job that was enticing. The promise of a new start. A clean slate. She couldn’t deny the appeal. With all the good things moving to Hilltowne brought her, magic, her sisters, Harry, it brought bad in equal measure. Discovering why her mother couldn’t be in her life, becoming the source, galvin’s death.

See duality.

Her urge to run could stem from the fact she’s never been anywhere long enough to get really attached to it. Sure she has memories, good and bad, from the different places she’s lived but none as deep or personal as the ones she’s made here. She wasn’t sure she was emotionally equipped to process everything that’s happened to her in the short time she’s lived in Hilltowne. Especially when every hallway, coffee shop and street corner brought back every painful memory at once.

She needed space. She needed room to breathe and think. Unfortunately, space away from her pain also meant space away from her sisters. Maybe she could convince them to come with her. Macy wasn’t the only one in this house that had been through trauma in the last year. They all had. Maybe a new start would be good for all of them.

Macy Vaughn was many things. An optimist was rarely one of them. She knew what her sisters, Mel in particular, would say. They wouldn’t want to leave the house they grew up in. The only town they’ve ever lived in. Not for her.

A hand on the small of her back shook her from her silent musings. Maybe a gigantic and extremely loud birthday party wasn’t the best place for her quiet rumination. She smiled at the handsome owner of the hand as he passed on his way to the kitchen.

She decided to seek out a familiar face. Distraction from her growing anxiety spiral. As if by magic Harry appeared in her line of sight.

“Harry!” She tried to call his name loud enough so he could hear her over the music. His head popped up and he looked around until his eyes landed on her. Silently she wondered if he only heard her because she called his name with “purpose” her volume having nothing to do with it.

“Well, hello, Macy,” Harry started as he stepped in front of her. “Are you enjoying the party?”

“Somewhat...I mean yes,” Macy stammered. She didn’t want to give her worry away but from the look on Harry’s face it was too late. He always knew exactly what she was feeling.

“Maggie asked me to grab more cups from the office. Care to join me?” He also always knew the right thing to say. He was perfect.

“An opportunity to get away from all these people I don’t know?” Macy laughed lightly as she pretended to mull it over. “Yes please.”

Harry extended his hand in a “after you” gesture. She took the offer and walked to the office with him close behind. They made sure to lock the door before the party started to prevent any sexual shenanigans.

Macy used her powers to undo the lock. There was a part of her that wanted to look around for the cups she knew weren’t there. If only to give herself something to do. The motion of Harry redoing the lock on the door brought her eyes to him. He had a red solo cup in one hand and a magenta party hat on his head. He was adorable. He motioned her toward the couch, walked over and took a seat as he set his cup on the side table next to the couch. He noticed her fidgeting and patted the seat next him. An invitation to join. Once she sat down she let the warmth of his thigh pressing against her own bleed into her body.

“So, what seems to be the problem?” He asked as he rested his hand on her knee almost unconsciously.

“Who said there was a problem?” He made the achingly familiar “come on” look and she dropped her pretense. “Ok, there may be a small problem.”

“Well go on then. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I was offered a job,” She started. “No. Not a job. I was offered the job. At a genetics lab doing bio-ethical research.”

“That’s your dream job.” He looked at her closer. Looked into her eyes. “But, your expression tells me there is more to this story.”

“The job is in Ann Arbor.”

“Which is 2 hours away,” he finished her thought. “I can see how that might be a problem.”

“Maybe they have an opening in the women’s studies department and you and I can commute via orb everyday.”

“While that is certainly an idea. I don’t think it’s the best one for this situation.” And he was right. Macy wasn’t the most social person but what if she made friends and they wanted to hang out. Should she lie and say they couldn’t come to her place. Would they believe she had a 2 hour commute from work to home and back everyday? Maybe she could get an apartment there and pretend like she lives there while she actually comes back to Hilltowne every night.

These were all options and only most of them were terrible.

“You’re right,” she lamented. “I don’t know what to do. I love my sisters. And I’m glad that we were brought into each other’s lives but I can’t ignore the fact that being here is painful for me now.”

“I understand.”

“It just feels like every time something good happens in my life something equally as bad happens too,” she continued as she rose from the couch to pace around the small room. “My dad died. I found a new family. I find out I have magical powers. I find out I have demon blood in me which is the reason my mother had to leave me when I was young. I lose my virginity and the guy I lose it to dies saving the world. It hasn’t been long since we defeated the source. What if something bad is just around the corner?”

Hysterical isn’t the nicest word to describe a person when they’re freaking out, especially a woman, but there was really no better term for Macy’s current state. Harry stood from the couch and grabbed her shoulders to still her increasingly frantic movements.

“Macy you need to breathe.” Harry exaggerated his breathing until hers replicated his rhythm. He waited patiently until her eyes met his own. “Come, let’s sit back down.” He led her back to the couch and sat her down before reclaiming his seat next to her. “Look, I understand this is stressful but you’re about to give yourself a panic attack.”

“That would be bad,” Her attempt at banter fell flat but Harry at least let out a sound resembling a laugh and that was enough to make her feel somewhat better.

“Now, you and I both know life is full of happiness and pain,” He began. “Whether you live in Hilltowne, Ann Arbor or Antarctica. There’s no way to escape that. And I think you know that already. What is this really about?” How did he always know what to say?

“I love my sisters,” She repeated. The waver in her voice didn’t go unnoticed.

“Are you trying to convince me,” Harry asked. “Or yourself?”

“No I mean...no,” She huffed. “I’ve never had to think about sisters before. A year ago, the decisions I made were for me. They were made by me and for me without any input or regard for anybody else’s feelings but my own. A single child mentality like that doesn’t just turn off over night.”

“That’s true.”

“But,” She continued. “I’m not sure that loving them is enough for me to stay. I can love them from Ann Arbor. And I can be their sister from Ann Arbor too. I just…” She paused trying to organize her thoughts. “I don’t know if I can be a charmed one from Ann Arbor. And I am sure that that’s not enough to make me stay.” Harry stayed silent. Like he knew she wasn’t finished with her thoughts. She wasn’t. “I just...I don't know what to do. I don’t want them to think I don’t care about them. I don’t want them to think that some job is more important than them. Than us. But. There is this part of me. This small persistent fraction of that girl who has always been alone that just keeps whispering, maybe it is.”

“Macy,” Harry started but she continued having not heard his attempt to get her attention.

“That’s horrible right? That I’m feeling this way? That I would be willing to put a job over my relationship with my sisters. What do you think I should do?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. She was unsurprised by the answer. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be to go from only thinking about what’s good for you to having to take two other people’s feelings into consideration. And even without the pressure of being a charmed one leaving sisters you’ve just met is big. The fear that the physical distance will cause a rift is a legitimate one. I apologize I don’t think I have the answers you’re looking for.”

“If my sisters aren’t enough to keep me here and my duty as a charmed one isn’t enough. Can you think of anything else? Any other reason I should stay?”

Harry’s eyes snapped to hers but he remained silent. Macy’s head was a mess right now. So many thoughts swirling and colliding. She was confused about a lot. The one thing she was sure of was the age old saying. Time heals all wounds. And even though she hadn’t made it through her grief over Galvin yet she was sure she would one day. She was also sure who she wanted to be waiting for her on the other side. Part of her was afraid leaving would close a door with Harry she may never be able to open again.

She was sure she didn’t want that.

Macy kept her eyes locked on his as he took several deep breaths. He seemed to be in deep contemplation. So she let her eyes drift to the silly magenta party hat on the top of his head. Her thoughts, thankfully, clear for the first time in days. Harry’s mere presence was enough to calm her. His intake of breath that signaled he was about to speak brought her eyes back to his.

“I…” He began but stopped abruptly and squinted his eyes in concentration. She knew that face. Someone was calling him. She knew what was coming next. “I apologize. I have to go. Mel is calling me.”

“I understand,” Macy nodded. “Go, and find me later. You owe me a dance.”

Harry nodded in agreement and grabbed his cup. With a flash of light he orbed from the office. Macy wasn’t sure what he was going to say but she was going to drink a lot of alcohol to preemptively stop obsessing.

Later, when she was blissfully numb from the multiple tequila shots she drank, Harry tapped her shoulder in the middle of the makeshift dance floor. She smiled when she saw it was him and he motioned towards himself. He was asking her to dance and she was just tipsy enough to not overthink the implications of slow dancing with the whitelighter she was growing more and more attracted to.

As he pulled her into his arms her heartbeat kicked into overdrive. For now she would blame it on the heat. As much sense as that made. She didn’t want to be emotional and drunk. For now she would rest her cheek on his shoulder and it wouldn’t mean anything more than a comfortable place for her head to go while they danced.  

“I think you should go,” He whispered into her ear. She lifted her head up to meet his eyes. She was, at first, confused about what was talking about but her sluggish brain caught up quickly. Her eyes widened but he spoke before she could. “All I want is for you three to be happy and I don’t think you’re happy here. So I think you should go. Mel will be upset but she will understand eventually and we’ll figure out the whole long distance charmed ones thing.”

He took a breath and smiled a little sadly before continuing. “Having sisters, family, you’re close to is all about craving out time to take care of yourself. And that sometimes takes you away from them physically but not emotionally. Go find your happiness Macy. You deserve it.”

Macy was speechless. She wasn’t sure she had the mental capacity to form anything resembling a coherent response in her current state. So, in lieu of a reply, she smiled and nodded. She then returned her cheek to his shoulder as they continued to dance to the song playing from the speakers. She let his scent envelop her. Let herself get lost in it. Let her mind wander to daydreams of happier times. Wishing she could live in this moment forever.

Find your happiness, he said. Finding happiness wasn’t Macy’s problem. Keeping it? Well, that was another story.

[psychosistr]

Second Chances & Bloody Nights- Jonawagon Vampire!AU Chapter 5

Summary: Jonathan, plagued by grief and regret, mourns Speedwagon’s death. However, something approaches him with the intention of interrupting his depression.

Jonathan was curled in on himself, sobbing as grief and pain overflowed within him. He was still lost in that void of red- everywhere he looked, all he saw was the color red. Occasionally he would see vague shapes within the redness, but this burning anger- an anger the likes of which he had never felt before, not even towards Dio for all that he’d done- it would drive him to destroy anything he came in contact with, wishing to make SOMETHING hurt as he himself had. He’d seen things moving within the void every now and then, as well, so he took out his anger, as well as his hunger, on them to sate himself.

‘But..what is the point..?’ Jonathan thought bitterly to himself. ‘The only reason I decided to keep living was to be with Speedwagon..and now..now..he’s..gone..’ A fresh wave of sobs tore from Jonathan’s throat as he gripped the picture in his arms tighter- the lone image of himself and Speedwagon, along with a few of his suits and his old hat, were the only things that Jonathan could clearly see within the void. ‘He’s gone..and..and I never even got a chance to tell him I loved him..god, all of the wasted time..I was such a fool..if..if only I had realized it sooner..if only I had gone WITH him..if..if only..he were still here..’ He allowed himself to wail and sob and curl in on himself even tighter, clutching the framed picture like a life line. ‘Speedwagon! I’m so sorry! I-I never told you how much you meant to me! Damn it all, there’s so much I never got to tell you!’

Through the sound of his own sobbing, Jonathan heard something. It sounded like a voice, but he couldn’t recognize it through the ringing in his own ears. “!!” He looked towards the source of the sound and saw a blurred figure moving closer to him. He held the picture to himself protectively, not wanting anything to happen to it. He let out a low sound, something dark and feral that rose from deep within him since he didn’t feel like talking. “…….”

Instead of being frightened off, though, the shape moved closer and spoke again. “Jo…n…s m…Speedwagon…” He picked up bits and pieces of words, the last one coming through clearly.

“Sp..eed..wa..gon…” He managed to say the name through his clenched teeth. Finally saying it aloud, though, only brought another wave of despair and pain that made Jonathan sob again. He looked down at the picture in his arms and could still clearly see that bright smile- could still remember that cheerful laugh- and it only made him angry to hear this being mention his beloved’s name. “Speed..wagon..’s…dead…” He felt the angered snarl forming, the red around him pulsing as the rage began to consume him.

Apparently this being cared not for its own safety, as it moved closer to the enraged vampire. It continued to speak, but Jonathan could no longer hear the words. All he wanted was for the thing to be quiet so he could go back to grieving his dear Speedwagon in peace. Whatever it was did not seem too keen on letting him do as he wished, though, so Jonathan decided to take matters into his own hands.

Moving with blinding speed, Jonathan was up and on his feet in a flash. “Be..silent..” He grabbed the thing by what felt like its neck and squeezed, lifting it into the air. Guided by instinct, two of his fingers sank into the flesh and began drawing blood from the struggling creature in his grasp. He did not truly want to eat, as it would merely prolong his life and further his grief, but it would be the easiest way to make this creature leave him alone.

‘Alone..that’s right..I will still be alone after this..’ He thought sadly, fresh tears welling up in his eyes and spilling over. ‘Alone..forever..without..Speedwagon..’

That thought hurt greatly. God, how he wished he could see Speedwagon’s face one last time..to simply hear his voice again..

Even the warm blood of this creature could not heal his pain. Something about that warmth, though..it felt..almost familiar…

He felt something brush against his face. Jonathan expected an attack or more struggling, but, instead, the touch was gentle, almost tender. It was warm and caring, the touch wiping away his tears as if it was concerned for him. Then, he heard it speak again. It was weak and faint, as if it was coming from far away, but he heard it: “Jo..jo…”

That voice…Jonathan knew it from somewhere, but where?

And the blood he was consuming…it was so familiar, had he had it before?

Then there was that touch…it was so warm and gentle, more familiar than the blood he was feasting upon, but to whom did it belong?

He distantly heard the voice continue speaking, his mind slowly gaining more clarity as the blood he ate steadily eased the red out of his vision from the edges inward. “S’okay..Jojo..don’..cry…Jon..a…than…” That voice..it couldn’t be..!

Jonathan didn’t want to believe it..he didn’t want to get his hopes up only to have them dashed to pieces..but that voice..this familiar blood..that warm, kind touch upon his cheek..it had to be..!

As the red void finished disappearing, there, right in front of his eyes, was Speedwagon’s face! Jonathan stared in shock, unable to believe it, but it was real!

His eyes took in every detail: Speedwagon’s messy mane of blond hair. The scar that defined his handsome face. The warm, caring smile on his lips. The soft look in his eyes that seemed almost…pained? Wait, why did his skin look so pale? And why did he seem so short of brea-

Jonathan’s eyes widened in alarm as he saw a hand violently clutching Speedwagon’s neck- HIS hand, he realized in a panic. “Ah! Speedwagon!!” He quickly released the other man’s neck, though he fumbled to catch him instead when doing so nearly caused him to fall to the ground. “I-I am so terribly sorry! Oh god, what have I done?! I-I thought you were, goodness, I don’t even know what I thought- I couldn’t see you! I just-” He rambled as he urgently tried to stop the bleeding around Speedwagon’s neck, desperate to not lose him again.

Speedwagon gave a tired, raspy chuckle, his voice clearly strained from the pressure that was previously placed on his throat. “It’s okay, Jojo..I know..wasn’..you..” He closed his eyes and held a hand to his head, apparently dizzy and a bit disoriented from what he’d just endured.

Jonathan carefully maneuvered Speedwagon over to the bed, realizing how hard it must be for the other man to stand in such a condition. “Here, move slowly..” He sat with Speedwagon on the bed, holding the smaller man close to his chest- Speedwagon turned away with his back pressed to Jonathan’s chest while being seated in Jonathan’s lap- to both provide stabilization for Speedwagon as well as comfort and reassurance for himself. He still couldn’t believe it- Speedwagon was ALIVE! “Speedwagon..” He held the other man in a tight embrace, burying his head in the soft locks of golden hair. Part of him was still scared that this would all turn out to be some sort of cruel dream; that any minute he’d wake up in that red void again, left with nothing but remnants of the man he cared for most. “I still can’t believe it..you’re actually here..when I thought you were dead, I just..I lost myself..it was like..like..” He couldn’t find the words, but apparently Speedwagon could.

“Like everythin’ else no longer mattered and y’ just wanted t’ wallow in your grief?” At the surprised gasp from Jonathan, Speedwagon chuckled, clearly pleased that he’d hit the nail on the head. “Now y’ know what I went through when YOU died, mate..” He sighed and leaned his head back, fully relaxing his weight into Jonathan’s embrace.

Jonathan took a while to fully process those words, flashbacks of the night he returned and the conversation following it a few days later playing in his mind…

Speedwagon stared up at him with wide eyes, his hands shaking so badly that he dropped the knife he’d been clutching a moment ago. “J…Jonathan…?” He reached up with his trembling hands and placed them on the sides of Jonathan’s face, apparently needing to feel the flesh and muscle and bone to confirm that this wasn’t just a hallucination. “Jojo…h-how..? I…we all thought…you were…”

“Dead?” Jonathan finished with a soft but sad smile.

Jonathan was now feeling that same desire to physically touch Speedwagon, to make sure he was REAL and not just some figment of his grief stricken mind…

Speedwagon’s breath caught in his throat and he looked horrified by a dawning realization. “Good..Goodbye…? Jonathan..what..what are ya sayin’..?” He grabbed onto Jonathan’s shoulders desperately, looking at him with terrified eyes. “Ya can’t be serious, Jonathan! You’re ALIVE! Why would ya want t-?!”

A stabbing pang of guilt filled Jonathan’s chest. He had put Speedwagon through this pain once already and had been prepared to inflict it again without even realizing how badly it truly hurt the other…

“Jonathan Joestar! Look at me, damn you!!” Speedwagon shouted at Jonathan as he prepared to pull his hood back up at the door.

Jonathan did as Speedwagon asked after a moment’s hesitation, preparing to say something but it died in his throat almost instantly. “?!” He saw Speedwagon standing by the sofa, the knife he’d drawn earlier now clutched tightly in a white knuckled grip and held against the left side of his own throat. Jonathan’s eyes widened at the sight, a look of fear and confusion placing itself firmly upon his face. “Speedwagon?! What are you doing?! Don’t-!”

“Shut the hell up, damn it!” Speedwagon spat at him, a toxic mixture of rage, sorrow, and desperation giving his voice the power to make Jonathan flinch back as if struck physically. Speedwagon stared him down hard, his eyes set in a firm glare even as tears flowed freely down his face. “If y’ think I’m just gonna sit ‘ere an’ let y’ walk out that door t’ go kill y’rself, ya’ve got another thing comin’, ya daft bastard!!” His free hand was clenched into a fist at his side, trembling with anger and so many other dark and painful emotions that were showing in those red-rimmed eyes.“I already lost ya twice! I ain’t ‘bout t’ lose y’ again!” Speedwagon began to press the knife into his flesh, hissing slightly from the sting as it drew blood to the surface but refusing to look away from Jonathan.

Jonathan had been slightly confused by that line, and still was. What did Speedwagon mean by “lost you twice”? Jonathan had only died once before then, so what was the true implication of that statement?

“You were dead and I..I was never gonna see y’ again..never get a chance t’ drink with y’ again..never get t’ jus’ sit an’ talk the night away again..” He brought a hand up and covered his eyes, his shoulders shaking with the tears and sobs he was clearly fighting back. “God, so many things I knew I’d never get the chance t’ say to ya…”

Jonathan’s eyes snapped open as a realization dawned on him. Those words- “So many things I knew I’d never get the chance to say to you”- that was how he himself had felt earlier. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but, maybe, just maybe, the words Speedwagon wanted to say to him were along the same lines of what he himself wished to say.

“Jonathan..?” Speedwagon’s tired voice broke through Jonathan’s thoughts, a concerned tone clear even though HE was the injured one. “Everythin’ alright? Not complainin’, mind you, but you’re clingin’ awful tight to me ribs.” He chuckled lightly and patted Jonathan’s arms that were still wound firmly around his waist.

“Huh? O-Oh! Sorry..” He loosened his grip and lifted his head to look down at the blond, giving Speedwagon’s bruised midsection a few gentle strokes in apology. “I was simply processing a few things.”

“Penny for your thoughts?” Speedwagon prompted patiently.

Jonathan was so tempted to talk to him about it now- to simply come out and ask him how he felt about Jonathan here and now- but the moment didn’t feel quite right after everything that had just transpired. “Not now. After we’ve both had a chance to rest, though, there is something I wish to discuss with you.” He pressed his forehead to the back of Speedwagon’s own head, taking in everything about the man- his warmth, his smell, the soft feeling of his skin and his hair. “For now, though..would you mind laying with me for a bit? I know it’s a bit of an odd request..but..” His arms shook slightly as he clung to Speedwagon, careful not to bruise him again. “I..simply need to feel you here beside me..please..”

Speedwagon smiled softly. Jonathan couldn’t see it, but he could feel it through the other’s voice and the way his heart was beating against his chest. “ ‘course, Jojo. Anythin’ y’ need. Just let me give Tatty an’ Kempo the OK t’ go ‘ome.”

Jonathan nodded and reluctantly let Speedwagon go so he could do just that. As he watched him walk away, Jonathan made a decision, his conviction firmly set. ‘I will not leave him again. I will not allow either of us to live on or die with regrets. I will tell him how I feel, whether he feels the same way or not, and hope for the best. But, no matter what, I will not leave Speedwagon’s side ever again.’

<-Previous Chapter Next Chapter->

-From the Beginning-

[avasscarycozypinkblog]

4/9/20 

This is a Really Hard Time. I rearranged my room and I’m rearranging my brain and my body and all the shit that’s been sitting at the bottom of me for years is coming up to the surface all at once. I might start a new blog cause I feel a need to change everything. Again! 

This period started summer 2018 when I changed my name and everything I thought I knew was changing with it. Apparently that time was the end of the masculine age and the beginning of the divine feminine age in astrology. Since then it’s been up and down and dark and confusing and the best and the worst. I feel I’ll come out of it as the freest version of myself but for now I feel like the bottom of a toilet. 

I am so enraged at Ben. For the past 2 months I’ve felt loving towards him, very grateful for what he’d done and been for me in the past and at peace with the fact that he didn’t fit in my life anymore. But I’ve been thinking a lot about truth and lies lately, and was remembering how crazy I felt in January when I thought I’d wildly misinterpreted the whole situation, and realized that I hadn’t and that he had been lying to me. And now I feel all this betrayal in my heart. I feel sour and mistrusting. I want to learn to believe myself. I want to go back to my child self and tell her she is safe to believe herself. I want to get rid of Herbert the camel but I don’t know what to do with him. 

I had a dream that I left two snakes (a parent and a child) suffocate in a ziplock bag. Snakes symbolize transformation for me but also lies. And in this case I think they symbolized shame, like the pieces of paper from my project that I still have in ziplocks. For half my life I’ve had dreams of small pets dying because I didn’t take care of them. When I was 14 I had a dream I let a snake out of its cage by accident and saw it die. I think my fear of doing harm, my feelings of responsibility and guilt, are getting in the way of the necessary destruction of all the lies and old parts inside me. I am thinking a lot about fire (how much Audra loves it) how death and destruction are as necessary for change as birth and creation, how one can’t happen without the other, how sometimes when I’m struggling to keep me happy and ok these days I feel like I’m fighting upstream, how sometimes you just have to fall and lose your mind and decay. I think my relationship with Ben (dishonesty) had to be destroyed before I found Audra (the most honest person I’ve ever met). 

I’m also thinking about my kolanchoe, how I found it today she was dying because she hadn’t properly put her roots in the ground. Which is exactly what I learned in inpatient, that I can’t even start to process and live and regenerate and create until I learn I’m safe enough to root myself into the ground, to bring life back to my feet. In spite of how bad I feel, I at least feel more grounded. I think that had to happen for me to handle all this stuff. What a crazy crazy time and body and life and world! The grief and struggle everyone is going through right now feels like sludge, it’s like a mass exorcism, it’s overwhelming. I’ve never been clearer about what I don’t want and thanks to that, I’ve never been clearer about what I do. I want to believe I can have it and make it and be it. I want to believe it’s possible to heal from things and leave things behind, truly, and I want to know how to do that and form roots. And what origin means to me, and regeneration, and instinct. And if Audra will leave inpatient as her Self and if that means I can do it too.

[octannibal-blake]

Can you do a prompt where Bellamy comes back to earth and Clark and him don't know how to act around each other anymore. Idk it could be like they had too much to say before he left or something like that. Thank you!! (You don't have to do it if you don't want to)

Nonny, let me just tell you this was a lot harder than i expected which is why this say in my drafts this entire time. I love canonverse but DAMN writing their reunion is hard because it seems like no matter what idea I come up with, i can’t do it justice.

Anyways, here is my final project. I hope it lives up to your expectations. Thanks so much for the prompt! It challenged me and excited me. Enjoy!

*

how a resurrection really feels’

(ao3)

It’s not the kind of reunion that could have been part of an epic story. It’s not the kind of reunion to bring tears to your eyes when you hear of it or make your heart beat in anticipation. It’s one with  urgent whispers and aggressive shoving. No explanation, no hello. No time to even fully comprehend that Clarke Griffin is not dead. It’s hardly even a reunion at all.

“We have to go!” are the first words she says to them, no less than five minutes after the door to the drop ship opens. They hadn’t even fully taken off their space suits or really sucked in a breath of fresh air before she is before them, all blonde hair and fire. Six years later and everything is still the same but so very different.

“How?” Raven manages to choke out one word of the thousands they all wish to say One question out of so many that must go unasked because there is something, something truly terrifying, that makes everything else take a backseat.

Clarke slows down for one second, one brief pause, to place a hand on her old friend’s shoulder, “I’ll explain everything, just trust me.”

Trust me. They really don’t know her anymore, do they? The person they knew died six years ago. Bellamy grieved for her. He missed her. He moved on just like she would have wanted and now she stands in front of him, different yet still unmistakably Clarke. It’s because of that they follow her without further questions. Echo takes his hand to give him a reassuring squeeze, like she knows his entire being is on the cusp of insanity in this moment. She’s not wrong. He gives her what he hopes is a smile (though probably more of a grimace) in thanks. Being in space for so long with her, well, they’ve come to understand one another. She can read him like a book. All of them can.

She makes no indication of stopping or turning to give an explanation. She drags them through the trees, so much greener and fuller than he could have imagined. He can’t be sure how long they were running, long enough for him to be exhausted by the time they reach a small cave behind a trickling waterfall. It’s seems eerily familiar, like many parts of Earth.  He’s much too tired to admire the view. Being in space, well, there isn’t a lot of room to stay in shape. He did what he could, but running isn’t exactly viable on a small space station.

The rest of his people seem to be on the same page, falling onto flat stones and the cave floor to catch their breath. Clarke stands in the doorway, glancing behind her like she’s expecting someone to pop out at any moment. No one speaks at first, they just look at each other wide eyed and try to catch their bearings.

“You want to tell me why the hell we’re running five minutes into being back?” Murphy is the first one to speak, his voice holding the typical sarcastic lilt come to be expected from him. Though, Bellamy can admit, this time it’s fairly warranted.

Clarke sighs and turns to face them. The cave is dark, her face is unreadable. She seems to look them over for a moment, like she’s just now realizing it’s them and she isn’t sure what to do next.

“You’re late,” it’s not much of a response and frankly, he finds it more confusing than anything. Yes, they are definitely late, but what does that have to do with anything (besides what seems to be a strange resentment towards them)?

“You try building a drop ship from spare parts,” Raven bites back, crossing her arms at the accusation.

Clarke’s features soften briefly, “You’re right. I’m sorry. Just…”

“For what it’s worth,” Raven stands up, her leg wobbling underneath her from the strain, “I would have worked a little harder had I known you were down here.”

This seems to break the tension that had built, though Bellamy still feels tense all over. A little sick. She’s alive, is the only thing he can process, she’s alive and she’s been alone for six years. He’s not sure if he feels better or worse about it. It was almost easier, believing her to be dead. Now everything he had been feeling so long ago feels fresh again, the guilt, the grief. He left her behind. What if they would have waited? Six years of lost time.

Clarke lets out a laugh that almost sounds like a sigh of relief and wraps Raven in her arms. They seem to pour all their emotions (shock, relief, joy)  into the embrace and he thinks he hears a sniffle come from Raven. When she pulls away, though, she’s all composure. Clarke looks around the cave and smiles and once again, he feels like he can’t breath.

“Bellamy?” Echo touches his shoulder, concern etched into her usually hard features.

He realizes he’s beginning to breathe erratically, like he’s almost suffocating. He feels like he’s trapped in one of his nightmares on the Ark. Where she is just within reach but he leaves her behind every time. He watches her dies. He watches Praimfaya rip her apart.

“Bellamy!” Echo calls again and he pulls himself to reality. He locks eyes with Clarke, who is looking at him like she doesn’t know who he is anymore. She doesn’t.

“I need a minute.” He stands up and brushes past her without a word. It all seems cold and harsh, but he doesn’t have the first idea of what to say to her. So much is left unsaid between them, years of what if’s and questioning how he could have done things differently. Now, as she stands only feet away, he’s lost. Everything is different now. He isn’t the same person that went to space and there’s no way she’s the same person he left behind.

“Amazing isn’t it?” God, her voice is still the same, “That the Earth could do so much healing in such a short amount of time.”

Her presence still consumes him, that much hasn’t changed. She stops next to him, keeping herself a safe distance away just in case he decides to break again. He feels like he might, but only under the weight of so many unspoken words. Unspoken feelings.

She doesn’t wait for him to speak, just fills the silence with answers, “The nightblood worked. I made it back to the lab just in time.”

He takes a deep breath and faces her, seeing her (truly, in the light of the day and up close) for the first time. She’s different, yet the same. Her hair still turns gold in the glint of the sun, but it’s chopped off at her chin with a dark red streak peaking out at the bottom. She’s smaller but fuller somehow. Stronger. A long scar paints the side of her cheek, stretching from her brow to her jawline. He nearly has to physically restrain himself from touching it. She looks older, more worn, but still happy. Happy to see them. Happy to see him.

“Clarke…” he says her name for the first time since that last moment on the ground, the one where she asks him to use his head and his heart because she knew she wasn’t going to make it. He doesn’t mean to sound so broken when it comes out, but it does and her eyes soften. She looks like she might graze her hand upon his own cheek but thinks better of it. Instead she gives him one of her half-smiles.

“It’s okay, Bellamy,” his name is an answered prayer on her lips, the way she puts all her forgiveness in one word, “We’ll talk. Later.”

Just like that, she’s all business again. She gestures for him to follow her back inside and he does, though the weight of the apology on his lips makes him move a little slower. He takes a seat next to Echo and she gives him a questioning look. He nods as if to say he’s fine and she seems to accept it as an answer, for now. She sits down in front of everyone and closes her eyes, like she’s mentally preparing her for a long speech (she is).

“This isn’t how I imagined seeing you all again,” she admits with a sad smile, “But we never get a break, do we?”

“What happened to you, Clarke?” Monty is the one to ask and everyone turns their eyes on her. She doesn’t seem fazed by the question, only like she’s trying to figure out the best way to say it.

“The nightblood solution worked,” she begins and from there she gives them, cliff notes as she calls it, of her last six years. Busying herself with radios trying to get in touch with them and the bunker. Rationing her food. Trying not to go crazy. She tells them about another nightblood, Madi, who saved her life when she hadn’t even realized she needed saving. She speaks fondly of the girl, but he notices the ache behind her eyes. An ache and an anger that’s all too familiar.

“Monty, you remember learning about the lost mining colony?” he nods in response, “They weren’t lost.”

The mining colony on Mars. He remembers flipping through articles in the archives on the Ark during his brief time as a guard. He had never paid much attention to it. Apparently, he should have.

“I guess the Ark wasn’t the first to come up with sending prisoners to the ground.”

That’s who they’re running from. Miners and prisoners, only these prisoners aren’t kids like they were. They are slaves.

“From what I’ve learned, there’s some weird sort of hierarchy based on genetics up there. Those who don’t have perfect genes become prisoners. Those prisoners did all the mining. I guess they ran into the same problem we did, but they didn’t just send their prisoners down. They sent everyone.”

Over 1,000 people by her guess. The first ship that came down was scouting, checking the Earth’s habitability. The others followed quickly. She and Madi had tried to run, but they hadn’t been prepared for the fire power of the colony. The force. They got Madi first, knocking her to the ground and stunning her without a second thought. She couldn’t run after that.

“She’s all I have down here,” she seems to notice her mistake and corrects herself, “I had to go with her.”

“Is that how you got the scar?” he winces at Emori’s question. He wondered that himself but knowing that someone deliberately hurt her, it’s not something he feels mentally ready to hear. It’s not about you, he reminds himself. Every struggle Clarke faced wasn’t meant to add to his guilt. It just so happens that it does. I left her behind, it’s all fresh again.

“I tried to escape. They didn’t like that,” her voice holds no emotion. Just the facts.

She doesn’t say much more, just that they have to be careful until she can come up with a plan. She told them about the bunker, in hopes they can dig them out. This will give them the manpower to overcome the colony. Another war.

Everyone seems to come to this realization at the same time. The air feels heavy. Six years in space had granted them peace, albeit a restless one. Now they’re thrust back into the chaos, no opportunity to just enjoy the new earth. Enjoy the fact that they’re alive. That Clarke is alive.

“We’re not far from the lab,” she stands up, dusting the dirt from her pants, “That’s where we were staying before…”

They take the hint and pull themselves from the ground. She walks outside and glances around, deciding the coast is clear for them.

“It’s safe there. Food. Shelter. The miners are still a long way out. I’ll make sure they don’t find you.”

“What do you mean?” he snaps, and it sounds harsher than he meant but it sounds like she’s planning on going back.

“I have to go back,” she confirms and he feels like he’s just been slammed in the stomach.

JUST like that, he feels a switch, “Clarke, it’s too dangerous. We’re here now, we can help–”

“Madi is there.”

“We just got you back,” it’s a desperate thing to say but he feels pretty desperate in this moment. He’s clinging on to someone he doesn’t even know anymore.

“I know,” she tries to look him in the eye but he looks away, unable to really face the reality in this moment, “But I can’t leave her.”

He wants to say more. He wants to sit with her for hours and apologize for everything she faced because of him, because he didn’t wait. He wants her to tell him about Madi and the bunker. He wants to tell her about space. He wants to tell her everything.

But he doesn’t. He stays silent. He doesn’t know this Clarke anymore, it’s not the same person he loved six years ago. Just as she doesn’t know him. He’s changed, mostly for the better. Using his head more and trying to be the leader she always knew he could be. Little does she know, even when he thought her in her grave, she taught him so much.

“You good?” it’s Raven this time who falls into step with him as they follow her to the lab.

“I’m fine,” he tells her, putting his mask back in place. It’s falls in effortlessly and she nods at him without question. She may not believe him but she trusts him.

“Not exactly the welcome home we expected, huh?”

They had planned to go straight to the bunker and work it out from there. No thought of sadistic mining colonies or alive Clarke’s. It’s funny how things always have a catch with them.

He doesn’t pay much more attention after that. He comes back to reality as they approach the lab, the building looking much worse for wear. Brick has chipped away, mold grows on the sides. It looks dingy and uninhabited but when they walk inside it’s the opposite. Drawings line the walls, landscapes, abstracts, and portraits of them. In any other circumstance it would have been a little creepy but something tells him they were her way of remembering them. The same reason he drank on multiple occasions.

“Everything works for the most part, though it usually depends on the sun,” she explains, “You’’ll be safe here.”

“What are you going to do?” he decides not to stick around for Monty’s question. He wanders about the lab, putting together the pieces of her last six years through drawings and books.

He’s supposed to be okay. He’s supposed to be stronger than this and yet she shows up and suddenly he doesn’t know what to do. Everyone else seemed to adjust fairly quickly. Why couldn’t he? You know why, a voice reminds him. Deep down, he does. But how does he resolve old feelings with the new him?

He’s found his way to the radio room, the place he last spoke to his sister. Tools are scattered around it, wires every which way. He wonders if it works. His baby sister is still buried underground but she has to be alive. Right now, he wishes he could just talk to her. Despite everything she always understood him best.

“Did you all have a radio up there?” her voice startled him from his thoughts. She shuts the glass door gently behind her and pauses. He glances over his shoulder and shakes his head.

“Raven tried,” he tells her, “But eventually we needed the parts for the ship and we had to prioritize.”

She hums in response and seems to think about her next words carefully, watching him with an uneasy eye, “I radioed you. Everyday.”

He can’t help the way his mouth parts slightly in surprise and she smiles at that.

“Just you. To see if you were okay, if you all made it. Eventually I just assumed you did. It was better than the other option.

“Radioing you, especially you, it’s the reason I made it so long,” her eyes search his own, begging him for some sort of understanding. His heart is lodged in his throat.

“It’s important for you to know,” she places a hand in his arm and squeezes lightly, “You did what you had to do.”

You did what you had to do. The words echo in his mind, so familiar. Every decision they’ve ever made they’ve justified with that, a mutual understanding between them that they never wanted to make the hard choice but they had to. As leaders.

“Do you want forgiveness?” She asks when he says nothing in return and his eyes find hers again, almost teasing, “I’ll give that to you.”

After everything, he still doesn’t know what to say. So he just pulls her into his chest and buries his nose into her neck. She wraps her arms around his waist and burrows into his chest like she can’t possibly get close enough. I missed you. I’m here. I’m real. Trust me. He outs all of those unspoken words into their embrace, in the way his holds tightly, the way his hand tangles into her hair.  There is still so much to learn about each other. There is still another war to fight, but the feelings are still the same. They can do whatever the hell they want. Together.