#i am about to go die a slow retail related death

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

With Your Hands on Me Like This

I have to go be a grocery store manager so if y’all want to cheer me up, I’d love a comment or some fun tags!

we all love a good soulmate au right?

---

There has always been a wide handprint around Jaskier’s upper arm, laid against his skin in buttercup-yellow. The owner of the hand has large fingers and a broad palm. It has been there since he was born, the only clue as to who his heart may someday belong to. 

Jaskier doesn’t know whether or not this handprint comes from a rough embrace or a gentle caress. Perhaps he’s going to be manhandled. Perhaps he’s going to be held still (he does tend to roam and bounce and sway). Perhaps he’s being thrown or tossed or... or perhaps he is being held tenderly, braced for a kiss even (Jaskier has always been rather romantic at heart).

He’s half in love and half terrified of the man (for clearly it is a man’s hand) he’s meant to spend forever with. The person whose soul mirrors his perfectly. The person whose side he shall never leave just as soon as he manages to find him.

He attends university at Oxenfurt. He graduates with honors. He begins to travel. He flirts with farmhands and soldiers and sailors and none of them ever let their hands circle his upper arm. None of them ever hit the mark.

And he never hits any of theirs.

---

Geralt is nearing 60 years of life when the marks suddenly appear on his skin. It’s the middle of the night, sometime in the spring, when he feels an odd tingling on the left side of his chest and against his right shoulder. He slides from his rented bed and lights a candle, peering at himself in the tarnished hand mirror of his inn room. 

There is a pale blue handprint spanning his left pectoral, right over his heart. 

A soul bond? For a Witcher? 

It seems impossible, yet here is the proof. 

He tilts his head to observe the second part of the mark and his yellow eyes widen in shock and surprise: there’s an imprint of two lips, right at the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. A kiss. Someday, someone will see him and their first instinct will not be to run. 

A soulmate who’s soft...for a Witcher? Who would willingly kiss and caress a man only barely less hated than the beasts he slays? Who could it possibly be?

---

The bard is persistent, Geralt discovers. His name is Jaskier and he has wide blue eyes, such a strangely familiar shade that it rattles the Witcher’s heart in his chest the first time they lock gazes. The boy follows him everywhere, careful to keep out of harm’s way for the most part. He babbles and laughs and sings and fills Geralt’s Path with light and noise and joy. 

Jaskier’s presence becomes less of a novelty and more of a constant; they become companions, perhaps even close friends.

It’s unfamiliar. 

It’s dangerous.

It has to end before Geralt can really hurt this person. This gloriously open and kind and courageous person who tells him day-in and day-out what a glorious, lovable, and worthwhile person the Witcher is. He has to do it for Jaskier. Buttercup. The only bright bloom in the Witcher’s otherwise dim existence. 

---

They’re tracking down a lone wyvern when it finally happens. A screech in the darkness has Geralt on the defensive, and he wraps his hand firmly around Jaskier’s upper arm in case he needs to pull the younger man to safety.

The bard nearly faints. Nearly swoons. Could it really be? Could it really be that the sweet, quiet Witcher who’s already stolen his heart...is also his soulmate?

He can’t control his movements. He slams forward, pressing his free hand over the Witcher’s heart and burying his face against Geralt’s neck. He presses a nervous kiss to the heated, half-hidden skin and panics immediately: “Geralt! Oh gods, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me I-”

The Witcher silences him with kiss. 

That deep, rumbly voice murmurs, “It’s you.”

“Yes,” Jaskier replies. Their words are barely whispers. Their eyes fill with matching tears of joy and relief. “Oh, thank gods, Geralt. I already loved you.”

“I can’t believe -” Geralt kisses him again, to be sure that it’s really happening, and sighs when Jaskier smiles up at him with a wide, dopey grin, “I can’t believe that a Witcher could be so lucky.”

“Oh, my wolf,” Jaskier kisses him again. And again. “My glorious, handsome, beautiful White Wolf.”

They never do find that wyvern.

[theculturedmarxist]

For the past few months, all eyes (or at least those belonging to the majority of members of the U.S. labor movement) have been focused on Bessemer, Alabama, where workers at an Amazon warehouse have been fighting to unionize their workplace. The campaign started with one man, Darryl Richardson, whose past union experience and determination to improve conditions for his coworkers led him to place a call to the Retail, Wholesale and Department Store Union (RWDSU), thus kick-starting one of the most consequential, closely watched union drives in recent history.

By choosing to organize, Richardson and his coworkers took on one of the most powerful corporations in the world, one that has enjoyed record profits during the COVID pandemic; its now-former CEO, Jeff Bezos, increased his personal wealth by $70 billion over the past year. It was truly a David and Goliath story, and though Amazon prevailed in the union vote, some workers have already made it clear that they won’t be backing down.

The Amazon workers were not asking for all that much. Their greatest demands were for higher wages, better working conditions, more flexibility, and the right to collectively bargain using the RWDSU as their representative. It was a fight for basic dignity — and Amazon’s response was to try and crush the union effort. Instead of voluntarily recognizing the union, the company insisted on a mail-in election that stretched from February 8 to March 29, and, according to accounts by workers, used that time to intimidate workers with anti-union propaganda and threats about their employment and benefits. Amazon’s behavior falls under the wide umbrella known as union-busting — essentially, any activity undertaken by an employer to prevent or discourage workers from forming or joining a union. (Teen Vogue has reached out to Amazon for comment.)

Frustratingly for those who want to organize, some union-busting activities are legal under current federal labor law; others are forbidden, but the penalties are light enough that many employers decide to do it anyway. The Economic Policy Institute estimated in 2019 that 41.5% of employers in all union election campaigns are charged with violating federal labor laws, and RWDSU believes that’s exactly what Amazon did in Bessemer. After the election, RWDSU filed 23 charges against Amazon with the National Labor Relations Board, alleging in a statement that “Amazon interfered with the right of its Bessemer, Alabama, employees to vote in a free and fair election; a right protected under Section 7 of the National Labor Relations Act.”

The next chapter in the Amazon workers’ story will likely be hammered out in court, and RWDSU is already making plans to rerun the election. The broader labor movement is behind these workers and their struggle. Unfortunately, though, our broken labor laws may end up handing another win to Amazon unless real, concrete action is taken to update and amend those laws, making it harder for megacorporations to quash their employees’ efforts to organize.

Enter the Protecting the Right to Organize Act of 2021. Better known as the PRO Act, this bill would be the first major worker-friendly labor law reform since the National Labor Relations Act (NLRA) of 1935, would significantly expand workers’ ability to join and organize unions, and level heavy penalties on employers who stand in their way. There are a number of exciting reforms in the bill, including a federal override of so-called right-to-work laws that weaken unions by allowing members to opt out of paying dues; an end to the hated 1947 Taft-Hartley Act’s ban on secondary strikes (also known as solidarity strikes, these are collective actions that employees in different workplaces can undertake to support another group of workers on strike); an update to the union election process to allow workers to vote online or by phone; enhanced protections for whistleblowers; and a response to the issue of worker misclassification that would give independent contractors — a group left out of the original NLRA that is still denied basic labor rights (especially those who are part of the so-called gig economy) — the right to organize collectively. (As an independent contractor myself, I am especially thrilled about that one.)

The PRO Act would also outlaw captive-audience meetings, a particularly egregious but currently legal union-busting tactic favored by anti-union companies. During these mandatory meetings, anti-union consultants, often highly paid, are brought in to lecture workers about why unions are terrible. As reported by CNN Business in March, Amazon workers in Bessemer say they were pulled into such meetings multiple times a week, and chastised for speaking out against the anti-union messaging. The reason these meetings are so insidious is right there in the name: The “captive” workers have no choice but to sit there and absorb the bosses’ message. For those without prior knowledge of unions, it’s no wonder some may buy what the boss is selling — or feel too intimidated and confused to vote at all.

Getting rid of managements’ ability to browbeat workers with anti-union propaganda would go a long way toward cutting down the intimidation factor during a union drive. But the PRO Act contains another provision that would make an even bigger difference: Under this provision, if the PRO Act had been in place when the Bessemer workers first filed their petition in October, the workers might have had their union recognized months ago. It sounds too good to be true, but the reality is simple: It’s called card check.

Winning card check — a mechanism that allows a union to be certified if a simple majority of employees at a workplace sign union cards — has long been one of labor’s great white whales. During the Obama administration, the proposed Employee Free Choice Act would have implemented card check on a national level, but the administration didn’t seem to fight hard enough for it, and the bill died a slow death in Congress. Now Joe Biden is occupying the hot seat, and he’s been quite vocal with his support for the PRO Act; a recent executive order underlined his administration’s commitment to strengthening unions and protecting the right of workers to organize.

This proposed piece of legislation has already cleared the House of Representatives, but advocates are now locked in a do-or-die fight to get it through the Senate. Unfortunately, there are three Democratic senators who still haven’t signed onto the bill, and it’s more or less a given that the 50 Republicans will vote against it as a bloc, so it’s going to take a miracle to get it to Biden’s desk. Major labor organizations like the AFL-CIO have been rallying their membership around the bill, as have individual unions (the International Union of Painters and Allied Trades, which represents thousands of construction workers who would be impacted by the bill’s independent contractor section, has run a particularly sophisticated campaign), and political organizations like the Democratic Socialists of America.

It’s hard to emphasize enough how transformative this bill could be for workers in the U.S. and how important it is to get it passed. The NLRA granted basic protections to most workers, but not all of them, and those who were left out were invariably some of the country’s most marginalized: farm workers, domestic workers, independent contractors, and public sector employees as a whole.

The PRO Act may not be a silver bullet — it’s more like a Band-Aid on a gangrenous wound — but after the beating that labor took in the Trump era, it is a much-needed step forward. The U.S. labor movement has been bleeding out for decades, thanks to the Republicans’ efforts to destroy it and Democrats’ lack of will to prevent them from doing so. Reforming our labor laws is a necessary attempt to stanch the bleeding and materially benefit working-class Americans. The Amazon workers of Bessemer deserve the right to form a union free from intimidation and fear, and so do all workers. United, we bargain. Divided, we beg.

[sadsapphicslut]

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

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

TWs:

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

wordcount: 8.2k

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter One

A Dead Brother

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ❈

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

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

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

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

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

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

           It rang four times before he picked up.

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

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

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

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

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

“Please don’t yell.”

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

“I accidentally took meth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is Dad there?”

“No.”

“Maybe I should take you to Mom’s.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Nia – ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ❈

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[wavemaker9]

wanted to address details of depressed diego, there’s a main focus on suicidal thoughts + like a very brief mention of self harm so careful as needed

The more i think about it, though, the more i just feel like the only reason diego’s even still around is taking rosa in? Like i think i already touched on her being the reason he cleans his life up even slightly from where he was when younger, but it can’t just be that. he’s a depressed guy with little energy, not much going on in his life, and no real motivation to get it to any place that’s sustainable long term. When he was in his late teens/early 20s he knew he had a whole life still to go and a lot of expectations placed on him to do something with it and no want to do that. Like my depression first started in late high school when I was expected to start looking for colleges to go to and it built back up after i graduated college and had to start looking for a job because i was so worried of having to go into a stressful retail job or something that i knew i wouldn’t be able to handle. This kid’s more lazy and worse at socializing than even I am and he’s doing those stressful retail/food jobs like pizza delivery literally just because money is needed to live. and like. I don’t think he was ever actively planning on doing anything, but he definitely had at least a few of those ‘hmm i could just step out into the street right now and not have to worry about this shit anymore’ moments. 

suicidal humor probably was (and likely still is) a big crutch to him to a point. “You know what would be better than [minor effort]? Death.” is probably a joke he mentally has/does make a /lot/, and might even slip out to friends he trusted not to get all weird about it. ‘(Diego tapping the side of his head) Don’t have to go to work to make money to live if you’re dead.’ One of the occasional jokes he’ll fall back on when asked why he sleeps so much is def ‘It’s the closest I can get to death’ if he thinks it won’t cause a big thing. I don’t think he’s to the level of Kyle in a day to day basis of almost inviting death, the real diego would probably pass up several opportunities to die. Diego doesn’t have the energy to live the reckless lifestyle Kyle does and I also don’t think he’s one for just general self harm like Kyle often can be. Might be related to the blood issues, either the cause of them or them being the cause of this, but even if not related, that’s a concrete thing I think, diego having no interest in self harm actions. The reverse of Kyle, he wants to keep his pain only sexual, please. 

But I also do think that, also unlike kyle, if /actually/ faced with death, he wouldn’t suddenly realize he’s not as cool with it as he thought he was. If anything, maybe realizes he’s way more okay with it than he expected? Assumed it would be a ‘but if really faced with it I wouldn’t be as chill about it’ scenario but has since come to terms with ‘okay but maybe i would?’. But then he had to take Rosa in and that gave him a more concrete reason to have to do these things, to have to stay alive, because Rosa needed someone to help look out for her. I think that also factoring into why she still lives with him. Not just afraid to move out because Extra Responsibility + Diego might slump back down into terrible living conditions, but also like. If that’s how he felt at a young age with his whole life ahead of him, imagine how he’d feel now getting older. But on the other hand, I think even with her living with him, he’s starting to see she’s still maturing into a more capable adult. It’s slow, but he’s starting to believe she could manage without him again. Again, he’s not actively considering taking any drastic actions, but i think he has a lower resistant to them as time goes on when the thoughts do come to him, + his self-preservation is also relatively low, just thankfully without the extreme recklessness kyle adds onto it for himself. Also, want to clarify Rosa’s not specifically living a dependent life for him to help make him feel like he needs to stay alive for her, it really is just in her nature to be like that, but it has this added bonus of helping him out which also kind of does the opposite of encourage her to fix her own flaws. 

I’ll also say, like. I don’t think having people around he’s close to, even with Rosa to a point, makes those feelings specifically /lessen/ in favorability. Like there’s less of a want to because need to be around to help Rosa, but death /does/ always seem easier to him than not. Kyle, in contrast, largely thanks to his BPD, always tends to do a bit better on average when having a good support network and people he can recognize even a little care about him, and he’s way less likely to deal with any suicidal thoughts/quite such risky behavior/etc when he feels like he has more friends/family/etc because then he’d be losing them and they’re everything that means anything to him so doesn’t wanna do that. 

That doesn’t mean much for Diego, though. Having friends like Will, Marion, and Sergey around don’t make that feeling any less because A, he’s very detached from his feelings anyway so even if he likes having them around, their emotional impact on him still feels low. B, he’s pretty sure each of them could easily manage without him so like that’s whatever. thinks might be doing them a favor if he wasn’t around because then they don’t have to deal with his shit. C, having them around doesn’t fix the issues in his life. It does for Kyle because while not all of his problem are relationship based, the biggest ones are and so if he knows he has a shit ton of love and approval that can fix a lot for him or at least make the mood dips more tolerable. For Diego, his main complaints in life are the efforts, not the relays. He’s fine at any point in his life where he doesn’t have a lot of friends or whatever. It’s the realization that he’s going to be working in some shitty job(s) he hates probably forever since there’s no way he’ll make enough to get a good retirement situation, until he fucking dies of old age just being even more tired than he normally is. Why not cut out the fucking middle man, yknow? 

Also! As Kyle gets older, his mood swings tend to mellow out slightly and he has a bit of an easier time handling shit, but I think the depression for Diego only worsens as he gets older because again, the only way his problems get better as he gets older is literally just “I mean at this point I’ll probably only have to work 20 more years until my shitty health probably kills me instead of 40.” Like beyond just fucking marrying a sugar daddy or some shit so he never has to work again, there isn’t much that’s going to help him as he gets older and even like. Again, sorry to keep drawing back to Kyle but he’s the only other kid whose depression is that bad. If Kyle were talked into going to talk to a psychologist or something, eventually he’d feel more comfortable with it and take more of an active effort to go on his own and embrace the help more. 

That’s fucking effort and work and time that probably eats up what little bit of free time Diego has outside of his job(s) and whatever, though, and you can pry that from his cold dead hands. He’d have to be made to go every single time, he’d be more resistant as the effort to fix his behavior got higher, and the moment he can get away with not going anymore, he starts skipping appointments fast. Listen, minus the suicidal factors, I’m just basing his depression/health awareness off mine and I need ya’ll know that 90% of the reason I don’t do things like go find a psychologist or take a more active role in fixing my poor health is that that would eat up my free time and I don’t wanna /do/ that. My free time is important to me and I’d rather just be unhealthy than lose some chill time, especially given the whole ‘depression makes the fun things you do less enjoyable’ factor. those are my shitty terrible priorities, and they’d also be diego’s. + I also know I’m resistant to any effort to change behavior I don’t already feel like changing because despite being a low-energy, emotionally detached disaster adult, I’ve also reached the highest point of self-confidence i’ve ever had in my life so i can recognize i have problems i could easily fix but i’m chill with where i am for once so it feels unnecessary anyway. Same for him, although less from high self-confidence and more from exceptionally low standards for himself. 

Like, he’s not itching to change and his coping mechanism of just not having to deal with any of his mental health issues while he’s asleep is working well enough atm, don’t worry about it. he can sleep more if he’s not wasting that time going to see a therapist or whatever + doesn’t have to leave the house for that so like. Why not just sleep??? Diego ‘Why be healthy when you can nap?’ Andrés. Also like as if he had Go to a Therapist money anyway.

[4everfurryfrenz-blog]

Starting a rescue is a lot of work and from what I have learned depends on a lot of things from where you are going to do the rescue, what kind(s) of animals you are going to rescue, are you going to be private or public, for profit or not for profit, how are you going to fund the rescue, what experiences and knowledge do you have, and how much research have you done just to name a few.

If someone tells me they would love to open a rescue I now tell them I can give them some tips and information to help them get started with research and how to determine if rescue is right for them and what information and resources they have to look into before making the actual decision to do animal rescue. I also tell them that it is not as easy as it looks to get it started and to run a rescue. I also let them know that there could be roadblocks or there can be hidden miracles that can affect the rescue plans. If one is determined and serious about doing rescue even the toughest of roadblocks will not hold them back.

Start to a new and better life from living in abandoned property trying to fend for ourselves.

I have had my share of roadblocks and miracles, some of those roadblocks were enough to shut me down emotionally due to the nature of the roadblocks which I admit was very disrespectful on another person’s part but also was unethical not to mention was defamation and did actually cause so much damage that I am still struggling to get back what I lost. I did shut down emotionally and mentally for a short time, but also sought therapy as a rescue can be a cruel and rough task at times and both my doctor and therapist both demanded I not give up and get back up and running and restart my rescue. I did just that and once I got started the doctors said never stop as they see the difference it made doing the rescue to when I didn’t do it. I have learned tons of stuff but rescue is an ever learning experience and it is not for everyone.

I am determined to succeed and I made a promise to me and the animals that I am not going to quit, not going give up but rather keep going to help animals in need and pet owners when possible until I die. I have set limits to make sure I do not get overwhelmed and so that I have time and funds to care for the ones I have at one time, and it keeps me out of trouble. I have policies in place to assure that the animals stay healthy as much as possible as well as to not spread disease and prevent animals from getting hurt, and making sure they get attention for socializing and training as needed. I don’t rush the animals through my rescue but rather give them the time to work on their skills while they find their forever homes. I have made some wonderful contacts and networked with some wonderful rescues and rescuers who are very nice to help me and me them when possible. I believe that rescues and shelters should work as one big team and not as competitors, and not as enemies. Although money is needed to do rescue it is not about the money, although it is good to know people and businesses it is not about popularity, even though there are so many animals in need it is not about competing to see who can save the most animals before another and its not  competition to get the funds before someone else does, and its not a competition to be better than someone else so you can be popular. We should help each other any way we can, share posts for help, share posts for adoptions, help with funding or vetting if the funds are there, help transport if possible, and definitely not judge each other. If a rescue sees another rescue struggling they should not be mean and shove them down but rather see if there is something they can do to help them to get them back on track. Such as offer to take a few critters, or share some supplies or help with transport or maybe help other areas. Before you go turning someone in or running them down talk to them and see how you can help, it may take a bit for them to trust you but give them the time. But if after while not too long if they seem to not be able to come out of their struggle or refuse help right out then go ahead and report them, But if you report them, you better first make sure that they are actually struggling or doing something that is putting animals at risk or they are committing a crime, make sure you have evidence to include maybe pictures, or actual physical witnesses who can prove they were there physically, not someone who said they were but have never been there and have not actually seen the situation. Also do not lash out at other rescues if you got into trouble yourself or if you could get into trouble, Please worry about yourself first.

The funding is the hardest part along with those animals that come in sick or injured, well better include the people who try to slow you down or from doing your job. One can request or ask for donations whether non profit or not there is no law against it but there is a regulation that states in MN at least that if you get above the set limit of donations you have to pay taxes on the excess of the limit collected, and if non profit is tax free but still have to charge taxes on some things you sell and your adoption fees, and yes donations are not tax deductible if donated to a for-profit rescue but if they are non profit or 501c3 donations can be a tax deductible as long as its within the guidelines.  Gants are out there too but easier to find and get if you are non-profit 501c3, as well as sponsorships and pledges. Most people will not donate unless you are a not for profit group.

Another thing to think about when contemplating to open a rescue or not is what is the demand like in your area is there other rescues or shelters if so how many and what do they offer. But also check city and county ordinances, regulations and licensing and permit guidelines and who do you need to register with if you open a rescue. The people I found were a great source to talk to for some of this is the sheriff, city and county commissioners, the mayor, veterinarians, planning and zoning, USDA, other rescues and shelters, Secretary of State, IRS, non-profit attorney and or animal law attorney, and the internet for other resources.  Please also think about where are you going to get your funds, and supplies, you can talk to suppliers, retailers, wholesalers, even manufacturers to see if they would work with you and give you donations or a discounted price to help save funds to feed, clean and care for the animals. Equipment you may need while doing rescue also include carriers, kennels or crates, tools, shelving, file cabinet, computer and printer, phone, fax, shelters for outside animals, live traps, and other related equipment.

I always let people know too that with rescue comes a lot of stress, emotional and mental strain, and physical work. You have to deal with animals that may and will die, animals that are injured and sick that need a lot of care including treatments and they do not always cooperate, unruly animals sometimes can also cause a lot of stress and mental and emotional drain, and then there are those rare but fierce people who like to do bad things go rescues and the animals and those who say very mean things to hurt rescues and animals, and the biggest one is getting overwhelming calls for help or seeing so many animals on the euthanization list or animals in danger of being hurt, killed and are being killed and hurt and you cannot do anything about it. People need to know that when doing rescue and you are scrolling media or emails and you see there is an urgent case that needs attention now or animal is at risk of death or danger of being injured or thrown out like a piece of garbage but your to your limit, one may get the urge to speak up and take the animals(s) despite they are already to their physical capabilities to care for what animals they already have, those people need to step back and think about the consequences and think hard before actually stepping forward and taking in that animal. They need to realize that adding the extras add to the physical and mental strain to make sure all are getting their proper food and water, if needed treatments, then to clean litter boxes, dog/cat kennels, making sure they are vetted if needed, posting for adoption those who are ready, socializing time, bathing if needed, cleaning living areas for the animals thoroughly at least once a week to every day, exercising the animals as needed, making sure documentation and paperwork is done on daily basis preferable immediately after each animal care or end of a task performed. Then there is the answering calls, emails, interviewing for adoptions and if used fosters, transporting and so much more.

I am not trying to make rescue sound impossible or to scare people away from doing it but want them to know that its not all that easy as it seems, they see the adoptions and the posts on social media about events or happenings or news but they don’t see all the detail that is entailed in doing rescue. I am happy to share my experiences and to give resources and references to those interested in doing rescue and also will tell them volunteer at a few different rescues or shelters or both and get a feel what it is all about. It’s a great way to get a start on what to expect. I have helped others who just started out doing rescue when they needed ideas, resources and what I learned is that some will be thankful others will not, and I don’t care I always help where I can even if they do not treat me with respect and appreciate the help I gave them. I appreciate all those rescues out in the world who work their behinds off and help other rescues as well. They are awesome and the true meaning of being a team member and a rescuer. I look up to those rescuers but also will stand behind them and for them.

With this post I hope this helps those who want to understand more what rescue is and what it is about but also to understand that along with the exciting and happy times that come with success such as adoptions, a successful fundraiser, being recognized for your hard work comes the sad, angry, frustrating times that come with lack of funding, lack of volunteers to help with operations, with death of animals, with the report of animal in need that is abused, neglected, being rehomed for unnecessary reason, with the death of animal you rescue and that was sick or injured and despite all you did it still did not make it, and then there comes the burnout if you do not make family time, and don’t set limits.

So you’re interested in animal rescue… Starting a rescue is a lot of work and from what I have learned depends on a lot of things from where you are going to do the rescue, what kind(s) of animals you are going to rescue, are you going to be private or public, for profit or not for profit, how are you going to fund the rescue, what experiences and knowledge do you have, and how much research have you done just to name a few.

[super-rainbows]

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