#i am literally just wishing any of you had a single crumb of compassion for people with eds

[brimstone-rose]

cant actually post this until midnight bc i hit post limit but i’m unfollowing every single one of y’all posting that iced coffee ed tweet without further context and i wish you all a very shut the fuck up forever

[pulitzerpanther]

💌 for a LETTER.

@merakielysium is killing me (literally; often) ||

my muse is going to walk into a certain death. send a symbol for their final message to your muse.

💌  for a LETTER. 

Paper and pen is rare these days–even rarer a sight might be a letter delivered on a specific date, at a specific time. The courier tips his visor with a hum and a shrug, looking awkward and sympathetic, like he’s been told of the letter’s origin. 

This is one out of thirteen letters to be delivered to this residence in the aftermath of one Cat Grant, so maybe it’s not unusual at all. 

“It’s, uh…” The courier’s chin tips. “It’s the last one. That they gave me, I mean. It’s–no, I mean…” A breath. “It’s the last one.”

And it is.

Inside an envelope, fountain pen’s ink staining paper in an elegant series of swirls, is the last letter Cat Grant ever wrote:

Kara, 

I’ve spent my lifetime perfecting words, but they’ve alwaysfallen so short when it comes to you. I know, you’re probably sitting theredebating the validity of this letter given the fact that I just admitted I wasbad at something but here I am—glorious, remembered, and…not next to you.

I’ve sent you a few letters by now. The ones telling you howto live, and love, and move on. The ones full of memories (all with you, alwayswith you), and places I wished we had time to see, even thirty years gone, andthings we’d never done. A few we did.  

It wasn’t difficult to compose any of those letters, Kara.Those were the things you gave me and taught me—compassion; love; understanding.Those were the things that we built a life upon. I was so worried you wouldn’thear it all. I sat down and couldn’t stop writing—I couldn’t stop thinking ofthe things I wanted to share with you, even after a lifetime of sharing it,tucked away in the corner of our bed trying to keep you from worrying.

I’ve never written so quietly.

You’re asleep, right now. It’s astounding that I haven’twoken you. You’re beautiful and you have no idea.

I’ve spent the past weeks writing these little bread crumbsto help you move on—to help you obtain a sense of closure that’s never going tobe in your grasp (I know that’s a little selfish of me, trying, isn’t it?)—andit wasn’t until this very moment, writing this, that I realized why this letteris the hardest out of all of them.

I don’t know how to say goodbye, either.

‘Like most things in life, pain is transient.’

My father had written that in his final letter to me. He wasa little brash and stilted and gruff, as all stern 60’s types were, back then,but it stuck with me. It always stayed with me. And it shows how littlechildren grow, after all, when a little girl in her 70’s still leans on herfather’s words to guide her.

‘Sometimes, when it first hits, there’s a bit of shock—you’renumb and don’t feel much, at all—and then it sears. It burns or it aches or itstabs and your fingers curl and your teeth gnash and you want it all to end. Ithurts, and it hurts…and then slowly—like it always was and always will be—it startsto dull. And ease. You breathe and you straighten your shoulders and you moveon.

Maybe you have a scar, but the pain will fade until someonepresses it.

You’ll move on.

You’ll move on.’

It’s a paraphrase. I lost his letter years ago, and I’m notso callous to think our years together meant so little. I know this will hurt.It might even break you.

That’s okay, too, darling.

True strength isn’t ignoring pain—it’s accepting it. It’sdealing with it. However long it takes—however much it hurts—you’ll deal with it. One day at a time. Justtake a breath and wake up, each day at a time. You’ve dealt with such profoundloss in your life, Kara, I know I don’t have to police your grief. I know youwon’t move on, but you will move forward.Still, you know better than most that micro-managing is an art form so, as yourwife, I have a few last requests:

Don’t push it down or away.

Don’t tell everyone you’re fine—you’re not.

Don’t shutter yourself inside where the world can’t touchyou.

Let yourself be mad at me—let yourself be mad at everything,for a while.

Take a break from the hero business. Clark can handle itwith those bulging biceps of his. You’ll know when it’s time to go back.

Don’t let yourself drown in it.

One day, you’ll smile and probably feel guilty for smilingwithout me. Don’t. If it’s already happened before this letter arrived, stopfeeling guilty about it.

Whenever you’re ready—and only when you’re ready—go toBhutan. Take as much time as you need. And, oh, you’ll need it. I won’t have tobe there in person for you to admit I’m right when you go.

Never stop that heart of yours from changing the world.Never let someone else tell you your worth.

Never forget how much I believe in you.

Take care of our son. And make sure Adam knows it’s alright to be angry, too.

I’m still not a religious woman, Kara. You know that. I won’tgive you false platitudes. I don’t know what’s true, anymore—where I’m going;what’s about to happen–but every single breath of me believes that I will seeyou again, someday. Maybe that’s the trick to being able to write this, at all.

I don’t believe I’m saying goodbye.

I’m just going on a first-class business trip to somewhereyou’ve never been, waiting on the other side to tell you just how questionable the accommodationswere on the way here. You’d think Rao could hire some decent help to courie someone to the Elysian Fields.

Until then,

I love you.

Always. Always,Divite. Always,

Cat

P.S: Clark’s biceps are nothing compared to yours