#i felt deeply isolated. i went to an ag school in the middle of a midwest state and studied STEM | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

piratejct · 5 years ago

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* 𝐣𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐲, 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 + 𝐡𝐞 / 𝐡𝐢𝐦 | you know 𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐦 𝐛𝐚𝐮𝐞𝐫, right? they’re 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 years? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐣𝐞𝐬𝐮𝐬 by 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞 like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole 𝐨𝐢𝐥-𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is 𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟑𝐫𝐝 so they’re an 𝐚��𝐢𝐞𝐬, which is unsurprising, all things considered.

NAME: adam bauer NICKNAME(S): n/a, but you’re welcome to change that xx D.O.B: april 3rd, 1992 AGE: 29 BIRTH PLACE: san diego, california CURRENTLY RESIDING: irving, north carolina SEXUALITY: bisexual OCCUPATION: freelance mechanic & bartender at scuba

BACKSTORY:

tw: mentions of kidnapping, attempted murder, drugs, overdose, death, drunk driving, car crash, self-loathing.

80% of your life has been all but worth it. are you in the right place? failure, guilt and persistent hollowness occupy your entire being, nibble at the slab of meat inside your head, keeping you up night after night. where did things go wrong? were you destined to be this way? you were born into a middle class household that lasted only a couple of years. you were six, your sister three when the police came knocking on the door. the last time you saw your father was on the tv, the very next day when he had officially become the town’s own boogeyman. later, you learned he’ll spend the rest of his days in prison –– a punishment still not good enough for a kidnapping and two counts of attempted murder.

frantically, your mother packed the bags and not even a month later, you could officially consider yourself a resident of irving. it was a promising new beginning, until it wasn’t. your mother found a man, an alright man –– or so she had thought at the time. he always remembered to say hi to you, smile in the doorway, so you used to think he was okay, too. after all, he was not locked up in a cell, and that immediately made him better than some. after a year of a seemingly healthy relationship, your mother had the third baby and the thought of a happy family was ever so exciting. but of course, before they could even decide on a name, the man was gone. vanished, with any hopes the now single mother of three had had.

you grew up faster than most of the other kids in class. you didn’t have a choice. every day, you’d help your mom around the house, and while you wouldn’t realize it, you were her rock. and she? she was your best friend. at one point, your only friend. the kids at school wouldn’t die for you. they thought you were stupid, because whenever you’d read out loud, your voice would shake. you’d get nervous and you’d stutter, which made your voice shake even more and barry with the crooked teeth laugh even harder. they didn’t understand why you couldn’t just read the words, and for the longest time, you didn’t either. not even after the doctor gave it a name: dyslexia.

but you couldn’t blame it all on a learning disorder. sure, it was difficult, but it’s not like you had the drive to try, despite it. school wasn’t your forte and being book-smart would never be on your resume. even though your grades were known for being just a tad below average, you graduated, but didn’t leave it at that. god, you probably should’ve. but you wanted your mother to be proud. and so, you applied for university in a different town. to everyone’s surprise, they accepted the half-assed application without even acknowledging the numerous spelling errors. your mother hugged you tight, cried into your chest. she told you she loved you and you genuinely believed her. and then like every man in her life, you went off to disappoint her.

you changed your major twice before dropping out altogether. instead of attending lectures, you started selling drugs around the corner, always keeping yourself sufficiently high, too. it felt like an easy life, until they busted your ass. the student loan was cancelled and you were kicked out of the dorms. for months, you’d go between couch-surfing and sleeping in remote locations, all while doing heavy drugs and calling home every tuesday to tell your mom everything was going just great. then, they found you unconscious in a bathroom stall. accidentally, you had taken one too many.

after that, you had no choice but to come clean and return back home, where you’d spend months in rehab while wondering if being a person is really your calling. no matter where you went, you just couldn’t fit in. while your siblings were close, you were an outsider, an intruder in your own home and the prime example of what not to do in life. your half-brother was the polar opposite, and every day, you’d watch him succeed, no matter what it was. highest grades, captain of the football team, the perfect boy next door –– the complete package. he knew he was better and you hated him for it.

he had just started studying business at the local university. he was eighteen, his spirits always high. he was the life of the party, of every party. that night, he had driven himself, taken your mother’s car with the promise of returning it in one piece. the plan was to stay overnight, but due to issues you couldn’t even be bothered to hear about, it wasn’t a possibility. he called around 3 in the morning, drunk and asking if you could be a good brother, just this once, and pick him up. naturally, you were too tired and too bitter to cooperate. “figure it out, buddy.”

and he did.

the police said the body was near unrecognizable, the car wrecked, in pieces on the side of the road. you fucked up. you fucked up real bad. and your mother? fuck, she was too nice to you. too supportive. she only blamed you once, wine drunk and miserable. “tell me, adam. where did i go wrong?” and “if you weren’t so awful to people all the time, your brother would still be with us.” in that moment, you wished it would’ve been you. and three years later, you still do.

PERSONALITY, OR LACK THEREOF:

+ self-sufficient, loyal, protective - aloof, stubborn, hotheaded

x rough around the edges. resting face screaming “permanently pissed off”. favorite party-trick revolves around looking as unapproachable as possible. not a horrible guy, but he is a deeply unhappy person. at this point, however, he’s pretty much used that being the norm. has learned to live with it.

x has a hard time letting his guard down. tends to isolate himself, doesn’t let people too close because he genuinely seems to believe he’s better off on his own. at the same time, persistent loneliness is what keeps him up at night. can someone please hold him? but.. instead of establishing deep, personal connections, he does tend to sleep with people and not talk to them again. thinks that if he doesn’t let anyone close enough, they won’t be able to fully hate him for who he actually is.

x can go from being this chill, mellow, i-don’t-care to full blown anger. temperamental, confrontational when provoked, stubborn enough to stick with whatever he believes in. don’t catch him on a bad day. that being said, he’s much gentler around women. guys, on the other hand? piss him off just enough and you’ll get your ass kicked. men can make his soul angry and his dick hard.

x overall, there is some suppressed softness there but you’re not getting any of it unless you’ve unlocked level 109 friendship. <3 sorry <3

x because of past experiences, he tends to stay away from heavy drugs. however, he does like to smoke some weed every now and then. (read: everyday, bro.) and even though he doesn’t really deal, if you need a bud or two, you can hit him up and hope for the best.

x sarcastic and tends to act unbothered, but is actually very protective of these few people he’s actually allowed himself to care about. don’t mess with his folks, folks.

x chainsmoker. smokes everywhere, even in bed.

x is currently renting an apartment with one or two other people. works as a freelance mechanic while also bartending at scuba. on the side, he also dabbles in music, mainly synth but he can also play guitar. however, it’s not something he talks about because, um, he’s insecure. :) to be fair, though, he definitely doesn’t suck.

x his alcohol tolerance is spot-on, so at least he’s got that going for him. he’s also pretty street smart. and despite usually not being one for physical contact, boy actually gives amazing hugs.

x momma’s boy at heart. king of cool hairstyles by choice.

x don’t talk about his brother. or do! how much do you need teeth, really?

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

everything basic, essential and beyond. give me:

housemates

best friend

some other close friends

hook-ups

exes (good and bad terms)

enemies. someone to fistfight with!

childhood friends

drug/party buddies

co-workers

and whatever your heart desires x

#irvingintro #guten tag welcome to this pile of crap <3 #i wrote this at 5 am while facetiming shakespeare

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barkadasesh · 4 years ago

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"THE TASTE OF HAPPINESS"

In an isolated village near the sea a 19-year-old tall, dark skinned and good-looking guy

with brown hair lives named Nathaniel, despite his appearance the people in his village are

furious because of his bothersome attitude. He is sometimes called “rude-nathan” because of

how he treats other people and how he doesn’t care about anything around him. He lives by

himself because he lost his parents at the age of 12 when they are working in the middle of the

vast sea. He stopped going to school when he was in 4th year Highschool due to financial

problems and because he can’t support his needs properly. People around don't like him because

of his attitude but they admire the positivity he always shows when the problem is around the

corner. The one thing that he is very good and skilled at is cooking, his passion and love for

cooking is immeasurable where people tend to ask him about food and he answers them but

sometimes in a sarcastic manner. He is a type of guy who is talented but his attitude is in the

opposite way.

One day when Nathaniel was wandering in the white sandy beach near the shore, he saw

a not so tall, brown skinned girl with long straight hair that fell just above her shoulder walking

slowly in the shore, looking in the vast blue sea where her eyes are just like a digital camera,

catching every corner of the sea and every movement of the waves it creates. Nathan was

amazed at how the sea and the girl are immensely beautiful. The beautiful girl notices Nathaniel

and approaches him, when they are now facing each other she extends her hand to offer a

handshake to Nathaniel. A very shy smile appeared on Nathan’s face and immediately reached

out his hand to accept the handshake and Nathan was amazed at how the girl smiled so

beautifully.

“Hi! I’m Callista and you are?”

“Hello! I’m Nathaniel but you can call me Nathan for short” smiled shyly.

Nathan and Callista talked to each other as if they were long lost siblings that they were

comfortable in each other. Callista told Nathan that her father bought a rest house near the

village, to spend the summer vacation since she’s still studying and she was walking to see or be

familiar with the whole place. The village people who saw the two sitting next to each other were

caught off guard because the Nathan they were looking at is not the Nathan who has a bad

attitude. They were thinking that Nathan might be having a hard time since he is alone that’s why

his attitude is his defense mechanism to hide the loneliness that he feels.

“I’m so deeply in love in the sea because of its breathtaking beauty, the cool breeze that soothes

in the skin and the water that sparkled brightly as the warm light hit right through it”. Callista

said as she looked in the sun that soon to set getting ready for the evening sky. Nathan also looks

in the sunset and feels happy that he found a friend that he doesn’t expect they will both share

the same interest and dreams.

After a couple of days Nathan and Callista are now treating each other as siblings where

they are more comfortable than before. They both love cooking and eat a lot of different foods

where they made a promise to each other that one day they will travel and taste the different

cuisines every place could offer. Nathan changed since he met Callista and he sometimes thought

it's true that “God will let you meet someone who will help you to be a better version of

yourself”. His life is like a food without a taste where you will still eat it because it is made for

you and he compares it to his life that even though he experienced being a worthless person he

still served a purpose in this beautiful world.

The summer vacation is in the corner and Callista told Nathan that she needs to go back

to their house in the City near the village to continue her studies. At first Nathan felt sad because

his closest friend would leave but Callista promised “I will visit here every vacation and let’s

spend time together again. Distance will never break our friendship. I promise you that” Callista

smiled so beautifully while saying it.

Time has passed, Nathan became a diligent kind of person and he is now socializing to

the people in the village. People surrounding him were amazed because of his hidden

personality, a joyful, industrious and a very reliable guy that they didn’t see immediately. The

smile on their faces is like a smile of proud parents to their child when it accomplished

something. Their eyes sparkle as if Nathan is like a gem that was found in the deepest sea. It is

truly remarkable if the person you once hate is now a treasure you want to keep forever. Nathan

became the favorite of the people, he cooked for them, helped in their works and assisted them

when they needed help. They treat him as part of their own family which made Nathan feel an

astounding happiness that he never felt before. Through the help and support of the people he

started his own business a small diner that serves fresh seafoods. Even though he doesn’t finish

studying, he proves that through hardship and a positive mind everything is possible. As his

business slowly grew, Nathan didn’t forget to send a letter to Callista on how he started his

business and how he changed his perspectives in life. He told Callista how the people in the

village love him now and how they support him in achieving what he wants.

“I hope you’ll visit again here someday. I want to show you how I've changed into the better

version of myself. I’m sure my parents would be proud of me”. Nathan wrote to his letter as his

eyes filled with joy and positiveness.

Summer is in the doorway and Nathan is excited to meet Callista again. He is also excited

to make his food and cooking skills known as tourists come to the beach where his diner stands.

He wants to be rich in order to fulfil their promise that they will travel and taste a lot of different

foods. One night while he is busy serving the customer a tall, white skinned girl with blonde hair

that shines as the moonlight struck right through it approaches him and yells “Nathan best

friend!” At first Nathan is clueless, his eyebrows curved and a frown registered in his face while

looking at the girl who called him. His mouth widened as he recognized the girl standing right in

front of him and he excitedly shouted “Callista!” a shout that is full of joy and Nathan

immediately hugged Callista like a brother who missed his sister. They go outside and walk on

the shore under the dazzling light coming from the moon. Nathan and Callista sat on the

beautiful white sand excitedly sharing their stories and laughing together.

“I missed this feeling, the cold sea breeze, the wind that’s so fresh and the nostalgic sensation

while looking at the vast sea. The waters are sparkling as the moonlight hits the sea water it feels

like home”. Callista sighed and smiled so beautifully.

After they talk to each other, they both stand up facing the breathtaking beauty of the sea,

Nathan asks Callista if they could start their food travel but after some months so they can both

prepare and fix their personal stuff before going. Callista nodded her head slowly and looked at

Nathan with a big smile on her face and said “Sure let’s fulfill our dream”. The next morning

Callista says goodbye to Nathan because she needs to prepare and ask her father for their

upcoming travel all over the country. Nathan felt a little sadness because they couldn’t spend a

lot of time in the village but Callista cheered him up because they can finally do the things, they

want the most. They hugged each other but Nathan’s sad face can’t deny what he really feels.

“Come on Nathan smile!” Callista stretches out his face and Nathan can’t ignore her that’s why

he smiles so genuinely. “Let’s meet in the bus station outside the village after 2 months”. Nathan

patted Callista’s head and said “Sure I’ll wait for you there”.

Months passed so quickly and Nathan looked in his belongings remembering what he

could forget and after that he went out in his house, bid a goodbye to the village and to the

people who will handle his business for the meantime. One of his trusted friends accompanied

him up to the bus station and they bid goodbye to each other happily. Nathan can’t take off the

smile he’s wearing because of the excitement he feels while waiting for Callista. After some

minute he heard a very familiar voice coming opposite of where he is looking, he smiles so

widely knowing who owns that very joyful voice. He faces the direction where the voice came

from and there, he sees a girl who wears leather boots, skinny denim jeans and an oversized

black shirt that looks really cool and that is Callista waving from the other side of the road. They

look at each other and wave their hands excitedly while shouting “This is it; Let’s go, food is

waiting”.

In our life all the problems will always try to take us down, be strong, positive and learn to find

hope in you and to others. In our darkest night there will always a star that will shine bright and

will give light. - NATHAN

(Descriptive Story by Patrick Ofialda)

#BarkadaSesh #StayConnected

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levyfiles · 5 years ago

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Hi! I'm still questioning my sexuality, although I most closely relate to pansexual. But I've never really had a decent conversation with someone who also identified as pansexual. I saw that you have it on your bio, and I really wanted to ask the basic question of how did you figure it out and when did you know? Did you always know or was it a process to figuring it out?

Ooh boy, this one is a long one. TW: sexual identity, afab dysphoria, religion mentions

Actually, I think it took me a long time to sort out the feelings and the reality of it. I’ve mentioned often enough on this blog that I grew up in a strict fundamentalist Christian community and went to a heavily religiously focused prep school from grade 7 to graduation. My surroundings were not at all queer-positive and any whispers of someone being not straight were only that; barring one suspicious situation where a guy older than me left school long before graduation after it came to almost everyone’s attention that he’d come out.

For me, it was as plain as day that gender didn’t seem to be a factor when it came to who I felt an attraction to but I didn’t feel how “abnormal” it was until the subject came up. I didn’t understand that bisexuality existed until I was 13 and by that time I even wondered if my attraction to anyone not male was just cultivated by how close I was to my female friends because any crushes on girls I had was based entirely on how deeply I cared about them and the level of protection and loyalty I wanted to express for them. It definitely didn’t help that any male friends I had had to be a secret because my dad was rigidly against my having any sort of male contact until I finished college. Every sexual/romantic interaction I had was secret going forward basically so it all felt the same in a big way. It left me with a deep sense that attraction was meant to be a quiet thing you could share in secret with someone but it definitely wasn’t a “family” thing. Really messed me up for too long after I’d left home.

I think in some capacity, though, every bi/pan person experiences the isolating stigma of not being certain, of exploring what it means that the feelings for any gender hits you differently depending on where you are and who they are. I think the moment I came to terms with it was a little later. I was 19, literally in the middle of my first same-sex relationship watching my girlfriend struggle through her own identity in the wake of both us coming from the same religious self-loathing background. For me, though, it was a matter of realising that sexuality can be fluid, that some people are just wired a certain way and their personhood is not always dependent on finding the name for it. Reading online at that age the definition made me also realise that my attraction to a person is deeply dependent on who they are uniquely, my respect for them, and how the beauty of their humanity glows through all of it.

I think what helped me settle in with the pansexual label and the queer label especially was my own relationship with my gender. The frustration of literally just sitting there and feeling a jarring disconnect when someone looked at you in a group of other people and said “Ladies!” and then the following few seconds feeling a vehement love and protection for my unique journey as a woman, esp a multiracial one and then once again wanting to vomit when people wanted to bond with me over a bodily function like bleeding or being a vessel for a fetus that people seem to want more of when society at large can’t even show empathy or active protection/love for the grown children they want so goddamn more of. It’s all a mess and attraction and identity is all a swirl of your experiences and genetic makeup, I feel zero compunction to judge or police others into getting a hold on who they are when at my big age it’s all so much noise to me when I get into the fundamentals of it.

What is important is how you feel when you’re at your happiest. Who you feel it for is secondary and that if you experience feelings for someone or attraction and they expect you to come with all your respective labels intact then they are not being fair to you. Literally, don’t put pressure on yourself while you’re questioning things and don’t let the noise of everyone else telling you where you do or don’t belong in terms of sexual identity let you feel bad for finding your space and then backpedalling when you find another angle of yourself you feel right about.

I hope this helped somehow. I’m often all over the place online but if you ever do want to have a real conversation about it, I am more active on discord if you’d like to reach out.

#personal #Anonybae

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seoulsborne123 · 5 years ago

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This trope or that: embolden your fic/fanfic preferences

Tagged by @tiffotcf . Thanks Tiffo! Tag @eyeliner-vampire @frenchcirce

The fic I write or would write of the choices given.

Slow burn OR love at first sight: don’t really believe in love at first sight. Love develops over time.

Fake dating OR secret dating: for some reason, I always put Mai and Naru in secret dating mode so I guess I have a thing for this.

Enemies to lovers OR best friends to lovers: Weeeell, if it’s enemies to best friends to lovers, which would it be?

Oh no there’s only one bed OR long-distance with correspondence: I agree with Tiffo, awkwardness is the best.

Hurt/comfort OR amnesia: I am deathly afraid of amnesia. Just the thought of memories being erased and the possibility of never getting the same relationship you had before is the most hurtful thing I can think of. Therefore I’d like to explore that in a story.

Fantasy au OR modern au: I’d be open to either. I love AU for some of my established fandoms because I know the characters very well and could imagine them in other situations. But for example, I cannot read/write BnHA AUs yet because I’m not so deeply into it, it’s weird to see those characters doing other things.

Mutual pining OR domestic bliss: I would love to get to the point in my Game, Set, and Match story where they’re in domestic bliss. This isn’t spoiler, is it?

Smut OR fluff: I could not write straight out smutt, but I love to read that shit, given they’re not OOC. But for me, I can only write fluff (I mean, I would probably continue to attempt writing smut though)

Canon compliant with missing scene OR fix-it fic: yeah, I’d rather work with canon material and try to fit things in like a puzzle than change things completely

Alternate universe OR future fic: Again, depends on the fandom, otherwise I’m open to both. But I guess in general I prefer future fics.

One-shot OR multi-chapter: Sometimes I get fatigued with multi-chapter stories so for the sake of my readers, I prefer one-shots. But often when I plan it out, I come up with more things and it doesn’t make sense to put it all in one chapter.

Kid fic OR roadtrip: Never read a roadtrip fic... so I wouldn’t know how to write it.

Reincarnation OR character death: Actually as I was considering this option, an idea came to me. Just gotta write it down and maybe...

Arranged marriage OR accidental marriage: I’m not sure how you could get accidental marriage, so arranged marriage it is.

High school romance OR middle-aged romance: I, by far, enjoy writing older characters more

Time travel OR isolated together: I never went time traveling, but my husband and I have been isolated together so there’s more material there for me. Lol.

Neighbours OR roommates: Neighbors are too removed. Roommates can really get all up in your face and make interesting dynamics.

Sci-fi au OR magic au: I have attempted sci-fi once. We had a science project in high school where we had to write a sci-fi novel and we had our classmates read it and grade it. Stupid really. But my crush ended up reading my story and I felt so embarrassed because it was not my best story. SO I AM WILLING TO TRY AGAIN. Hahahahahaha)

Bodyswap OR genderbend: I like bodyswap, but without the weird pervertedness that goes along with it

Angst OR crack: Definitely crack, but with as little OOC as possible. I love funny.

Apocalyptic OR mundane: I actually don’t like apocalytpic scenarios that much so definitely slice of life mundane

#writing #personal

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kcostanz · 5 years ago

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disclaimer: I’m going to be existential & sad before I turn it around

As 2020 wraps, I find myself increasingly absorbed by understanding the practices that I’m newly drawn to. The things I’ve chosen to connect with to get through what has certainly been the most unexpected year of my life, and perhaps that of billions of others. Even making such a grand statement still boggles my mind. Taking a moment to step outside of my life to acknowledge this global reality always gives much needed perspective. Life has been altered in wholly unforeseeable ways for billions of people this year.

Exactly how our lives and worlds have been reshaped certainly looks different for each and every one of us. Our realities are constructed by so much: where we live, who we live with, what we do each day, our job, or the roles we play in society as a whole. Every life looks different, but the pandemic’s impact on these answers (and many more) is ever-changing and harshly felt.

Reflecting on my own journey that has been navigating covid-19 and its impact on the world centers upon my age. Being 22 years old right now feels like constantly being stuck at a major life inflection point. In many ways I’m at the height of decision making- important ones at that, that will guide (the beginnings of) the rest of my life. Existential and perhaps a bit dramatic I know, but the pandemic exacerbates these emotions, so throw me a bone.

I spent the first 21 years of my life on a set path, a regulated track that unknowingly provided an absurd amount of comfort. I went to public school K-12, graduated high school, and attended a 4-year institution, long awaiting the fantastical graduation year that for so long existed as a far-off fantasy: 2020.

That momentous final semester was different than expected, but I can’t complain. I spent the last 3 months of college with a small handful of my closest friends, attended classes from the comfort of my bed, and graduated in my tiny apartment with two of my closest friends who hung around until the end.

I procrastinated packing and cleaning my apartment until the last possible moment as my disapproving landlord approached to conduct the final walkthrough. Unsurprisingly, I left with a fraction of the security deposit, and the hard learned lesson that expo marker writing does not always come out of refrigerators (as the All Purpose spray, Oxi-Clean, bleach, hot water, soap, and eventually, shamefully, white paint can attest).

With a egregiously packed car and zero rear view visibility, I was off. I blasted oldies with a twinge of liberation- I think I recall Born to Run (don’t worry, I am indeed embarrassed). I left all four windows down until I could no longer stand the sound of garbage bags flapping. Five short hours later I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home in Rochester, NY (with a broken mirror in the trunk no less- unsure if I’m superstitious but it felt like bad luck).

The latter half of 2020- from June until now, has been full of unknowns, decision making in the dark, and hard fought self motivation. Vivid mixes of emotions old and new.

First the dread of moving back in with parents as a young adult, and the stubborn resistance to fully unpack, so as to not get “too comfortable” at home. I now know such a thing is impossible for many reasons, one being that regardless of the lighting, art, and design, the girly pink walls of my childhood bedroom have proven immutable.

Following this initial shock were extreme levels of self-induced pressure to find a job, do nothing but apply to jobs, and then bask in dejected feelings of never being able to get a job. While in the process, fully isolating myself from others, because I simultaneously felt I had too much to do, but yet was never really doing a thing. That concept has been fun to sit with. It comes with the realization that the carefree bliss of not having a single thing to do- say for a month long winter break- is officially gone. The list of things you could (and probably should) be doing is endless- welcome to the real world, Kate!

August was a blessed, beautiful month that, at the risk of (again) sounding dramatic, I am eternally grateful for. During this sweltering month I lived out of a car for nearly 3 weeks, camping with two pals throughout Utah and Wyoming. Even hitting a deer at 9pm, in a no-cell service zone, in the middle of a State Forest in Wyoming was a welcomed adventure at this point. A broken transmission, impromptu camping, two-hour tow truck ride, countless insurance calls, hostile car dealership conversations, two rental cars later, and we were back on track. This (incomplete) list of challenges provided beautiful life experience however, imparting lessons I could never fully know until I lived them.

Returning home was as expected, a difficult transition back to monotony. Did I apply to vineyard jobs vaguely “out west?” Absolutely. Did I have it in me to go through with such a spontaneous life choice? Unfortunately not, though to my credit I did realize important goals that stood in the way of a dreamy vagabond existence.

The fall has been a blur, and now there’s snow on the ground. I’ve found myself living for the future, and rarely ever for the moment, which is entirely antithetical to my personal philosophy. I have proclaimed my personal soundtrack to 2020 to be the loop of traditional Lebanese music that plays on repeat at my job as a server at Sinbad’s Mediterranean Cuisine (now as a takeout extraordinaire. And yes, despite the lack of in-person customers we are indeed instructed to play the CDs as per usual). This work, or my role as a part-time nanny is far from fulfilling (though the kids are darn cute), but that’s not the point for now. “At least I’m saving!” has been my most reliable source of positive encouragement, nearing personal mantra.

I write this from my childhood bedroom, sitting at my desk, which was once our kitchen table circa 2002. It is as wobbly as it is sentimental, and I love it. The desk faces a window, the sill littered with glassware and candles because I have a thing against artificial light. I have a total of five notebooks, half opened, each containing swirling levels of thoughts, drawings, organization, calendars and to do lists. An orange caricature of a topless french woman sunbathing sits in front of me, reminding me that “TOUT VA BIEN!” (that everything is fine). And in minutes I will be dancing to the Moana soundtrack or drawing christmas trees and unicorns with 3 and 4 year olds. A snapshot of my life, at 22 years old, in 2020.

Despite my life not being what I expected, or what I wanted it to look like as I embark on what’s supposed to be the most adventurous, spontaneous, and simply well-lived decade of my life, it is what it is, and as the french lady says, everything is fine. I have two part-time jobs, unforeseen savings, quality family time (both for better and for worse), my mom’s cooking, and a roof over my head. In a world with inconceivably high death tolls, rising unemployment and homelessness rates, and the constant, precarious fear of general loss, I have infinite blessings to count.

Life does feel like a giant waiting game though. How can one strategically plan out what comes next in their individual life when the entire world remains a massive question mark? In a time when we feel trapped, impatiently waiting for opportunities, experiences, and adventures to reopen, waiting feels hopeless. Because it is. If you’re unhappy with the opportunities before you, create your own.

I’m not saying I’m doing a stellar job at this myself- and as you can see I certainly struggle with my fair share of existential pessimism (day in and day out). But doing things has a certain electrifying feel that ignites and empowers you to build a meaningful life. I’m producing a web series with a group of similarly listless 20 somethings who are also doing their best to be creative and productive from the confines of their family homes. I’m practicing yoga and meditation really to cope with my own stress and internal anxieties, but in doing so am creating new habits and mindsets that will certainly outlast the pandemic. I’ve connected with a group of strangers by dancing to shamantic and electronica music in various outdoor locations throughout Rochester. Whoa! Never would I have imagined finding such deeply liberating peace through ecstatic dance of all things, but hey 2020 is full of surprises.

This position I’m in is both uniquely my own through my personal experiences, and also shared by more people than I could imagine. Maybe only bits and pieces resonate with you, or maybe you are living your best life in the city of your dreams with a fabulous career in a lovely home with the world’s best roommates. But even if that’s you- you’re missing out on something too. The whole world is. We feel disconnected, disjointed, digitally controlled and consumed, and despite who we surround ourselves with- isolated. We’re stuck living in a world of “once this is over I’ll….” and no matter who you are it feels damn weird to spend so much time in your head dreaming of a future rather than living it out in the now.

So… solutions? As we all know, you only have so much control during a global pandemic (very little to be exact). But what you can control is how you live your life during it. I certainly won’t preach to what works and pretend like I’ve figured it out- that work is no one’s to do but your own. But I do feel that so much comes down to mindset, perspective, mental health and ultimately finding ways to seek inner peace.

Potential solutions are abundant, and have been explored by more people now than ever before. Though there is no recipe to conquer the inevitable fears, concerns and anxieties that accompany the pandemic and this phase of life, I’m interested in further exploring some of the ones that work for me. How is something as simple as breathing so helpful?

Finding inner peace is a sought after skill in 2020. I have endless gratitude to all of the incredible humans who have served as a source of learning, and have helped me to tap into positive internal energy. My intention is to look into some of the causes of (my personal) covid-realted inner turmoil and the solutions that have brought some serenity into my life. Though they may not always be long lasting, some answers are better than none. Here’s to writing for no one, and thank you for listening. <3

#covidー19 #mental health #meditation #mindfulawareness #exestentialism #2020

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operationwell · 5 years ago

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Reflections on Past Institutionalization

Today was the day that I knew would be coming. The day I would have to face, process, and differentiate between my past experiences in psychiatric facilities, and my future stays. I know that all of this doesn’t necessarily happen in one day, but rest assured - it is happening.

5 years ago, In April of 2015, I entered a hospital in Schaumburg, IL at around 8pm. My Auntie had heard that this hospital offered free psychiatric evaluations, and we had planned to go and have a simple assessment where they could provide insight into which medications were hurting and which were helping my cause. About 6 weeks prior to this, I had been prescribed Celexa as an antidepressant and it caused my depression and anxiety to skyrocket beyond my control, and I became flooded with suicidal ideation. My doctor (the psychiatrist of every student on psych medications throughout my university) insisted that I remain on the medication for 6 weeks. As my symptoms worsened, he prescribed me Trazodone as a sleeping aid and Klonipen to help with my multiple panic attacks daily. As medications were thrown at me, my health worsened. I struggled with sleep disturbances (insomnia, night terrors, inconsistent sleep schedule), I lost weight (food quickly became unappealing on the medications, I had no appetite, I had difficulty eating as I would become nauseous and vomit during and after consuming food) and my health deteriorated. I stopped going to Yoga and working out multiple times a week because I was no longer functional enough to continue. My grades slipped and I received 3 “incomplete”s in my classes and had to finish my work months later for credit. I dropped my commitments to the Chicago Coalition for the Homeless, alongside many clubs and school groups. I was closeted from my family and all but 2 friends, I had recently broken up with my partner of 3 years. I was in therapy on my college campus, and nothing seemed to be working... so a free psych evaluation sounded like the right thing to do.

That day, I received an award from Loyola University Chicago School of Communications that I was their top student in the Advocacy and Social Change program. Little did the school staff know that within a few hours I would be Baker Acted. I got dressed up and invited my Auntie and 2 friends to the celebration. Like most days when the world feels like it is crumbling, I laughed and smiled and moved through the motions. Saying goodbye to my friends, I packed a weekend bag to head to the suburbs, this was typical seeing that my Auntie is one of my closet friends and mentors, and I frequently “ran away” to her guest room in order to escape my troubles. We agreed to go to dinner with my uncle and cousin, then go for the free evaluation. I pushed food around on a plate and I drank a Shirley Temple with my then 9 year old cousin, Dylan.

I entered the hospital with Auntie late in the evening. I put in my headphones to listen to Bon Iver because my anxiety was triggered by the hospital environment. I filled out a form that asked two yes/no questions:

Within the last 24 hours, have you had thoughts of killing yourself? Yes No

If yes, do you have a plan to kill yourself? Yes No

I circled yes for both.

I told myself that dishonesty was not going to get me the help I needed, so I told the truth. After I handed in that questionnaire, my hands were tied. No matter what I said in the clinical evaluation, they would legally have to keep me under the Baker Act. I tried to explain the ways that the medications I was taking were making it worse, how my anxiety and depression were related to trauma, but they were not interested in that. They were interested in protecting me from the threat of myself. The admissions staff informed me that I would be staying for the next few days in the hospital. When I protested and tried to leave, they threatened to call the police. I looked to my Auntie for guidance and she broke down saying “I am so sorry, I wouldn’t have brought you here if I knew they would take you from me”. My auntie is the light of my life and even though this experience was incredibly trying, I am so glad that she was there with me holding my hand and making sarcastic jokes throughout the process. She was, and continues to be, my rock and my safe space. Thank you, Auntie.

I was stripped of my clothes, searched, asked to squat and cough. I was brought into the adult ward with nothing besides the clothes I wore in, and a notebook. I was shocked as I finished the evaluation process - it was now the middle of the night. One of the night staff saw me enter my room and was intrigued because “I don’t look like the other patients in here” to which my response was “what should I look like?” we spoke about religion, and what my goals were; I shared with him my purpose - to bring peace to the world through advocacy, conflict resolution, and vulnerability. He was kind. He very well might have been an angel. But I am convinced he was real. He gave me a gift, and I still have it. A book about hope, religion, and peace. Inside the front cover he wrote “Be at peace and know that you are love”. When he left my room less than 30 mins later, I showered and got into my bed, I slept till the techs woke me to take my blood and I never saw that man again.

The next 72 hours consisted of sharing a room with an older woman who insisted on being naked 24/7 and caused plenty of problems in the ward, attending all-day therapy and coping skill development groups, trying to convince the doctors and nurses I was cured and able to leave, attempting to escape my parents worried calls, being constantly poked and prodded by nursing staff, commiserating with other patients (most of whom were much older than me), and coloring in mandalas and calling it “art therapy”.

During this stay, the psychiatrist kept my diagnosis of depression and anxiety and added “You need to watch out for Bipolar”. He immediately started me on Abilify, an antipsychotic, and after 3 days was convinced the Abilify helped enough to discharge me. I went straight to the pharmacy after my stay and found the medication was $116/ pill. The drug was new, did not have a generic at the time, and I could not afford that, so I discontinued the use of the medication.

By this time, I am deeply concerning my parents and they have bought me a one way flight to South Florida for the summer after my sophomore year. I was planning on working at Boston College for the summer and spending my entire junior year abroad in the Philippines and Vietnam, but the international travel was not brought to fruition. My parents were hurt by my secrecy, terrified, and looking to help alleviate some of my suffering. They helped me to get to a psychiatrist that might be able to help with the medication situation, and he did. I was put on Zyrexa, an antipsychotic, and the next day the sun came out. I stayed on the medication for over 4 years, but it caused grueling side effects including excessive sleeping, sedation, mixed mood episodes, and extreme weight gain to name a few.

After I was institutionalized, I told myself that I would try whatever I could to avoid the trauma, the expense, and the repetition of my experience in the ward. I felt that while I was held there, I was a prisoner, I had no rights, I had no resources, and I had a one person support system. I never wanted to go back.

Now, I am in very different shoes. I have knowledge and information. I have an entire degree dedicated to better understanding mental health and the system, I have years of experience working clinically in the field, and I have an incredible support system. I am currently seeking treatment to titrate off all unnecessary medications, to stabilize my mental and physical health, and to work intensively with clinicians on sustainable coping mechanisms. This is not like before.

Today I spent most of the day crying and wondering how I could possibly face being stripped of my agency and belongings again, being isolated from my supports again, and being forced to take medications without consent again. The answer that I found in my tears is that I don’t have to face that again. This new situation of seeking residential treatment is dredging up emotions and memories from my experience 5 years ago; but this is different. I am afraid, and I am allowing myself the grace to feel that fear and tend to it. As I care for myself I am also caring for my younger self, my self at 19, and at any other age when I felt alone, afraid, and out of options. Once I have done my tending, I am able to open my eyes and see that in the here and now I am surrounded by support, I am brave, and I am patient with my options.

I am surrounded by love. I am love. I am at peace.

Here is something I created in 2015 while in the psych ward. All text is quotes of staff and peers during my 3 day stay.

#psych ward #psych #mental health #triggers

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rebeccacollegeblog · 5 years ago

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Reflection One

I really enjoyed the article we read, “Why Can’t Washingtonians Resist Asking Each Other What They Do For A Living?” The article described a church in Washington, DC that discourages it’s congregation from asking others what they do for work. It later went on to describe that in highly professional cities like DC, New York, etc, it is a common “second question” to ask. There are many speculated reasons for why, obviously it varies from person to person. Some include wanting to know what the person can do for you, or if you are politically or socially aligned.

I have been a student for a very long time. I have had random jobs here and there, mostly as a receptionist for various massage spas. I love this job very much, but it is admittedly not very exciting. I also am constantly shuffling between having a job and not having a job, depending on my school schedule, mental health, and current home. Because of this, where do you work is a very stressful question for me to answer. I lead an incredibly privileged life, to come from an upper-middle class family who cares about me deeply, and allows me to go through my bachelors at my own pace. I am so grateful for that, due to some health struggles and a degree change, I have had to pace myself, meaning I am 24 and still working on my bachelors. When asked what I do by other people my age, it is very hard not to compare myself to them. So what started as a simple conversation starter for them, I now feel very judged and isolated in the conversation.

This makes me think of a few weeks ago, I met this girl at a bar in Richmond. I was sitting alone, waiting for the bartender to get off work so we could hang out, and she came to sit next to me and struck up a conversation. She was very engaged with me, she shared appropriate personal information, and was supportive and interested in my personal information I shared. She didn’t ask me what I did for work until at least 25 minutes into our conversation. By this point, I felt comfortable enough with her to say that I am currently not working and am a student, but also that that made me uncomfortable due to my age. She was very supportive, made me feel safe that she was not judging me, and went on to talk about times when she has felt similarly judged. This may have been a small act about an insecurity that is kind of silly, but to me it was so important. At the time, I was just happy to have found a new friend, but I know now she was displaying a great understanding of the Interpersonal Process Model of Intimacy, and I was doing some self-disclosure, causing me to also employ the Model of Intimacy effectively.

I had a lot of fun taking the Myers-Briggs test, I have wanted to for awhile but never actually done it. I knew I was introverted, but I did think I would be more thinking and less feeling. These tests are hard sometimes because of the generalization in questions. I think that these results do reflect what I am like on a low anxiety day.

I am unsure how to end this so I will just say I am bummed that classes are all online, because I was really looking forward to meeting my professor in person. However, I can’t say I am not glad to not have to do any in person presentations. I hope everyone is staying safe and staying inside during this beautiful quarantine season.

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fireflys-locket · 7 years ago

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Writer Questions

Tagged by @mcfrankauthor.

Sorry it took me a few days to do this. I had an event on Saturday. Which was scary (as always) and disappointing in that Book Two could not be done in time. But I got to see some friends and fellow authors. And of course, my favorite local book store owner, Leana.

1. What was the first element of your OC that you remember considering?

Since Jane is based on me, it’s hard to remember what exactly began to distinguish her as a character apart from me. The best I can figure is when I decided on her powers. I became fascinated with elemental magic from the faeries on Neopets. (This is also why I spell faerie this way.) I felt drawn to Air powers. Jane’s powers deepened and expanded when I began writing her into my first Harry Potter fanfiction series (as Val).

2. Did you design them with any other characters from their universe in mind?

No, Jane was the beginning. But as I remember it, Jenny’s character was the next to really develop. Strangely enough, Chaz’s character was one of the last Parkers to come into being. If I had followed the progression exactly to my original daydreams, Jane wouldn’t have met Chaz until almost the very end of Book One. But this made no sense to me when I was planning out the series as actual novels.

I suppose he could’ve already been in college. And then, Jane certainly would’ve been in love with Dominic the whole book. Which is closer to my original idea/my reality. This was one of the few big changes I made to my original imaginings of this world. I just couldn’t leave Chaz out of the first book. And that really wouldn’t have made sense with things I figured out about the story later on.

3. How did you choose their name?

The name Jane came to me from two different places. One, is the name of Wendy’s daughter in Peter Pan. The other, was Hermione Granger’s original middle name. (I’m not sure if J.K. Rowling changed her mind or if the original interview just made a typo of Jean.) I first gave Jane her name during her cameo in Hate You, Hate Me - my Draco/Hermione fanfiction. When I wrote Jane in fanfiction, she was always Hermione’s little sister.

4. In developing their backstory, what elements of the world they live in played the most influential parts?

Jane is basically living in my childhood reality with a twist. The main structure of her story (both before and after the novels begin) comes from my past. (The one difference is her family’s history. Though Christine became more like my own mother than I expected as I wrote her.) Her environment is the county I grew up in, and everyone’s environment has some amount of effect on their childhood. That’s no different with Jane. Her school. The church. The local park. They all play a role in the novels. In terms of the greater world/universe, there were definitely things that I discovered/decided on in some of my other novels that I had to link with Magic Inc. when I began writing. But it’s hard to explain where crossovers and references occur without spoiling anything.

5. Is there any significance behind their hair color?

Jane’s hair is brown like mine. Nothing more complicated than that.

6. Is their any significance behind their eye color?

Again, Jane’s eyes are blue, like mine. However there are some important reasons why certain characters have certain eye colours in my universe. And I’ll leave it at that.

7. Is there any significance behind their height?

I don’t talk about height much in my writing, unless it is especially remarkable one way or the other. One thing I decided on with my original artist was that Jenny was a little bit taller than Jane. I could tell you this had some deep meaning in the way that Jane admires/”looks up to” Jenny. But that’s not true. It just worked out that way. I honestly don’t think about most of my characters’ appearances beyond eyes/hair/skin colour. I struggle to describe physical attributes or even see the details of a character’s face in my head.

8. What (if anything) do you relate about their character/story?

Everything.

9. Are they based on you in some way?

I think I’ve answered this enough already! But I’ll just add... Jane is completely me. Her life is a mixture of the things I went through at her age and the things I daydreamed about. Jane loves deeply, feels deeply, and is easily hurt. She is anxious and obsessive. She feels like an outsider and just wants to feel loved and accepted. Our experiences are not exactly the same, but Jane and I are the same at our core. She is me. And that’s what is scary about sharing her with the world.

10. Did you know what the OC’s sexuality would be at the time of their creation?

I knew very little about different sexualities at nine-years-old, attending Catholic school. I just knew I was always falling in love with boys. At this point in my life, I look at my own sexuality as more of a spectrum. But since this series is based on my childhood/adolescence, and I didn’t really think about this stuff until my 20s, there will probably be little reference to Jane’s exact sexuality. Some of the other characters will definitely have defined sexualities eventually.

11. What have you found to be most difficult about creating art for your OC?

I don’t really create art for my characters unless you count sims and a couple of recent moodboards. I’m really not artistic. I worked with a great artist for my first cover, and I had a specific idea for what I wanted, but it was very hard to communicate my ideas with my struggle to describe physical things. I was very scared it wouldn’t live up to my expectations, but the cover turned out amazing. I’ve had to change artists for my second book, but I’m hoping Book Two’s cover will turn out lovely as well and still feel cohesive with the first book. I did find another wonderful artist, so cross your fingers for me!

12. How far past canon events have you extended their story, if at all?

This is a series, and I have so much planned for the rest of it. Not just books following Jane’s journey, but also lots of side stories. And of course, the Timeline Universe spreads out into so many other stories. I’ll probably never get to write everything I know about this world and the characters, but I consider all of it canon, whether it makes it into book form or not.

13. If you had to narrow it down to 2 things you MUST keep in mind while working with your OC, what would those things be?

Her passion/compassion. And her anxiety.

14. What is something about your OC that can make you laugh?

I’m not sure child!Jane is all that funny, but she does make some cheesy video game jokes/references occasionally.

15. What is something about your OC that can make you cry?

She’s just so vulnerable and easily hurt. And a lot of what happens to her at school is very close to the bullying and isolation I experienced at her age. She loves so deeply and is desperate to feel the return of that love in the same intensity. Which is something i still struggle with all these years later.

16. What is the most recent thing you’ve discovered about your OC?

It’s difficult for me to “discover” more about Jane, since she is my past and I’ve already lived her life. You always learn more about yourself as a person, though. And there are some things I think about differently than I did at Jane’s age. I occasionally go back and forth between making Jane more the me of then or the me of now. But when it comes down to it, I haven’t changed that much over the years. Yeah, there are definitely things I have a better perspective on as an adult. (Thank goodness.) And some things I’m (sadly) more cynical about. But I’m still very much that scared, passionate little girl, looking for love and acceptance.

17. What is your favorite fact about your OC?

I love that Jane still believes in everything. Even though she’s been hurt a lot, she trusts much better than I do now. She reaches out to Chaz because she trusts him completely. And that’s something I’m scared I’ll never be able to do with a romantic interest/partner.

Too exhausted/headachey to tag anyone, so take if you want to, and tag me as tagging you! <3

#writeblr #writing #magic inc.#valerie rutherford #firefly's locket

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joshuadunshua · 7 years ago

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What to do when you’re afraid to leave, but you’re just as afraid to stay?

I was born in the covenant, to a convert father and a Mormon-since-birth mother. I was baptized at eight, like I was supposed to. I had a spiritual crisis in middle school, then found my way back to the church by high school. But I have never felt at ease with the teachings of the church. It has never sat right with me. I figured it was because I wasn’t like the other girls my age, I was geeky, nerdy, entirely unathletic, and for a long time I didn’t even want to be very feminine like them. They avoided me, and I stood upright and alone trying my best anyway. There were certainly some points where I’d not want to go to church at all, but I always attributed it to being outcasted by others. I graduated from YW with barely anything completed in my Personal Progress booklet because I didn’t believe in doing things just to get them done. I moved on to relief society, the only one left my age in the area as all the other girls moved off to start college.

Relief society has always had a fake feeling veneer over it, no matter what ward I was in. All the sisters seem to have fishhooks in the corners of their mouths whenever we’re all together. And I’m not even anywhere close to Utah. I can’t imagine how it might be out there, where there’s the mental health and opioid addiction epidemics. It’s not a mere correlation, I don’t think.

I had a devoted boyfriend who would go on to serve a mission, and before he left I felt that I should also go on a mission too. I think I felt that way because i would have nothing else to do for two years, so why not?

The only spiritual experience with prayer I can remember clearly having was as a middle school youth, and I cannot remember whether I prayed to know if the Book of Mormon was true or that Christ’s teachings were true, or if it was for a testimony of something else entirely. I don’t trust my memory very well. I’ve never felt spirituality during a prayer since. Which means I never got confirmation from the Lord that I should serve a mission. But hey, I never got confirmation from the Lord for anything since middle school, so maybe it was always as I had heard someone say once, that the Lord knows I already know the answer, so He wouldn’t tell me?

So I weaned off the antidepressants I had just begun taking earlier that year and submitted my mission papers. And I was sent to Phoenix, AZ, Spanish speaking. The most exciting part was being able to get endowed just days before my only sibling’s Sealing to his to-be wife. I had been so afraid I wouldn’t get to be there for it, as he is older than I am and you can’t just get endowed if you’re a female. I don’t remember very much of my own endowment, not specifically. I do remember not feeling prepared, and feeling uncomfortable. I did not know what covenants I would be making exactly, but I knew it was the next step I was supposed to take.

So I packed my bags, said goodbye to my best friend, and left for the MTC. I’ve always struggled with routine (hello depression), so to have such a rigid schedule was good for me. I was desperate to become more in tune with God and Christ and the Holy Spirit. I read, listened, learned, and prayed more fervently than I ever had before. I also got sick in week one of six, lost my voice completely, and due to the nature of having to learn a language, was never allowed to fully recover it. Singing has always been the only thing I am great at in my life, and for the entire six weeks I was there, i could not sing. Not even for a visit from an apostle. I begged my teacher for just one day of vocal rest from practicing Spanish, and it was not permitted. I was heartbroken, and I still am. Singing has always been the one way I would say I could feel connected to my spirituality, and I could not access it.

I prayed desperately in the MTC many times over, begging God to let me feel His love. I prayed at night for ten minutes, once even half an hour. I prayed in the Celestial room on Saturdays when we were permitted to do endowment ordinances for the dead. Every week i would cry deeply in that beautiful room. I cried many many times at night. I just wanted to know for sure that God loved me. To feel something, anything, that i could identify. I can’t say I ever did. I figured there must just be something wrong with me and that I should stop asking. I persisted along.

I left the MTC and headed into the field, to Arizona. To Monte Vista, specifically. I had a decent compañera, she was tough, and steadfast, and strong in her convictions. She could seem a little unempathetic and unsympathetic at times, but she was doing her best. But where things had at least been going okay at the MTC, arriving in the field saw my mental health deteriorate. Rapidly. I have a paralyzing fear of role-play and role-play-like situations, and practice teaching is such a situation. I could not do it; I would freeze, panic, and cry. I quickly became more depressed on my mission than I had ever been at home since the eighth grade. Which is to say I was just shy of suicidal. I wanted to die, and be dead, and stop existing, but I was at least not in danger of acting upon it. I lost all sense of self-worth I had managed to build up. I cried everywhere i could without pestering my compañera. In the bathrooms, in the shower, silently at night after she was asleep. I did cry to her also, often during the morning studies. I still did not have my voice back. I was still not permitted a day of vocal rest. I began speaking with my mission president. I set up a time to visit with a family services therapist.

After a session with me, she told me she couldn’t see that there was anything wrong with me. To her, I was fine, because I was clearly not having an emotional breakdown in her office, and was cognizant of the irrationality I was dealing with. I was fine.

I went on splits with an English Sister, and cried to her, poured my soul out to her. She helped me to feel loved, but gave me the same response as everyone else. Pray about it.

Christmas came quickly. I had had thanksgiving in the MTC, after all. It was without a doubt the best thanksgiving I ever had. Not because I felt the spirit, but because it was not with my extended family. Thanksgivings with my extended family often turned into some kind of argument, then. So doing service and spending time with other missionaries was a nice change. While my compañera was Skyping with her family, I knelt in our bedroom alone and prayed. I prayed so hard. I wanted to stay, and yet I knew I might have to leave. I begged for help, and I received an answer for the first time in almost a decade. That I should go home. I Skyped my family, and told them what to expect. It was a very bittersweet Christmas Day. More bitter than sweet. But I felt I had my answer.

So I told my mission president, the priesthood leader presiding over the whole Phoenix, Arizona mission. God wanted me to go home.

“God wouldn’t tell you that.”

It took me over a week after that to make the final decision to go home. There are two things my mission president told me that i will never forget. One, was that, even if I went home and all my problems went away, that I still needed to get help, because it would come back, and it couldn’t come back when I was a new wife, or a new mother, when I had new and difficult responsibilities. The other, “God wouldn’t tell you that.”

I returned home in January. I was released with honor, a real RM in the eyes of the Church, and I went to the doctor for my depression. For a small while, I tried to stick with the habits of a missionary, praying and reading and studying daily. Maybe not the “up at 6am,” part, but much of the rest. But it soon became too painful to bear. Everything reminded me of my mission. Everything seemed to have the word failure on it in hidden inks that only my heart could read. I had to take a step back for my mental health.

I don’t know if my mission president knew what weight his words carried when he told me that. I don’t know if he thought before he spoke them. He justified his words to me. The only spiritual feeling I had felt from prayer since grade school was written off as a feeling I conjured myself. It’s easy for others to say “he abused his priesthood position,” but he learned that idea from somewhere. He’d thought on that idea before. He was immediate in that response, and he maintained it. He was a leader, and if someone like him is able to so simply destroy faith with a single sentence borne in his mind of God, how can I trust what any leader tells me is of God?

I pushed myself through the rest of the time my then boyfriend was out on his mission. I was faithful to him— it was easy, as I loved him so much and am asexual, so I had no concern that I would find myself in a position where I wouldn’t be able to “control myself.” I felt at that time that we were foreordained to marry, that when he returned home he would save for a ring and we would soon be engaged. That was always our plan.

Then he came home in late December of 2016. I tried to jump back into what we had had, but physically it was difficult as I had physically been isolated for two years. I told him I would need time to warm up to the more serious bits. Instead of trying to communicate boundaries and asking permission to move forward with anything, he grew cold. Any physical contact, I had to initiate. Kissing him felt like kissing a brick wall. He talked to me less— he never opened up more than surface level, an issue we had never had. He began to treat me like a monster, began to grow upset if I knew more than him about anything, and instead of talking to a 21 year old returned missionary, I felt like I was constantly speaking with an immature 17 year old high schooler. He was the perfect mormon boy, if you look at him objectively. He never missed a day of scripture reading or prayer, and he loved his mission, or so he said. He broke a lot of rules near the end, jumping into pop culture and watching anime and music videos on his P-days. He did not come back a man at all. He came back a depressed, worn down boy in denial of his own health.

Eventually I got him on skype with me (he lived an hour away), six months into the new year, four years of dating now behind us, and we broke it all down. I explained everything I felt was wrong, that I wanted to make it work, that I wanted both of us to be better. He explained how he was feeling, and that the feeling was mutual, that he wanted to see us succeed. So we agreed to take a break to focus on other things, our mental health and our next steps in life, and come back in a few months.

And then he told me he cheated on me months before. Kissing the sister who brought him to institute every week. I was heartbroken, devastated, angry. I could never trust him again, how could I? I had been faithful without him for two years, and he returns and is going at someone else after a mere three months.

I stopped talking to him under the premise of taking the aforementioned break. I needed time to think. Eventually I wrote him a breakup letter, too broken and angry to say anything to his face. A mutual friend meant to deliver it to his new address, which I didn’t know, but sent it to the wrong one. Before I could bring myself to write another letter, he texted me for my new address. I discovered he intended to break up with me through our mutual friend. I told him to screw off. The next day he was dating the same girl he had cheated on me with. He got engaged to her the day before what would have been our fifth year anniversary. He recently got sealed to her in the temple. They have been together for less than a year, and he is more committed to her than he had ever been to me. But I am still broken. I am still hurting. I do not miss him, but at one point he said that God had confirmed for him that we were right for each other, that he’d had a vision of our future family. I trusted him when he said that. I believed him. He had the priesthood, after all. He was the perfect member.

It has been around three years since I returned from my mission early— 12 weeks, by the way, was how long I had been out— and I still think about everything every day. I have been struggling with my faith every day. And as I grow, as I learn, as I have tried again and again to jumpstart my faith once more, to read and to pray and attending church like a good girl, the less convinced I am that I’m in the right place. I believe in God, but beyond that, I’m no longer sure. There’s so much dissonance with the concept of the God I feel from reading scripture and the concept of the God the church teaches about.

I can’t conceive of a God who makes some of His children gay, and then condemns them for it. I can’t conceive of a God who makes half of his Children to be Lesser than the other half, and commands them to know their place and covenant to maintain submission to the other Children’s authorities.

I cannot in good faith follow a leadership that ignores the teen suicide epidemic in Utah that disproportionately affects LGBTQ+ LDS youth. I cannot in good faith follow a leadership that in finally addressing mental illness, fails to address rampant spousal abuse.

But I’ve made these covenants, up to and including my endowment. I am filled with doubt of the truth I’ve been raised in, and am filled with fear that I cannot be truly happy if I stay. And I am also filled with fear that if it is true, and i should leave, then I am condemned, and am a disappointment to my parents who love this gospel so much.

I only hope that something somewhere got lost in translation, that God’s truth is still perverted in many aspects due to the folly of men, of patriarchal society, of homophobia and transphobia. I hope that this Church that I have been raised in, that i feel could still be the most correct, will yet change.

It’s a pessimistic hope.

I’m afraid to stay. I’m equally afraid to leave.

I’m unsure what I should do.

#mormon #queerstake #tumblrstake #idk. im lost. no matter what i choose i lose.#just wanted to... get this all out there. in the universe.#and forgive my language i guess but fuck you sam and what you did to me.#i hope your marriage falls apart since its founded on lies and cheating #get rekt.#long post

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la-liga-zine · 7 years ago

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A Country Named Mother

I wasn’t very conscious of my ancestry until around middle school and I wasn’t really interested until college. While some kids wanted the new Samsung Sidekick, I wanted blue eyes and a French sounding name (and the Sidekick too, honestly). I can’t say it’s for lack of representation - no, there aren’t any Cuban Disney princesses - but I was raised in Miami where quinceñeras are a weekly event and that’s pretty damn close.

Every year I’d get the same question that only reinforced disinterest in my ancestry. Teachers asked “what makes you special?” and “where are you from?” In an age of misguided philosophies on confidence building, asking me to share my background was supposed to make me feel special; instead it felt like a popularity contest where I got front row seats to watch the interest fade from my classmates faces as I started to pronounce “Cuban.” My conflicted feelings over my ancestry created a blockade to self acceptance. While these issues might seem trivial now, as a middle schooler, they were a memorable source of shame over identity (or lack thereof).

Up to that point in my life, I never felt tied to my identity in any meaningful way, Cuban culture was practically an all-encompassing part of my daily life -- if scientists ever want to study the effect of daily cafecitos and pan Cubano, I’m the first volunteer. I could imagine the small homes, barely able to contain their inhabitants; the hot sun that you were told to hide from lest you grow too dark. It was through shared memories that I spent a small part of my own childhood in my mother’s past; sharing her childhood home, joining her walks to school, briefly inhabiting a different life than my own. I had never visited her birth country, but it was simultaneously as real and imaginary as any other fairy tale. The bedtime stories I grew up on were not only of sleepy Germanic princesses, but of kids growing up on an isolated isla communista.

There were people in my family stories that lived only in memories recalled. Family members that I knew existed, but had never seen nor spoken to I became curious about mis raíces. Reaching a level of security within myself gave me permission to dive into my own history. I wanted to know what my own personal link to my heritage was, something that couldn’t be measured and deemed common. With my upcoming trip to Cuba, suddenly all the stories my family had told me became possibilities. Where were they now? Could I meet them?

The day of my flight, I anxiously rushed into the airport, doing that belabored half jog, half crumble-under-the-weight-of-my-suitcase gait. All wasted energy as Havana Air left an hour and a half late. Nobody seemed to care though, we were on Cuban time now. I had taken many trips before to countries whose entire population is only a fraction of my city’s, countries that were 12-hours-in-the-same-chair away, yet the anxiety I felt about this trip wasn’t related to the traveling itself, but because I would be meeting family who until just a few weeks earlier, were cemented in my mind as historical figures of the past. I had only glimpsed a few pictures of the family members I’d be staying with; pixelated 300x300 Facebook photos, the type that makes you question the validity of a profile. This family and this country that existed only in my mother’s recollections of her youth were now real and they’d be picking me up when I landed.I walked out of the airport worried I wouldn’t recognize my relatives, but they were already in front of me. They’d picked me out of the crowd like they’d seen me every day for years.

Riding from the airport in one of the iconic vintage cars Cuba is known for, I noticed a little bump of emotion building up inside me. Every direction I looked in, Cuba looked back. Giant trees let a hot sun stream through their leaves and onto my face, buildings begged for my attention in blends of color that looked like ice cream, bright and summer-y. We headed for La Habana Vieja, where my family lived. A small 1 bedroom apartment shared between 3 people and sometimes 4 when abuela visited, now shared with 5 since the addition of myself. No A/C, just a rotating standing fan that became an alter I was more dedicated to worshipping than any religious deity prior.

Sitting in a humid living room while the heavy equatorial sun cooked the building, conversation floating in and out like the flies we mindlessly swatted at - just 5 strangers who were family. The idea of family evolved to me now, as I stood in the center of this radical experiment. I observed my new family, and tried to soak up years in the few days I had. My tía’s dark, gentle eyes brimmed with a power to calm through just her gaze. She resembled my mother, like the result of an alternate storyline where my she didn’t leave Cuba. A tired yet determined look marked her—the look of a woman playing the role of two parents. You could tell she depended on herself alone, and bore the weight of sustaining her entire family. Her daughter was melting candy; pure sugar and stuck to me at every chance. She had long, thick and wavy black hair, like Rapunzel da La Habana. All my family had much darker skin than me and my new abuela was the first to point it out, almost excited by our differences. Her own skin was a rich reddish brown, a tone that almost radiated back the hot sun it had soaked up.

Though my mother was born in the city of Guantanamo and my abuela is from the rural town of Mayari, I am Cuban-American and my primo (who was my age) showed me the weight that hyphen carries. He had been sitting on the couch, with a level of tension boiling in him that could be felt from every part of the tiny room we were in. Four people sharing a one-bedroom apartment with no air conditioner and no running water in the summer is a challenge by any standard and I could feel their shame in knowing what was normal for them was rough for me.(some countries lack A/C because they experience a mild climate, others are simply lacking; Cuba is the latter). I was about to take a shower and my tía asked if I wanted her to heat the water in the bucket I’d be using. I declined, partially out of politeness and partially out of being covered in sweat

My primo jumped up and went on a tirade. He angrily reminded the family that I was not like them. That I wasn’t used to this situation. I wanted to melt into the couch under the weight of this searing shame he must’ve been quietly carrying since I arrived. He continued, wondering aloud why the family wouldn’t get it through their heads, “where she’s from there’s air conditioning and the water comes out of the shower head.” He shouted a last time, “Somos animals aquí. Compared to what she’s used to, we’re animals.” The intense frustration and bitter resentment born out of a stagnant present and a stillborn future is sharp and current, like a wound in reverse. While my mother’s Cuba lacked TVs and even a magazine was a treasured luxury, Cuba today has TV, magazines and even WiFi access in certain places. Of course he felt this way. Cuba was an island, not a cell block, as some might have you believe.

On the living room TV, my primos were watching the same high materialism, low substance music videos that I try to forget exist in the US. No one flaunts wealth quite like someone who never had it so Cuban hip hop is an arms race of boasting. While I can brush the ugliness of consumerism off from the comfort of the US, it’s not so easy to identify the futility of materialism when your food is rationed and your mattress is sweat stained. Yet who is more vulnerable to the poisonous sense of emptiness that chasing happiness via consumerism infects you with than one who’s never even been allowed to participate?

Most of my time in Cuba was spent chasing and consuming every piece of familial history in any form it might take: stories, photos, standing in old buildings and plazas where my own mother and her mother had stood decades before me. I almost want to ask the buildings I saw if they remembered my mother. Did they remember my abuela, who walked on this cobbled path for decades? Silent pieces of concrete, soaking up bits of all the lives around them and selfishly locking these memories into themselves. It was never the buildings I wanted to see so much as the air I wanted to feel. What did it feel like 40 years ago at this exact moment as my mother walked through this plaza?

Traveling to a country when you’re part of its diaspora is more of a journey and less of a vacation. The souvenirs you bring back are in the form of emotional connections that weigh far heavier than any checked bag of keepsakes. Out of the stories of my tía Marta’s cigarette smoking and late night dancing, I found her best friend, who she was unable to contact for over 13 years. Out of the stories of my abuela taking two planes while smuggling a box stuffed with a live chicken meant to feed her hijas, I found her niece, who used to care for those daughters while my abuela struggled to support them. Out of the stories of my mother and her prima who entertained her as a child with an old guitar, I found my tia, who welcomed me into her (now guitar-less) home. I existed in the middle of this surreal web of family ties, aged and stretched almost slightly beyond recognition.

My trip to Cuba revealed a long line of women who were full of life, strong despite the harshest circumstances, deeply rooted trees sustaining all around them. My tía Marta (less formally known as Yaya), came from Cuba, with its slow pace and state of constant lacking, straight into New York City, as a political exile. She’s now one of the most independent women I know with a mouth of candela who maintains herself as a sought after tarot card reader. My grandmother left everything she owned, her friends and even her husband behind, to raise 3 successful daughters as a single mother who spoke no English in the US. My own mother, who had to leave behind her father and integrate herself in a foreign and often hostile country at the confusing age of 15, completed a master’s degree in her second language and now teaches that adopted language to kids born and raised in this country.

I’d uncovered a line of incredible women spanning across generations, recalling the matriarchal Taino societies buried under colonialism, but not quite buried deeply enough. These women and their relentless and determined personalities left me in awe. I’d found a new love for my Cuban heritage when I realized that the value in my identity was not in its uniqueness or in how other people viewed it. The love for my ancestry is born out of the incredible experiences of the family members who made me the person I am. They are my ancestry. My mother’s passion, my abuela’s independence, my tia’s boldness, my primo’s ambition; this is my heritage, something so much more personal and valuable than I could understand as a child. Something that flows from a much deeper place than any hollow nationalistic slogan could convey.

My trip ended like all my previous trips: a ride to the airport and lots of waiting. My new-found family stayed with me until the last minute. It turns out family is a kind of magic word - a word that can conjure a genuine love born of nothing more than shared genetic material. What I keep with me isn’t the effort my family made trying to provide the food and comfort they could barely secure for themselves, but rather what they expended no effort over at all. It was only when the time came to turn my back to them and walk away that I realized how final this moment was. As I lifted my arm to wave goodbye, the simple thought that I’d never experience this particular moment again wouldn’t leave my head. With the volatility of the American-Cuban political relationship, so much could change before I returned. Most goodbyes are not truly goodbye, but more of a see you later; it feels different. This was goodbye.

The difficult part about following the thread of your ancestry out of the diaspora and into the motherland are the ghosts you bring back, more detailed and louder than the sparse figments you had previously only dreamed up based on a patchwork of family stories. The weight of a history extended and imbued with real breathing life: something you would never wish to be without, but always carrying with it new complexities. Even now, as I sit writing in a city and state I’ve never seen, the most assumed parts of my identity are pulled out for display. There’s nothing like leaving home to make you realize how much of your home is twisted up, inseparable from the person you are.Through the acceptance and love my family showed me, I was finally able to pick up my ancestry and, like a missing button, sewed it back on my dress and felt whole after so many years.

Salomé Luna Gemme writes about life and how to live your best one at LunaGemme.com. A Cuban-American nacida y criada en Miami. Orgullosa as hell. She’s shy but you shouldn’t be; find her @salomegemme basically everywhere.

#Cuba #Travel

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theintuitivewildflower · 7 years ago

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How to embrace your authentic self:

An Intuitive Wildflower’s Story of Becoming

April 2018, will mark a big life event for me; my one year anniversary of the beginning of this Blog! It has been a life changing endeavor for me and I’ve been asked to share some of my story. Upon giving some thought to how I learned to embrace and love my authentic self, unconditionally I came up with a list; this made me realize how much work I’ve done on my own self over the past two years. This blog has helped hold me accountable to my personal development goals. I am so very thankful and proud that I didn’t let anyone talk me out of this dream because I made it a reality. It’s empowering to be able to say that I went against the grain and didn’t give up. Here I am, at 41, still growing; and while starting to write my story recently, I discovered that there are 10 main ways that I was able to embrace being myself. This is my story.

A lot of family members, obviously unsure of where I was going with this ‘blog thing’, as many of them call it, wanted to know just how I had determined that I am, in fact, a Wildflower. “What’s this Wildflower stuff all about?” they’d ask. I think a few even phoned my mother about it, possibly hoping she might shut it down; I’m guessing they were worried about how it might reflect on the family. However, mom, knowing me best, knew that would only fuel the fire. When I started this blog, I was smack dab in the middle of my awakening to purpose, the fire was already burning hot!

Sadly but gladly, I have learned that family isn’t always the most inspiring support team. I’ve discovered that sometimes family is who you need to prove wrong, declutter from your life and if often who you needs to be inspired the most. If it weren’t for my mother’s unconditional love I probably would have quit blogging within the first month. However, her acceptance of me is what allowed me to push forward when I wanted to quit; when it was scary and uncomfortable to be putting myself out there. The lack of understanding and support from others caused me to really put some thought into the following questions:

“How long have I been this intuitive wildflower?” I wondered.

When I consciously try to think back into my childhood and try to remember as far back as I can; I ask myself “how long have I been feeling this way; feeling like I understand most human being’s; often more than they know or understand of themselves but to personally feel very misunderstood by most people.

“When and where did I first begin to notice that in a field full of pink roses; I was a Wildflower?”

I blended well with the roses and fit in just fine socially but there was something just a little different about myself; I noticed this as early as first and second grade. I always wondered why my classmates didn’t care so deeply about things like me. I would ask questions and they would ask me why I cared or why it mattered to me. I couldn’t answer that; I just knew that everything mattered to me.

When thinking of myself as a child and how I was perceived by those around me these are the thoughts that come to mind. I was the youngest child, a daughter with an older brother, a daddy’s girl, a tom-boy, an athlete, inquisitive, bright and full of energy. That would be me, as a kid, described in a nutshell. However, when I try to think as far back as I can about my own perception of myself as a child, I remember much more. This is some of what I remember:

…..you could find me as a school-age child, outside, climbing trees with the neighborhood kids on my block in Grandview, Missouri. I could usually be found playing kickball, collecting bugs, having lemonade stands or playing cops and robbers! You might also find me playing Barbie or using my imagination to play games such as; “teacher”, featuring myself playing teacher to my Strawberry Shortcake figurines (my class). I vividly remember that I liked to delegate tasks and tell people what to do, my friends usually. I feel this was because I was the youngest child and was usually the one being delegated to and bossed around at home. I was also competitive from the jump with my cousins and friends; I remember being very fond of contests and competitions and not just in sports or school. Where ever my friends and I were headed I would be the first to say “let’s race”….and off we’d go. If we were doing cartwheels, I was challenging everyone to see who can do the MOST; if jumping rope, I was announcing that we were timing who jumped the longest. I feel this competitive edge was something conditioned in me early on by my families traditions, beliefs and high focus on competitive sports. This brings me to the start of my list of ways I embraced my authentic self.

1. I realized that this very characteristic, being “bossy”, that might have been annoying to others when I was younger, is now, the very thing that allows me to help others find their own purpose. Learning to encourage and coach rather than boss and delegate has allowed me to be an accountability partner to others. It is precisely the way in which I am able to inspire, empower and push others to their personal limits while being true to who they are. This gift was always there it just takes time to sharpen our skills and gifts sometimes. I was aligned with my purpose before anyone ever had an opinion; I believe this to be true for us all.

For much of my childhood and into my awkward adolescent years, then, through high school and into college; I was playing some kind of sport, competitively. There were times, growing up, when I felt like my value to the family was directly related to my performance or achievements in competitive sports. I was a good kid and I did what I thought all kids did; obey your parents. However, even though I could play several sports very well, my favorite thing to do as a child, teen, young adult was to write. Still to this day, my favorite past time is to creatively write. As a young girl, I carried pens, pencils, notepaper, coloring books, markers and loose leaf paper with me almost everywhere; to church, to visit family and in the car on trips. Writing is what I was doing on a rainy, boring Saturday; poetry, song lyrics, lists, brainstorming, practicing my signature or writing a story of some kind. Creative writing was “my thing” but I wasn’t really encouraged to do it; but it was allowed. Any chance I got to put the glove, bat, balls, cleats or kicks away and replace them with some poetry, a story or a picture to give someone else; I took it.

2. I kept this love for writing from childhood to now and it has been my life line more than once. When I found myself in a toxic relationship after a divorce, writing was what kept me sane. As isolated as I was, writing kept me grounded somehow. It seemed to keep me tethered to my soul even when the tether rope seemed more like a frayed tiny thread about to break; it kept me hanging on; proving to me again that writing is aligned with my purpose.

After my son Noah was born in 1998, I was blessed to be a stay-at-home mom. This is when I discovered my passion for gardening; more specifically wildflowers. I wanted to have my own field to let wildflower’s grow wild on. When Noah was 5 years old, we bought a five and a half acre, mini farm and transplanted all my plants from Grandview to the farm yard and watched over the years as they spread by seed, becoming larger patches of color in the yard each year. I was amazed to learn how wildflower’s spread by seed and each year there are more to enjoy or share. I have this obsession with daisies, cosmos, primroses, sunflowers and just about any perennial plant. I love seeing a field next to a highway that has been taken over by wildflower’s during the Spring or early Summer, in Missouri. That is truly a beautiful sight to me; I will drive around on a lazy Sunday just to find some to admire! As I have gotten older it has been so cool to visit friends and family that got starts from my first house years ago and they can now, years later, give me starts back to begin in a new yard. When I got divorced and was starting over I was able to go get starts from friends who had started their own patches of wildflower’s from starts I had given them! It is residual beauty; proof that planting one seed can start a whole garden and then many more gardens; even more amazing is that, one wildflower can spread many seeds!

3. I never wanted the perfect potted plants lined up neatly. I wanted the messy, colorful wildflowers in my garden. I liken Wildflowers to people. I don’t want to know people just like me; that think like me, dress like me and share opinions with me. I see beauty in diversity and always have. I do no not understand judgment of others. I believe one of the best ways to learn who we are, is to know and have relationships with people that are different from us. Again, it became clear to me that Wildflower’s don’t care where they grow and that this too shows I am aligned with my purpose.

In 2006, my daughter Abi was born and she is my miracle baby. Her father and I experienced 5 miscarriages between our two children. When she arrived we were so happy to have a healthy baby girl. She is my baby wildflower, no doubt. She is opinionated and inquisitive like her mother. She amazes me with the way she thinks every day! Late one winter night, when she was sick, we watched my favorite Disney movie, Alice in Wonderland. Anyone remember the snotty roses that were whispering and judging Alice for being different? "Do you suppose she is a Wildflower?” they said. The wildflower connection resonated with me again! I realized, I’m Alice, so-to-speak. It was here I really started to embrace that was a human wildflower. I had been through some painful experiences and those seem to make you a little more empowered to be true to yourself. You start realizing that you have been your very own best friend a lot; you start to appreciate yourself for it.

WHO WANTS TO BE IN THE STUFFY THORNY ROSE GARDEN TIED UP TO POSTS OR A TRELLIS AND CONDITIONED IN HOW AND WHERE TO GO?? NOT I!

I prefer to grow old being wild, free, still learning and raising hell when I want to. I try to always stay mindful about being aligned with my purpose, helping others; I can do that just about anywhere. I’m about as battered and bruised from the strong winds of change that one wildflower could be but apparently God made me super resilient. I’ve loved hard, gotten hurt; even caused some pain of my own. I had to learn to let go of my own guilt and shame that I was carrying and then, forgive myself. Only then, could I forgive anyone else. Finally releasing negativity that I’d been holding inside until it was toxicity flowing through my veins, allowed me to move forward and feel worthy of fulfilling my purpose. The negative self-talk had to go for me to get where I needed to go.

4. Learning from our past rather than living in it, is one of the best ways to apply lessons we learn along the way to our authentic self. I had to forgive myself before I could truly forgive anyone else.

I always loved music from my parent’s generation. As a teen, I felt they wasted their lives by missing Woodstock. They shake their heads when I mention this, as that is so not their style. If reincarnation happens I am pretty sure I was there dancing somewhere in the crowd with a sundress and tambourine. I have always done things differently than my family has. I have no problem thinking outside the box especially now that I have embraced my authentic self. Wildflower would have been my hippie name at Woodstock and for that reason and the others that I am sharing with you today, it became my social media name for my blog as well.

Today I am 40. I still don’t fit in but I don’t want to. I kind cringe at the thought of it now. I’m not one to worry a lot about what people think of me because I’m usually worrying about someone else. New people I meet do not know what to think of me. I think much deeper into things than most; typical of an INFJ personality type. Less than two percent of the population are INFJ, which explains why we feel so misunderstood all the time. We try to see every side and angle and for an INFJ personality type there are at least 8 sides to everything; INFJ’s will entertain each and every one.

5. When no one seems to understand me or where I’m coming from, music always does. I love and express gratitude for it on a daily basis. Music has kept me going when no one else cared or even knew I had a need. Music has a healing power to it and I have always related to various artists and genres. Just like people, my taste in music is diverse. Music connects people, music touches the soul, speaks in frequency and word; MUSIC HEALS!

At 40, I discovered I am an empath after being in a relationship with a narcissistic personality type. I finally understood why strangers want to tell me their life stories and why my intuitions are so strong and annoyingly accurate. I can often feel a person’s vibe right away; their pain, sorrow, joy and love. When there is hate in the room I can feel that too; it has a strong energy. A lot of folks just need someone to be there and the empath friend is usually that person. We get drained carrying our energy around plus yours and whoever else we walk by at Wal-Mart or church or anywhere else. However, once I began to see it for the gift that it is I began to express gratitude for it and I began to use it to fulfill my purpose. When I discovered this about myself I also became a sponge for information about this gift and what it means to have it.

6. I’ve been able to gain strength in knowing that my purpose it to help people. I have just had to learn the hard way that you cannot push a rope uphill. You are no help to someone who rejects your help, won’t help themselves, meet you halfway or is focused on what they can TAKE from you. I have had to face the fact that I am NOT Jesus and everyone is not meant to be saved by me.

Another reason it seemed natural to refer to myself as a Wildflower in my blog or to write as #theintuitivewildflower is that I have been saying since about 1995 that I belong among the Wildflower’s thanks to a Tom Petty song, Wildflowers. It just touched my soul in a way that I don’t think any song ever had before or has again to this very day. I always felt just like the song says, still do

“You belong among the wildflowers,

you belong in a boat out at sea.

Sail away, kill off the hours;

you belong somewhere you feel free….”

It resonated very deeply with me as a Senior in High School, I was making big decisions about my future, my career and my life within my own head. Meanwhile, my folks were also making their own plans for me. Eighteen is that age when you are ready to execute your independence and leave home but you are still a little uncertain about your ability and the opinions of those who love you most, still play a big part in your decision making.

7. I wanted to declare at 18, that I knew who I was but I hadn’t yet embraced my authentic self. I also realize if I had, that I wouldn’t have been ready to fulfill my purpose the way I am meant to. I would not have had the many life lessons that prepared me for my calling. My purpose was literally born from my pain, mistakes and hurt. Therefore, when I finally mustered up the strength and courage to start sharing my story at 40, I had to get really comfortable with being uncomfortable. When I realized that my message, my story and my pain were all part of my purpose; amazing things began to happen in my life! Empowerment came to me when I embraced the fact that there was a purpose to my pain and so I began to write about it and my healing process.

The original blog title was ‘Where the Wildflower’s Grow’ and was started partly to hold myself accountable to my personal growth after ending a toxic relationship; to keep my promise to myself that I would not go backwards in my life anymore! It was a way for me to help heal myself, to get my voice back, to stay no contact with the ex and to help other women in similar situations begin to heal too. I had been held down emotionally for several years. I recognized the fact that I was in no way a model, public persona or public speaker. I knew that everyone was going to see me at my worst if I chose to move forward with this and thankfully, the empowered me, dove in head first; knowing it was now or never! I’ve discovered that the more I write and meet people through my blog; there are so many people in need of empowerment, inspiration, love and healing. They have a variety of hurts that I want to help or encourage to heal, then, find and fulfill their purpose. I can’t limit it to just one group or one type of trauma; I just know my purpose is to help people when needed in some kind of way and that is my “WHY” for continuing my Adventures of a Wildflower blog.

8. Self-belief and recognizing that my story mattered was the result of choosing to focus on personal growth and healing! I stopped noticing my flaws and noticed this new empowered woman I had become. When I decided other people and their healing were more important than my frizzy hair, adult acne, crow’s feet and past; I evolved. I got closer to my authentic self and I started to shine! I knew that everyone was going to see me at my worst if I chose to move forward with this and the empowered me dove in, head first; knowing it was now or never! This started to empower others.

It was the most major and empowering milestone move of personal growth, the day I started this blog experience! What I realize now, at 41 years of age, is this; growing up, it wasn’t that I was so different in anyone else’s eyes, I was the average, active, sporty type and participated in the usual activities youth are usually offered to choose from. I felt different within myself because I was always thinking so deeply and feeling so deeply everything around me. I asked questions about everything and remember thinking, as young as 8 or 9 years old, that my friends were just plain wrong for thinking “I don’t know” was an acceptable answer to anything I wanted to learn more about. I wondered why things that mattered to me didn’t seem to matter to anyone else. I was pretty confident and I’ll praise my parents for that. I wasn’t really an introvert early on, I was fairly outgoing and often comical if comfortable enough in the crowd around me.

9. KNOW THYSELF- C.G. JUNG…. To be committed to learning and knowing who I am was the best advice I ever took. A good friend told me to do this the year we both turned 40, as we discussed our birthdays and the feeling that there was something that changed for us both then; we felt as if we wanted to chase whatever was missing! He recommended I take the Meyer’s-Briggs personality test to begin the process. Now, knowing I am an intuitive empath and an INFJ, the rarest of personality types; it all makes sense! I now understand why I grew up feeling like the black sheep of the family or the big yellow daisy in the middle of all the dainty pink roses. Had I not discovered these traits about myself I may have mistaken them for anxiety or OCD or another mental health issue. On the contrary, I learned that I had been gifted these traits and they were directly aligned with my purpose and calling! I would never want to numb them.

Lastly, my blog was created to prevent suicide and raise awareness for the need of empathy, compassion, understanding and acceptance regarding Mental Health Issues and Disabilities; to provide education, inspiration and a place to discuss these topics peacefully.

On my facebook page, you will see that I offer my time. I know what it feels like to feel different, misunderstood, judged or taken for granted, to be mentally drained from feeling so deeply and caring so much; also to fail more than once. My time is for you: the other wildflowers that are always out there spreading sunshine and planting seeds of love in a hateful world. You are so strong but on weak day there is no one to give you sunshine or water to grow. It’s not because they do not love you. They don’t understand the depth of your love and kindness. So whether you are drained empath in need of boost or an empath unaware that just read this and thought, maybe I’m an empath too. Maybe you are an eccentric free-spirited Wildflower in need of some sun; if you feel alone come here. You are always welcome and I promise to have something posted up to uplift, motivate, encourage or empower you to keep going every time you visit.

10. Putting a plan to purpose! It doesn’t matter how or where you start putting a plan to your purpose. Once you discover it, you will feel obligated to start practicing things towards fulfilling it. That’s just what you see me doing here! I know what it is like to be so strong that no one would believe you could be weak! I know you need the kind of friend for YOU that you are to everyone else. I feel you friend, I do. If you need to reach out and just don’t know where to go…….come here! If my shoulder or words are not enough I will personally assist you in finding a resource that provides just what you need!

In the blog, I discuss the importance of positivity, self-development, business, healing, mental health and the healing power of music. As an amazon affiliate I share this link with you and you can find some of my very favorite resources, books and music pertaining to topics such as this! https://amzn.to/2DQKVc2my

I hope you will follow along with me on these Adventures of a Wildflower as I just totally put myself out there in hopes to find some other wildflowers that need a garden to grow in; a safe place to come and recharge or relax so you can remember:

YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL, UNIQUE AND YOU HAVE A PURPOSE JUST AS SPECIAL; IN FACT, YOU WERE MADE FOR IT!

Peace, good vibes and One Love,

Karyn Dee #theintuitivewildflower

Dedicated in honor of John Michael Dutcher

who was, without a doubt, a very strong and most beautiful wildflower with the most precious soul!

#theintuitivewildflower : tumblr, pinterest, G+, Instagram, Twitter, Facebook and linkedin

#theintuitivewildflower FEED YOUR HEAD!! (with help from Amazon)

In my blog, Adventures of a Wildflower, I discuss often the lack of readers we have in the world today. As an adult, I have had people say they haven’t opened a book since high school. That needs to change. Rediscover something good for you today. Feed your head with Amazon’s kindleunlimited package. https://amzn.to/2DQKVc2my

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blackleatherjacketz · 8 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Law & Order: SVU Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr./Amanda Rollins Characters: Amanda Rollins, Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr. Additional Tags: Angst, Depression, Forehead Kisses, Single Parents, Wine Summary:

Amanda tells Sonny how she’s been holding up.

@skittle479 @mrbarbacarisi @sonnshineandrainbows

Amanda pours the five-dollar wine she bought into two glasses. She double-checks the video monitor on the counter, and watches as Jesse sleeps soundly. She pushes her bangs behind her ear before picking them up and walking over to the sofa.

Sonny takes one of them off her hands as she sits down next to him, starting the next episode of Bloodline on Netflix.

”Thanks for staying after Jesse went to sleep.” She starts, taking a sip of the cheap but delicious white wine.

”Anytime, Rollins, you know that.” He clinks his glass with hers only to find out it was made of plastic. “Really? Plastic wine glasses?” His lips smirk.

”Jesse is two, and she is getting into EVERYTHING lately. Before I know it she’ll be climbing on the countertops trying to get into my wine glasses.”

“Yeah my niece was always getting into stuff at that age. My sister had to put baby gates up all over the apartment. She even had to put locks on the stove dials.” He takes a sip of wine. “Good call on the glasses.”

His sister, his niece; his parenting advice always seemed to come second hand. As grateful as she is for Sonny’s help and companionship, she wished that just for one day, he could actually walk in her shoes. She wished that instead of handing Jesse back to her as she fell asleep, he had to put her in her crib. She wished that he had to wake up every couple of hours when she had a nightmare or wet diaper. She wished he actually understood what it was like to be a parent... and not just the fun uncle.

Sometimes she even wished that Nick were still here. At least he would have understood her obligation to her child. He wouldn’t keep forgetting about her parental status, and ask her to go out or do things that excluded children. He wouldn’t complain about being tired after she only got three and a half hours of sleep.

”Thanks.” She whispers, watching the show for a bit.

”Hey, what’s wrong?” He leans in to her.

What’s wrong? What’s WRONG?! Where does she start? “Nothing, it’s... you wouldn’t understand.” She gulps down the rest of her wine and sets it on the coffee table.

As often as she resented Sonny for his ignorance, she knew that it wasn’t his fault. She knew she couldn’t snap at him for being in a different stage in his life than she was. His compassion and optimism made him a great detective, and an even better friend. He was there for her when no one else was. He was there to hold her hand in the hospital, to make her dinner after tough cases, and to just... be there.

Sonny shoots her a look that says he knows better. He turns to face her on the couch, cupping his glass with both hands.

”Hey, don’t be like that...” he lets go of the glass and takes her hand.

”It’s just that... I feel so isolated.” She starts.

Sonny raises his eyebrows. He’s genuinely surprised. “Isolated?”

”Yeah, isolated. I feel like... no matter how early I go to bed, I’ll still never get enough sleep. I feel like an outcast... both at work and at the playground.” She lets out a deep sigh. “Jesse needs me more than ever right now, and sometimes, I feel like I’m a bad momma for wanting to be like everyone else.”

”You’re not a bad mother, okay? Don’t you ever say that.” His eyes darken.

”I’m not so sure.” She fingers the plastic wine glass.

”Rollins, where is this coming from?”

”I’ve always thought it... I’ve always felt it. Some days are better than others. When I’m at work, I actually feel like my old self again. I feel like nothing has changed, and that for hose ten hours I can actually be a person again.”

”A person?” His blonde eyebrows knit in the middle of his forehead.

”I feel like I’ve lost who am with Jesse... that motherhood has consumed so much of me that there’s nothing left. And people like you and Barba are going out all the time with your pictures on Instagram, and I’m... stuck.

”I’m stuck here with Jesse in my arms for the rest of my life. I’ve tried to embrace my new role when I’m not at work, but I can’t relate to any of the other mothers in my neighborhood. They are all married, or in relationships, and I can feel them looking down on me.”

”They look down on you? What do they say? Do I need to come over there and pretend to be your boyfriend and...”

She puts a hand up. “That’s it. It’s all pretend. ‘Let me pretend to be your boyfriend’ let me pretend not to be bothered by being alone. I’ve been pretending to be happy for the past few years, and I don’t know how much longer I can do it. I don’t know how many more smiles I can paint on my face everyday.”

Sonny frowns and looks at the ground.

”None of my single friends have children, and none of my mom friends are single. I’m alone in this, and it’s getting clearer and clearer everyday. I feel like an alien, for God’s sake. I don’t fit into either mold, and it’s becoming exhausting.”

”What about Liv? She’s a single mom.”

”She’s also our commanding officer. And she has enough to deal with with Noah and his grandma. I don’t want to bother her with all this.”

Amanda takes both of their glasses and fills them up again. She sits back down in front of Sonny and sips her spirit.

”Yeah, maybe.” He takes his glass from her. “But maybe not. Maybe she’s just as lost as you.”

Amanda rolls her eyes and takes a big swig.

”Look, clearly, I don’t know exactly what you’re going through. But I want you to be able to talk to me like this... all the time. I don’t want you to let it build up for two years before you let me know how bad it is.”

”I didn’t want to bother you.” She takes another sip. “You were in law school, and I kind of resented your freedom to do that. I wanted to study for the Sergeant’s exam and then I got pregnant, and... it just wasn’t in the cards for me anymore.” A sad smile crosses her lips as she finishes her wine.

”Rollins... Amanda... you’re my best friend. I don’t ever want you to resent me. If I have to come over every night and make my mom’s lasagna for you guys, I will.” He takes her hands in his and squeezes them. His face is calm and sincere; his boyish Good looks assuring her of his honesty.

The sound of Jesse’s cries echo throughout the hallway and through the speaker of the monitor. Amanda sighs deeply as Sonny continues to hold her hand. Tears well up in her eyes as the thought of her alienation builds inside of her.

”I got her. You finish this show.” He squeezes her hands and stands up, setting his glass on the table. He bends over and kisses his friend on the forehead. “Let me help.”

#amanda rollins #kelli giddish #sonny carisi #dominick carisi #Dominick carisi jr.#peter scanavino #Amanda Rollins Fanfic #Amanda Rollins Fic #svu fanfiction

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thefabulousfulcrum · 8 years ago

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This is really important, and it's not being said enough. Please pass it around.

Thoughts on The Vegas Shooting (or Why Men Keep Doing This)

article via Medium

Charlie Hoehn

I’ll never forget April 20th, 1999.

I was 12 years old, sitting in art class in middle school. We were playing with clay and making sculptures.

Suddenly, our principal came on over the PA. Her voice trembled.

“I have an important announcement to make. All teachers and students need to hear this. I will wait 60 seconds for everyone to be completely silent.”

The next minute was eerie. My friends and I exchanged confused looks, and nervously laughed. Our teacher held her finger to her lips. Silence.

The principal’s voice came back onto the PA:

“There is a shooting at Columbine high school. All students are to go home immediately.”

Columbine was 15 minutes away from us.

I remember taking the bus home, and walking into my house. My mom turned on the news. I recognized that fence. We’ve driven by that fence.

My mom knew the teacher. Dave Sanders. She’d substituted with him at Columbine.

In the last 18 years, we Americans have experienced too many of these shootings. And I want to share a few of my thoughts on why I think they keep happening.

By the way, this isn’t a political post about guns, or the media. It’s a post about mental health.

Over the past few years, I’ve found myself in the mental health space. And I’ve learned a lot about mental illness. Particularly that men in the United States REALLY struggle in this realm, and have very little support.

I believe mental illness is the single greatest health crisis we will face in our lifetimes. Mental illness affects every single person on the planet, whether we are personally ill or not.

If we have a better understanding of what causes mental illness, we don’t have to be so afraid. We can take better care of each other, and prevent these tragedies from happening.

Sadly, most Americans still fail to address mental illness as a massive problem. It’s still taboo, still stigmatized.

I was watching Jimmy Kimmel’s impassioned, raw speech last night about the Vegas shootings. Like Jimmy, I felt sick and heartbroken by the tragedy. But something he said stood out to me:

“There’s probably no way to ever know why a human being could do something like this to other human beings.”

Sadly, researchers know exactly why human beings do things like this.

There are clear reasons. And they are preventable.

Why mass shootings keep happening.

It’s tempting to call these shooters “psychopaths” and “pure evil,” or to blame the media or guns, but that absolves us of looking deeply at what each of us — as individuals, family members, friends, and community members — could all be getting wrong.

Now, I’m not a psychiatrist. And I don’t know very much about the Vegas shooter. I’m just a guy who studies mental health.

Again, this is not a political post about guns, for the same reason it’s not a political post about weaponized cars. I’m not as interested in the tool as I am in what causes a person to use it so destructively.

Nor is this a post in defense of the shooter. What he did was beyond horrific. He is not excused from this by any stretch (though I truly feel sympathy for the shooter’s brother, who seemed to be totally caught off guard by this behavior, and now he has to deal with the aftermath for the rest of his life).

The goal of this post is simply to shine a light on the root causes of men committing mass shootings.

1- Men in the United States are chronically lonely.

Boys in the United States — just like all human beings — need touch, caring, warmth, empathy, and close relationships. But as we grow up, most of us lose those essential components of our humanity.

What’s worse: we have no idea how to ask for those things, or admit we need them, because we’re afraid it will make us look weak.

As a man, you might be thinking, “Not me, I’ve got drinking buddies. I play poker with the guys. I’ve got friends.”

But do you have confidants? Do you have male friends who you can actually be vulnerable with? Do you have friends whom you can confide in, be 100% yourself around, that you can hug without saying “No homo,” without feeling tense or uncomfortable while you’re doing it?

For most men, the answer is “no.” So, we spend our time posturing instead.

From an early age, we have an unhealthy ideal of masculinity that we try to live up to. Part of that ideal tells us that Real men do everything on their own. Real men don’t cry. Real men express anger through violence.

The byproduct is isolation. Most men spend the majority of their adult lives without deeper friendships, or any real sense of community. Not to mention a complete inability to release anger or sadness in a healthy way.

There is a fantastic documentary called The Mask You Live In, which explains how boys in our society are ultimately shaped into mentally unstable adults. My friend Ryan recommended this film to me, after confiding that he cried throughout the entire thing. I cried, as well.

Simon Sinek echoed similar insights on Glenn Beck’s show:

“We’re seeing a rise of loneliness and isolation. No one kills themselves when they’re hungry; we kill ourselves when we’re lonely. And we act out, as well.

In the 1960’s, there was one school shooting.

In the 1980’s, there were 27.

In the 1990’s, there were 58.

In the past decade, there have been over 120.

It has nothing to do with guns, it has to do with people feeling lonely.

How do we combat the loneliness that kids are feeling? All of them attacked people in their own community, and all of them attack people they blamed for their own loneliness.”

This loneliness compounds as men grow older.

Without deeper friendships or a strong sense of community, the isolation is soul-deadening and maddening. You are alone.

Any slight from someone you care about can feel emotionally traumatizing. After enough rejections and feeling like an outcast, you begin to believe that people are just cruel and not worth the effort. You perceive people as threats.

Before we ask, “How could he do such a thing?” we have to understand how he felt on a daily basis, and how those feelings grew over the years.

2- Men in the United States are deprived of play opportunities.

You might be offended by this suggestion.

How could this guy talk about play after a shooting?! Play is for kids!

Wrong.

Homo sapiens play more than any other species. It’s impossible to prevent a human from playing. We play shortly after we are born, and the healthiest (and least stressed) humans tend to play for their entire lives.

Play may be God’s greatest gift to mankind. It’s how we form friendships, and learn skills, and master difficult things that help us survive. Play is a release valve for stress, and an outlet for creativity. Play brings us music, comedy, dance, and everything we value.

The irony is that loneliness would not be a problem if we all got ample time to play. Not only would we have deeper friendships, we’d also have better relationships with ourselves. Play allows us to enjoy our own company. If you truly know how to play, you are rarely alone.

But that is not the state of affairs in the United States. We are lonely because we don’t play, and we don’t play because we are alone.

There is a very strong correlation with play deprivation and mental illness.

When you deprive mammals of play, it leads to chronic depression. When you deprive a human child of play, their mental and emotional health deteriorate. Play suppression has enormous health consequences.

“But the Vegas shooter loved to gamble! He went on cruises!”

That’s not the type of play I’m talking about.

To better understand this dynamic, we need to look at the background of another mass shooter.

In 1966, Charles Whitman shot his wife and mother. Then, he climbed up the tower at the University of Texas in Austin, and shot 46 people. In total, he murdered 16 people. At the time, this was the biggest mass shooting in United States history.

Dr. Stuart Brown and his team of researchers were commissioned to find out what “The Texas Sniper” had in common with other mass murderers.

They found the key when they looked at their childhoods.

Brown recalls:

“None of them engaged in healthy rough-and-tumble play. The linkages that lead to Charles Whitman producing this crime was an unbelievable suppression of play behavior throughout his life by a very overbearing, very disturbed father.”

In other words: Healthy and joyful play must be had in order to thrive. Play is how we bond, and form our deepest connections with other human beings.

“It’s 10 o’clock. Do you know where your kids are?”

Ever since that famous ad aired, parents have shamed each other into watching their kids like a hawk.

If you let your kid walk up the street alone, you’ll either get a call from another parent, or the cops will pick them up. Our kids are stripped of their right to experience life on their own terms.

In an effort to improve our kids’ test scores and beef up their future resumes, we’ve stripped away nearly all of their free play opportunities. Recess has been sacrificed in the name of Scantrons, and pills are prescribed to the kids whose bodies and minds cry out for play.

The result: A generation of the most anxious, depressed, and suicidal American children on record.

This is all in alignment with Dr. Peter Gray’s research, who studied the rise of mental illness and the decline in play:

“Over the past half century, in the United States and other developed nations, children’s free play with other children has declined sharply. Over the same period, anxiety, depression, suicide, feelings of helplessness, and narcissism have increased sharply in children, adolescents, and young adults… The decline in play has contributed to the rise in the psychopathology of young people.

This is why I believe mental illness is the biggest health crisis of our lifetimes. Because those kids will grow up into isolated adults who don’t know how to play, or seek out their friends when they are lonely.

They are alone.

In the most memorable chapter of So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed, the author describes the research of James Gilligan, a young psychiatrist at Harvard Medical School in the 1970s.

Gilligan was invited to make sense of the Massachusetts’s prisons and mental hospitals, where he interviewed murderous inmates. He included in his notebook this heartbreaking observation:

“They would all say that they themselves had died before they started killing other people… They felt dead inside. They had no capacity for feelings. No emotional feelings. Or even physical feelings.

Universal among the violent criminals was the fact that they were keeping a secret. A central secret. And that secret was that they felt ashamed— deeply ashamed, chronically ashamed, acutely ashamed.

I have yet to see a serious act of violence that was not provoked by the experience of feeling shamed or humiliated, disrespected and ridiculed.”

ALL OF US will face difficult times in our lives where we will experience shame, humiliation, disrespect, and ridicule.

Do you know what gets us through those hard times?

Do you know what the difference is between you and a killer?

Friendship: Love and support from the people you played with.

I often think of the final line of Stand by Me:

“I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was 12… Jesus, does anyone?”

I don’t know much about the Vegas shooter. Maybe he was a psychopath.

But I’m guessing he wasn’t.

Instead, I am betting that these factors about him were likely true:

He felt deeply lonely. He had no significant friendships to rely on, and very few quality people he could confide in.

He experienced play deprivation. He didn’t have joyful fun with himself, or with others.

He carried with him a deep sense of shame. About what, I have no idea.

Even though we’re in the safest period in the history of civilization, these shootings will keep happening in America. They happen every single day. Guns are a part of the problem, and so is the media. But there is a bigger problem.

We are a culture that continually neglects the mental health of our boys, and our men.

The good news is that you, as an individual, can make a difference. Reach out to someone who you think could be lonely, and go do something fun together. Confide in each other. Be a safe and supportive person to be around.

If you’ve noticed their personality has drastically changed, invite them out for several hours. Be there for them. You could save their life.

And it wouldn’t hurt to have these books in your library, either:

1- Mental Health Emergencies

2- Play

3- Fearvana

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rosiebarryart · 5 years ago

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Splendid isolation: how I stopped time by sitting in a forest for 24 hours

https://www.theguardian.com/news/2020/jan/24/wilderness-solo-splendid-isolation-stopped-time-sitting-in-a-forest-24-hours

My life seemed to be getting busier, faster: I felt constantly short of time – so I stepped outside it for a day and a night and did nothing.

By Mark O’Connell

Fri 24 Jan 2020 06.00 GMTLast modified on Tue 28 Jan 2020 09.56 GMT

It was early summer, and I was on the verge of turning 40. I found myself entertaining a recurring daydream of escaping from time. I would be hustling my son out the door to get him to school, or walking briskly to work on the day of a deadline, or castigating myself for being online when I should have been methodically and efficiently putting words on paper, and I would have this vision of myself as a character in a video game discovering a secret level. This vision was informed by the platform games I loved as a child – Super Mario Bros, Sonic the Hedgehog and so on – in which the character you controlled moved across the screen from left to right through a scrolling landscape, encountering obstacles and adversaries as you progressed to the end of the level. In this daydream, I would see myself pushing against a wall or lowering myself down the yawning mouth of a pipe, and thereby discovering this secret level, this hidden chamber where I could exist for a time outside of time, where the clock was not forever running down to zero.

My relationship with time had always been characterised by a certain baleful anxiety, but as I approached the start of the decade in which I would have no choice but to think of myself as middle-aged, this anxiety intensified. I was always in the middle of some calculation or quantification with respect to time, and such thoughts were always predicated on an understanding of it as a precious and limited resource. What time was it right now? How much time was left for me to do the thing I was doing, and when would I have to stop doing it to do the next thing?

This resource being as limited as it was, should I not be doing something better with it, something more urgent or interesting or authentic? At some point in my late 30s, I recognised the paradoxical source of this anxiety: that every single thing in life took much longer than I expected it to, except for life itself, which went much faster, and would be over before I knew where I was.

Much of this had to do with being a parent. Having two young children had radically altered my relationship with the days and hours of my life. Almost every moment was accounted for in a way that it had never been before. But it was also the sheer velocity of change, the state of growth and flux in which my children existed, and the constant small adjustments that were necessary to accommodate these changes. I would realise that my son no longer mispronounced a particular word in that adorable way he once had, or that his baby sister had stopped doing that thing of nodding very seriously and emphatically when she heard a song she liked – that she was, in fact, no longer a baby at all – and that those eras had now passed for good, along with countless others that would pass unnoticed and unremembered, and I would feel sad and remorseful about not having lived more fully in those moments, not having stopped or at least slowed the flow of time. And when I felt this way, I would succumb to the daydream of the video game, the secret level, the escape from time itself.

My son turned six around then, itself a significant milestone in that he was, for the first time, at an age I myself could dimly remember being. And with this new phase of parenthood, I began to think how strange it was, given how precious those early years now seemed to me, that I spent so little time thinking about my own childhood, the lost civilisation on which my adult self now stood. The motion of the video game unfurled rightward, and I had no choice but to follow its motion towards the future, towards the completion of the game itself.

And then one day, about a week and a half before I turned 40, I found myself alone in a forest in Devon, where I discovered this secret level of my daydreams.

Here is how I did it: I came to a clearing in a forest by a riverbank in Dartmoor national park, far enough from any trail that it seemed unlikely I would encounter anyone while I was there. I gathered some loose branches and stones and arranged them in a circle of about 10 metres in diameter, and then I walked into the circle and did not leave it until the same time the following day.

The short version of this story is that nothing happened in that time: that I did nothing and witnessed nothing, experienced only the passage of the hours and minutes, and the languid dynamics of my own boredom. The long version isn’t exactly The Iliad, either, but in that version something could be said to have happened. Because by the time I walked out of that circle the following afternoon, I’d had an entirely unexpected and intensely cathartic encounter with the passage of time, and with my own mortality.

This is a practice commonly referred to as a “wilderness solo”. The basic principle is that you go out into nature, the wilder and more remote the better, and confine yourself to one very small area for a set period – a day, two days, three days, sometimes longer. During this period, you forego anything that might come between yourself and your own solitude. No phone. No books or other reading material. You don’t build a fire, because building a fire is a way to keep yourself busy, watching the dance of its flames a primitive entertainment. Most participants choose not to bring food, because when you have got nothing to do for a day and a night, the prospect of eating a sandwich can easily become an all-encompassing preoccupation, undermining the entire project of unmediated communion with nature. After that period of immersion, you step outside of your circle, and you re-enter the world.

Until fairly recently, I was not a person who had a lot of time for nature. I wished it well in all its dealings, and was glad to take its side in any quarrel with the forces arrayed against it, but my regard for it was essentially abstract, and I would just as soon have left it to its own devices. Nature was something I encountered as scenery, an experience to be consumed before getting back in the car and continuing on my way. But about the middle of 2016, amid the endlessly unfurling horrors of that year’s news, I became increasingly preoccupied with how this darkening political reality seemed to foreshadow a near future defined by a permanent state of climate emergency. And these things felt connected in some way that resisted easy definition: the speed and efficiency with which technology was gutting democracy and alienating us from the reality of human suffering, and the increasing extremity of our estrangement from the natural world. I was thinking all the time about climate change, about the future my children would be forced to live in, about what we had done and were continuing to do to the world. But at some point it dawned on me that I didn’t know the first thing about that world. What I knew was the great indoors in which I lived my life: the insides of buildings, the insides of books, the interlocking interiors of the internet and my own mind. When I talked about nature, I didn’t know what I meant. In a way that was somehow both vague and urgent, I felt that it was time to go outside.

I came across an organisation called Way of Nature UK that arranged group wilderness retreats, and I signed up for a trip. This was how, in the spring of 2017, I ended up spending a week with a group of about 20 other people in a remote wilderness reserve called Alladale in the Scottish Highlands, towards the end of which everyone went off to various locations and did a solo. How did I feel about sitting by a river for 24 hours and doing absolutely nothing, aside from looking at grass and clouds and water and so on? I felt slightly intimidated. I felt uncomfortable. I felt, above all, reflexively cynical, in the way that I was reflexively cynical about pretty much anything that felt new-agey or hippyish or otherwise overly earnest to me. But over the course of that week, and in particular the 24 hours I spent alone by the river, that brittle carapace of cynicism began to give way. What affected me most deeply about that time alone in nature was the aspect of it I had initially been most daunted by. The experience of the solo is the experience of time itself, in its rawest and most unmediated form.

When I stepped into that ad-hoc ceremonial circle in Devon last summer, it had been over a year since I had performed the ritual, and I found myself craving the solitude and immersion it provided.

Andres Roberts, Way of Nature’s co-founder, picked me up that morning outside my hotel in Bristol, near where he lives. I had got to know him pretty well on the two previous trips I had done with him, and my new enthusiasm for spending time alone in nature had been informed by his quietly ecstatic way of talking about the wilderness. As we drove south along the M5 through intermittent downpours of rain, he spoke about his work, and the ideas underpinning it. If there was a single word that encapsulated the value he was trying to incubate, that word was “slowness”. There was an extraordinary transformative power, he insisted, in the practice of sitting and doing nothing, and thereby slowing your mind and body to a meditative rhythm in nature.

One of Roberts’s major themes was the idea that our particular civilisation, at our particular time, was unusual in not having as part of its cultural repertoire some ritual whereby during periods of change or upheaval people went out alone into nature. When he talked about the practice of the wilderness solo, he talked about it in such terms – as a ritual whereby you stepped out of the flux of the world, in order to gain some perspective on the flux, and your place within it.

A word he used a lot in talking about his work, and in describing the experience and value of the nature solo, was “re-enchantment”. He was of the opinion that most people, most of the time, lived life in a state of disenchantment. What he wanted to do, above all, was to help people strip away the layers of hard rationalism that accrued around the adult mind, so that they could return to a more childlike engagement with the world. And in reaching this state, he said, this place of re-enchantment, we could come to see ourselves not as separate from and in control of nature, but as part of it.

It was harder than anticipated, finding a solo spot. We had settled on Dartmoor for its proximity to Bristol and its relatively humane weather outlook, but it was not a place with which Roberrts was particularly familiar. We followed at first a northward trail, planning to cross a footbridge into deeper forest on the far side of the river, but when we eventually found it, the gate to the footbridge was firmly padlocked.

Further along the trail we met a man out for a walk with his dog. Early 70s, bearded, wax jacketed, he wore the dog’s lead draped athwart himself shoulder to hip in the manner of a mayoral sash. Roberts asked him whether there was a bridge we could cross further on. He shook his head and courteously informed us, in a Devonshire accent as soft and mulchy as the ground beneath our feet, that we were on land privately owned by one of his neighbours, and that the more densely forested territory across the river was private, too, and that we technically required a permit to walk this trail.

We turned and strolled back with him toward the road, and as he chatted to us about the cottage he and his wife had recently renovated, and their troubles with the local conservation society who disapproved of their alterations to the property, I was struck by how easily the concept of private land ownership could be made to feel absurd. It seemed perfectly rational in towns and cities, in housing estates and apartment buildings, for people to own their little portions of the world. But here, on the flourishing banks of a torrential river, the thought that this place was the sole property of some mere person – that that person could own the deeds to a river bank or a forest – seemed deeply and disorientingly counterintuitive, in a way that threatened to undermine the whole spirit of our enterprise. It felt impossible, as I put it to Roberts after we parted company with the man, to pursue the kind of immersive experience of a place we were after when you worried you might be trespassing.

“Yes,” he said. “Although this is England. Literally half of the land in this country is owned by less than 1% of the population. A handful of aristocrats and corporations.”

He reassured me, though, that we would find a suitable place for my solo, on commonly owned land where I wouldn’t have to worry about some local squire coming along and telling me I had no business having an immersive experience with his privately owned nature.

We found another trail, running northward along the River Dart. Roberts lowered his voice to not much more than a whisper, eventually stopping talking altogether, and slowed his pace so that I was walking well ahead of him. I understood this deliberate minimisation of his own presence to mean that we had entered a kind of buffer zone between the outside world and the solo space. This was one of the great charms of how he worked; without his having seemed to do anything very specific, you were made to understand that some ritual was underway, that you were somehow in the midst of the sacred.

The point of being here is to be here. An hour or two into my time in the forest, I wrote these words in my notebook, and drew a box around them to emphasise their authority and self-sufficiency. And then I stopped writing words in my notebook altogether, because writing words is my work, and I was wary of taking an utilitarian approach to the solo. The point of being there, after all, was to be there. (The cynical reader might argue that the point of being there was to write about being there – an argument the cynical writer will, on balance, concede, if only to avoid getting bogged down in the ontological complexities of the whole relationship between experiencing things and writing about them.)

And what did I do, while I was being there, in the forest, by the river? Nothing, more or less. The first half hour or so, there was a certain amount of housekeeping to attend to. I had to find exactly the right spot: not too damp; flat enough to pitch a tent once night began to fall; sheltered from the elements, but not so sheltered as to obscure the view of the river and the far bank. I had to mark out the circle, of course. I had to gather flat stones and sticks and bits of branches, and arrange them around a beech tree I had chosen as the central feature of my location. It could, I suppose, have been an oak tree, or an elm, or some other type of lofty deciduous of which I, being no Robert MacFarlane, had no prior knowledge.

But once all that was out of the way, I had to confront that fact of having nothing to do. In theory, I should have greeted this experience with open arms. I had, in fact, been looking forward to it for weeks – to having no tasks to attend to, no places to go, no obligations to meet. Here I was with nothing to do but inhabit the spaciousness of every passing moment, to bathe at leisure in the pooled flow of time itself. In theory, it was the dream. In practice, if I could have taken out my phone and gone on Twitter I surely would have. (Thankfully, this possibility was foreclosed to me by the fact of having no mobile coverage. In any case, I’d stowed my phone in my backpack in order to stop myself violating the spirit of the wilderness solo by spending the whole time looking through photos of my children, or opening up the New Yorker app and immersing myself not in nature, but in back issues of a magazine I never had the time to read, for reasons gestured at above.)

When you’re actually in it, the reality of the solo is, at least at first, one of total boredom. I cannot stress enough how little there is to do when you have confined yourself to the inside of a small circle of stones and sticks in a forest. But it is an instructive kind of boredom, insofar as boredom is the raw and unmediated experience of time. It is considered best practice not to have a watch, and to turn off your phone and keep it somewhere in the bottom of a bag so as to avoid the temptation to constantly check how long you’ve been out and how long you have left. And as you become untethered from your accustomed orientation in time – from always knowing what time it is, how long you have to do the thing you’re doing, when you have to stop doing it to do the next thing – you begin to glimpse a new perspective on the anxiety that arises from that orientation. Because this anxiety, which amounts to a sort of cost-benefit analysis of every passing moment, is a quintessentially modern predicament.

As weirdly counterintuitive as it feels to acknowledge, human beings are not naturally predisposed to think of life in terms of seconds and hours, of how they might be optimised. The development of mechanical clocks during the middle ages and, later, the advent of widespread precision timekeeping that facilitated the industrial revolution, fundamentally changed the way in which the human animal related to the world. Time became both an abstraction and a commodity, a raw material to be bought and sold, saved or squandered.

The mass adoption of this new conception of time, abstract and removed from the organic context of nature, was central to the rise of capitalism, and to the accelerating mechanisation of life. “Beginning in the 14th century,” as the American cultural critic Neil Postman put it, “the clock made us into time-keepers, and then time-savers, and now time-servers. In the process, we have learned irreverence toward the sun and the seasons, for in a world made up of seconds and minutes, the authority of nature is superseded.” To sit by a river for a day and a night is to experience the reinstatement, if only temporarily, of that authority.

What did I do, sitting in that forest? I drank a lot of water, because I had brought a lot of water, and drinking it was, if only in the most basic of senses, something to do. And because I drank a lot of water, I took a great many resulting pisses around the far side of the tree, and this too presented something to do, however minor. I would occasionally treat myself to a bit of a stand, or even a little stroll around my circle, but mostly I was content to sit propped against my backpack with my legs spread before me on the soft carpet of leaves. I spent a lot of time looking at those leaves: holding them up to the light, observing the delicate webbings, the desiccated veins, crumbling them slowly between my fingers. This, I admit, was only slightly more interesting than doing nothing at all.

The tree, in time, became a central object of my attention. I can’t say how long I spent standing in front of its trunk, staring at its covering of bright green moss, its gnarled protuberances of bark, but it must have been at least an hour. The moss was leafy, and felt both delicate and spongily resilient beneath my hand, and the longer I stared at it, the more I came to feel that I was gazing downward from a great height at a forest, that the moss was a canopy of leaves and the bark the ground beneath. The surface of the tree was its own ecosystem, expansive and intricate, and when I looked closely enough I saw that there were tiny insects everywhere, spiders and other many-legged creatures, whom I imagined living out their days aware of no other world than that little vastness, that forest within a forest.

My own incapacity to give this tree a name seemed suddenly strange to me, and slightly sad. In the ordinary run of things, if I were curious enough about what kind of tree I was looking at, I would have just gone on Google, or downloaded one of those tree-recognising apps, but this option was not available to me. Then it occurred to me that there was something about the not knowing that was somehow right. Not having a human name to give the tree, a category in which to put it, made the tree more real and present to me than it otherwise would have, or so I allowed myself to believe.

At some point it came to my attention that I was no longer bored, and that I had not been bored for some time. This is not to say that I was in a state of high mental stimulation, but that the hours of inactivity had induced in me a kind of meditative stupor, whereby I was receptive to the information of the environment – to the ceaseless clamour of the river, the chattering of the birds overhead, the urgent whisperings of the leaves in the breeze, the modulations of temperature and light – but uninclined to think much about this information, or anything else. I had, I realised, become attuned to the frequencies of the forest. I had found the secret level.

This is a thing that has happened to me whenever I have been alone in nature for an extended period: there occurs, some hours in, a subtle but profound modulation in consciousness whereby I come to experience myself as part of the place I am in, as an organism among organisms. This is a state of mind in which I can watch a small spider crawl along my arm for many minutes, feeling a kind of sentimental fellowship with this busy, delicate creature, whom in the normal run of things I would not hesitate to brush off in irritation or disgust.

In these moments, I find myself thinking of the place itself as somehow conscious of my presence. To be alone in a forest, and to be thinking of the forest as somehow aware of you: I will acknowledge that this sounds like the very substance of nightmare, but, in fact, it is a strangely beautiful and quietly moving experience, and I think it must be what people mean when they talk about intuiting the presence of God.

The word that comes to mind is immanence – a term I learned as a philosophy undergraduate and which I did not remotely understand until I began to have these experiences of being alone in nature. In his 1836 essay Nature, American poet Ralph Waldo Emerson identifies precisely this sublime phenomenon. “The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister,” he writes, “is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them.” It’s a phenomenon that he views as both an apprehension of the divine and a return to the child’s perception of the world. “In the woods,” he writes, “a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child.”

I am struck now by how strongly these lines of Emerson – these ideas of casting off years, of attaining the spirit of early childhood – resonate with the strangest and most unsettling and, in the end, most wonderful aspect of my experience in the woods. While I was there, I didn’t spend much time thinking about reaching 40, and whatever lay beyond. What I thought about was the distant past of my own childhood, which I spent in the countryside, in a house beside a small wood with a little stream running through it: a tamely arcadian surrounding which provided the setting for countless imagined adventures, battles and voyages. Something about sitting alone among the trees, looking at the river, put me in mind of that period of my life. The fact of having all this time now, and nothing to do with it; the slow process by which intense boredom had given way to a kind of absent-minded and playful immersion: these were things I associated with my own childhood. I remembered what Andres Roberts had said about re-enchantment, about time in nature as a means of returning to a more childlike engagement with the world.

And then for a long time I thought about my son, of how he existed in a thin space between reality and fantasy. I thought of how attached he was to his favourite toy, a small brown rabbit he carried everywhere with him, clutched in the crook of an arm, of how real and alive that rabbit was to him. This was in my mind because the previous evening, as I had unpacked at my hotel, I saw that my wife had slipped among my camping things a stuffed rabbit I myself had been deeply attached to when I was small. She had found it on a recent visit to my parents’ house, where it had been lying around for years in my childhood bedroom. That rabbit, with its floppy long limbs and its black button eyes and its faded blue dungarees, had been as real to me, as invested with surplus love, as my son’s stuffed rabbit now was to him. I thought of how soon – a year from now, or maybe less – my son’s rabbit would stop being real to him, how soon his world would lose the magic he himself had breathed into it.

And I thought with a pang of how I was always hurrying him – to get dressed, to get out the door for school, to finish his dinner, to get ready for bed – and of how heedlessly I was inflicting upon him my own anxious awareness of time as an oppressive force. How before he knew where he was, his own childhood would have receded into the past, and he too would be out of the secret level of childhood and into the laterally scrolling world of adulthood.

As the sun was going down in Dartmoor, I put up my tent and, in the dwindling light of the forest, rummaged in my backpack for my head-mounted torch. Inside the backpack, my hand encountered again the familiar softness of the stuffed rabbit. I held the toy a moment, smiled again at this touching and witty gesture of my wife’s, and then decided to take a photo of it to send to her when I had mobile coverage the following day. I propped the rabbit against the outer lining of the tent and turned away to rummage again in my bag for my phone, and when I turned back I was overcome by a shock of recognition. I was seeing the rabbit not as I had seen it a moment before, as an intriguing relic of the submerged civilisation of my childhood, but as I had seen it as a small boy.

The rabbit was entirely alive to me in that moment. It was as though all the love I had invested in this object in those days was still contained within it, within him, and the experience of its sudden animation was overwhelming. I was looking at the rabbit, and the rabbit was looking at me, and it was seeing me, and I was both myself and the child I had once been. Whatever complex of emotions I was feeling was neither sentimental nor nostalgic in character, but powerfully existential. I felt simultaneously closer to myself as a child than I had in all the years of adulthood, and yet that sudden closeness came as an experience of loss, of immeasurable distance. It was as though time had folded in on itself, and the present was touching the past. There I was, as close to 40 as made no difference, alone in a forest on a moonless night and weeping with cathartic abandon at the sight of a threadbare stuffed animal. I was mourning my childhood, and the mourning felt long overdue.

I woke early, and lay still for a time listening to water dropping from the branches and leaves onto the outer layer of my tent. I had slept more soundly than I had expected, given the hard ground beneath me and the mummifying strictures of the sleeping bag. The absolute darkness and solitude had aroused neither loneliness nor unease. I had felt strangely at home with the sounds and silences of the forest at night.

Until very recently, the idea of spending a rainy morning alone in a forest would have been a profoundly unattractive one, but I found myself relishing the prospect of these last hours. The restlessness I had experienced the previous day, in that last stretch of the solo, was entirely absent now, the question of what to do with myself for several hours having come to seem nowhere near as pressing. The idea of such a question felt, in fact, somehow absurd. I went to the edge of my circle and sat down, and looked at the river.

You would have thought that I’d have been more or less done with looking at the river by now, but in fact I was eager to get stuck into it again after the long night-time hours of not looking at the river. In terms of the diversions that were presently available to me, looking at the river was the hottest ticket in town. And so I sat there at the edge of my little circle on the riverbank and binge-watched the river. There is, it turns out, a lot going on at any one time in a river, especially if you’ve got nothing else to be looking at.

There were birds coming and going all the time, skimming low over the water and landing on the banks. There was the occasional ambiguous shape flitting on the periphery of my vision that may well have been some kind of leaping fish. I attended in particular to a bit of river directly in front of me where the water plunged low into a sort of miniature waterfall, immediately after which it appeared to run backward into itself, a phenomenon I couldn’t begin to try to account for, but for which the most likely culprit seemed to be gravity. I stared at this spectacle for so long that a kind of optical illusion began to assert itself, whereby when I glanced up at the opposite bank, the long grass and drooping ferns seemed themselves to be engaged in sympathetic movements, swirling impossibly before my eyes. It could have been the effect of hours of meditative inactivity, or it could just have been hunger, but there was something mildly trippy about the experience.

Around noon, I heard a gently insistent bird call coming from a little way upriver. I turned toward it, and saw Roberts standing not far off with his back against a tree trunk, making an owl sound with his hands cupped to his mouth. I gathered my things, and we walked in silence out of the forest, him keeping several paces behind me. This seemed both entirely deliberate and entirely natural, and its effect was to preserve a measure of my solitude as I gradually emerged from the circle, out of the secret level and back into time.

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ecotone99 · 5 years ago

Text

[SP] Gazing at Flowers

https://medium.com/@crepuscular.luminous/gazing-at-flowers-65fa1f4b644c

In this world

we walk on the roof of hell,

gazing at flowers.

- Kobayashi Issa

In Mallorca, a tranquil Spanish island, she perished on the last day before her eighteenth birthday. Next to a small church, red Amapola flowers were dancing voluptuously under the glamour of the setting sun. The Amapola flowers were made of every single red blood cells of her naive yet flamboyant corpse. That night, all the lights on the island went off and all the water surrounding the island transformed into ice.

She was born in a poor village in Peru next to the Andes Mountains and was nurtured by the milk of a ewe. Her expressive eyes possessed the enchantment of a Spanish girl whereas her innocent smile reflected the purity of an Inca girl. Her slightly tanned skin intertwined with the incandescent beams of sunlight. She was mesmerized by the mystique of Chuquiragua flowers on the silvery mountains ever since her early childhood. The flowers were layers and layers of fiery golden flames. A tiny church with white bricks was concealed amid the Chuquiragua. Every Sunday, she came here to sing the holy hymns with her flawless voice in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary. It was a weekly routine for her.

As she became a teenager, the golden hue of the Chuquiragua preoccupied her recurrent dreams as if these flowers were insurmountable torches that lit up the darkness of her distorted land. She was quite intelligent and determined as she solved hard math problems ceaselessly every day until midnight. She was the best at math in her class and many students enjoyed copying her homework solutions. Nevertheless, she always seemed to be pensive because she was cursed to be born in melancholia. Instead of gossiping with other girls in middle school, she spent hours and hours of futility contemplating the tragic past, present, and future of South America as she began secretly reading novels by García Márquez during the absurd and dull English classes. Profesor Lobo, the English teacher, even managed to mispronounce the word “blood” as “blued”! The allure of Chuquiragua flowers seemed to be the only refuge of her adolescent soul full of ineffable solitude.

When she was fourteen, her heart became seemingly less desolate as Matsu moved to her village. Matsu was a boy of her age, whose grandparents immigrated from Japan to Peru. Although he had a Japanese name, he could not speak the language fluently as everyone around him spoke Spanish since he was growing up. Like her, he also possessed a taciturn nature. He never spoke a word when other students were chattering loudly. It appeared that his only entertainment was drawing on his sketchbook. When he was drawing, he concentrated completed on every single stroke made by his pencil so that his mind was in a void of silence. Once during English class, Matsu was entirely immersed in the minute detail of his piece of art that he did not even notice anything when profesor Lobo approached him. Profesor Lobo was extremely furious for his student being so disrespectful, he snatched away Matsu’s stretch book with disdain and revealed what he drew to the whole class — the body of a naked woman, with the perfect shape and silhouette. All the students, except for her, laughed out loud with mockery.

“It’s… it’s just for practicing my skills for sketching.” Matsu murmured helplessly.

Two lonely adolescents souls connected. They talked about literature and art, about unfeasible dreams and desires, about their naïveté…

One day, they were climbing up the mountain filled with Chuquiragua flowers. They were gazing at the flowers. Unexpectedly, he said, “Beautiful flowers. Even though I don’t speak Japanese well, I still memorized a few Haikus. One of them goes like this:

In this world

we walk on the roof of hell,

gazing at flowers.”

“The author of this poem Kobayashi Issa lived a miserable life. He was an orphan since he was a little kid. My parents passed away by cholera right after I was born. Grandpa told me that they named me Matsu, which means pine trees. My parents wanted me to stay strong no matter what. I can’t even remember how they look like. Grandpa raised me all by himself. I’m glad I find such beautiful flowers when I’m almost living in hell.” A few drops of tears appeared on Matsu’s face. He took out his sketchbook and drew a Chuquiragua flower in tranquility. Layers and layers of golden flames were igniting on the paper.

When she was sixteen, her family decided to move to Spain for a better life. “How ironic…”, she thought herself, “They destroyed our land five hundred years ago… and now… but still… I don’t want my family to live in poverty.” Eventually, they arrived at a small island called Mallorca. There were no Chuquiragua flowers on this Spanish island. Chuquiragua only belonged to the Andes mountain. Instead, Mallorca was covered with red Amapola. These flowers created a lustrous yet nostalgic sensation. She missed Matsu.

She started her baccalaureate studies at a Catholic high school in a small town in Mallorca in the hope that her life would get better. However, her lifelong curse of melancholia was twisting and swirling, until it became a menacing red cloud hovering over her vulnerable shoulder. Every day, her eardrums were punctured by all the insulting words her classmates said about her: her cellphone was almost broken, her family was lazy and poor, South Americans were barbaric and inferior compared to Spanish people, her skin tone was as dark as dirty as “mierda”, she was an ugly and disgusting “puta” who slept with many old perverts… They spilled black ink and wrote many words with profanity on her notebooks and then threw her notebooks into the toilet trash can. And after that, they pulled her long dark hair and tore up her collar. Her fragile neck and her delicate breasts were filled with impuissant scars and brackish blood. All she could do was silently wiping off her tears. The horrid voices brutally cracked every single joint of her spinal cord until her brain stem was screaming with diabolic blood flow. Everything around her started their deformation and metamorphosis as the desks, the chairs, the blackboard, the ceiling, and the floor were all swelling with bleeding pustules. The red glistening Amapola flowers outside the window smiled at her with desolation. She wished Matsu was there.

Nevertheless, she attempted to use her intelligence to escape from the hellish reality. She started to learn Catalan at a surprisingly fast pace that after a few months she wrote some poems in the new language she learned. She continued to do all the hard math problems she could find as she believed that the rational steps solving derivatives and integrals could make her temporarily forget about her emotional pain and isolation. She was scrutinizing the techniques of integrating a trigonometric function while the nun started her repetitive and banal lecture about Catholicism. She eventually placed first in a regional math competition but her classmates threw her medal away with sarcasm just like how they threw away her notebooks. She stared at the window and the petals of red Amapola were fading away in the summer sunlight. She knew that she would never see Matsu again.

When her classmates were discussing the popular online romance novels, she viewed their hedonistic taste with despise. She was fascinated by García Márquez’s Strange Pilgrims, a collection of story stories about dissociated Latin Americans living in foreign European countries. When she was reading the stories, she felt some kind of bizarre nostalgia as she reminisced the incandescent Chuquiragua flowers standing vehemently on the Andes mountains.

When she was sitting on a wooden bench in the last row and secretly reading Strange Pilgrims during the Sunday mass, a sentence from the book caught her eyes, “Light is like water. You turn on the tap and out it comes.” All of a sudden, the iridescent facades were deliquescing. Countless beams of sparkling light were splashing down to the ground and kaleidoscopic water was flowing all over the floor of the church. The candles next to the crucifix dissolved into golden water that traversed across the wooden benches. The priest and all the people sitting on the benches vanished abruptly. The benches moved and mingled together. Their shape altered and turned into a wooden boat. She sat on the boat. And the boat floated outside the Gothic church door, across the streets that were immersed in chromatic water. There were no cars, no pedestrians, no dogs barking… Only tranquility like that of the purgatory existed. All the Amapola flowers emerged from the water and flew up to the sky. The hue of the sky transformed into that of the crimson blood. The boat was floating faster and faster and it eventually reached the edge of the island. It went into the profound waves of the ocean. It appeared that the azure waves would carry her to Peru.

Suddenly, she was on her bed and the world became nothing but darkness. The boat and the water were merely her bittersweet hallucinations. She was suffocating as if the long and dusty fingernails of her classmates struck inside her brain and broke her neutrons into pieces. She was so deeply trapped in the vicious abyss of darkness that she could barely open her eyes or move her joints. Her parents yelled at her again and again about how disgraceful she was as their child and how regretful they were of giving birth to her. She screamed back at them with the worst curse words she could think of. After a few days, her parents had no choice but to bring her to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist examined her aloofly and prescribed her antidepressants that she had to take daily. And she had to attend the mundane psychotherapy sessions weekly in a gloomy and shattered mental institute where the wall, the doors, the ceiling, and the floor were covered with a cadaverous hue and every corner of the building was permeated with ghastly odor. Day by day, she became more and more agonizing as if the veins and bone marrows all over her body were devoured by sulfuric fluid. Her consciousness was demolished by grotesque voices of fallen angels. Until one day, she decided to end her pain by taking all the antidepressants she had at once.

She woke up from a coma with a nauseous and bloody sensation in her mouth. A man in a white coat told her that she had was admitted to the mental institute and she had to stay there until she became stable. He coerced her to take some pills and she soon felt an irksome numbness under her eyelids. She fell asleep and saw her flesh was consumed by avaricious teeth and her skeleton was engulfed in the eternal flames of the inferno. Behind a mirror, she saw her visage contorted in an inexplicable and peculiar form until it became ashes burning in the flamboyant fire. She tried to scream and shout. But her mouth disappeared and she could not even make a sound. When she was awake, she bit her finger until it was bleeding, she drew on her leg her corpse and the red Amapola flowers, the two different images were crossing and interweaving with each other. In the end, she could not differentiate between the two. She then quickly erased what she drew with her saliva so she would not catch the nurse’s attention.

The nurse brought a teenage girl into the room. She said her name was Amalia and she was born to an Andalusian father and a Swedish mother. She also said she was ethnically Jewish but she never practiced her religion because she did not believe in God.

“The reason that they brought me here was that I have an incurable mental disorder and I tried to hang myself after my boyfriend abandoned me.” Amalia murmured.

The Peruvian girl shook her head. She never had a boyfriend and she thought it was ridiculous to end one’s life because of heartbreak. Then she felt guilty for being a hypocrite when the vague silhouette of Matsu flashed through her mind. Then at midnight, Amalia began to sing a song in a foreign language. Her voice echoed with the fading moonlight.

Each day was the same for the poor girl from South America: the nightmares after taking the pills, drawing on her flesh, Amalia’s voice under the moonlight…After a week, or a month, who knows, she was sent back to her high school. Her classmates all ignored her as if she could contaminate them with her sinful soul. The day before she turned eighteen, she told the P.E. teacher that she was sick. So when all the students went to the gym, she stayed alone inside the classroom. Ruminating about the futility and agony of life, she read a verse from the Bible, “Wherefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than the living which are yet alive. Yea, better is he than both they, which hath not yet been, who hath not seen the evil work that is done under the sun.” She then immediately jumped out of the classroom window with the Bible in her pocket. She fell asleep like limbo in a chaotic world as the last beam of sunlight disappeared from the horizon. Her blood dissolved in the petals of red Amapola, so the color of flowers became redder than ever before in the dusk. That starless night, there was no light and there was no water in Mallorca.

On her eighteenth birthday, her coffin was covered with voluptuous red Amapola flowers. The flowers were eternal flames from the inferno. Being a precocious bud, she was destined to wither away before she could turn into a luscious flower. The next day, her school published an open letter stating that she would go to heaven even after sinning because she was a devoted Catholic in life and that everyone should pray for her.

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