#i went through the 5 stages of grief when i learned that 2 days ago but

[satoriberry]

learning to move on and accept change is such a beautiful thing i dont think i talk enough in here about personal milestones or spiritual acheivements

[findingjoynweirdstuff]

Dream SMP Recap (June 2/2021) - Self-Care and Reconciliation

Fundy tries some speedy self-care to follow Quackity’s directions of “finding himself.”

Foolish finds out about the supreme fridge and isn’t pleased. 

Antfrost seeks out Foolish, Bad and Puffy to find peace and make amends after what happened with the Egg. 

---

VOD LINKS:

Philza

Tubbo

Fundy

Foolish

Eret

Captain Puffy

Antfrost

Michaelmcchill

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- Phil works on the basement some more

- Tubbo works on his outpost

- Tubbo comes over to the Arctic and visits Phil in his basement to “spy” on him 

- They go to Tubbo’s outpost and Tubbo asks if Phil would like to make a TNT canon with him. Phil sees Las Nevadas 

- Tubbo’s a changed person since he tried to kill Phil’s friend, and now he and Phil are on good terms!

- Tubbo and Phil start attempting to wrangle a Ghast together for the outpost

- A few days ago, Quackity told Fundy that he could have a plot of land in Las Nevadas under certain circumstances, and Fundy has a choice to join the nation or not

- When he and Quackity spoke, Quackity said that this plot of land can be his if Fundy can find himself. Fundy needs to fix what’s broken

- Living in the middle of nowhere away from other people isn’t good, so today, Fundy wants to take care of himself and become a better person

- Fundy’s snow fox is outside, but Fundy decides to let him roam for the time being

- Fundy goes outside and creates a board with signs: 

FUNDY’S PLAN TO BECOME BETTER MAN:

Healthy diet! fish, steak, vegetables, fruit, dary, grains

Take care of himself. be able to cut down tree fast

mine diamonds

be able to accept therapy say “im okay with therapy”

good friends, get 3 people to say im a friend

sleep

take care of pet :)

learn to count

- He sets up a timer to do these eight things, and once it starts, he immediately runs off to fix his diet

- Fundy fetches some cod from the sea and spots Tubbo’s outpost in the distance. Curious, he goes over -- if someone lives there, that can go towards his friend goal

- Seeing that Tubbo isn’t online, Fundy messages Phil instead. He asks if they are friends, and Phil just asks what he wants. After a lot more pressing, Phil says they are friends! Fundy is his grandson, after all

- Phil asks if Fundy is safe. Fundy is overjoyed that he cares about his safety, and counts that as two friends! Fundy says he should come by to play cards sometimes, and Phil likes the idea

- To himself, Fundy whispers: “You are a friend and you are appreciated and worth something. You are cool. You are special. You are loved.” 

He counts this as the final friend, and has now completed one goal!

- He creates a small patch of dirt and plants wheat, then goes mining for diamonds

- Fundy chops some trees and returns to his house

- On his bed, he psyches himself up and musters up the courage to say something

Fundy: “I...accept...and am okay...with...”

(he struggles to say the last word)

Fundy: “I accept and am okay with...therapy. I accept and am okay with THERAPY!”

- He then goes outside and learns to count by killing zombies

- After that, he has to go find his pet snow fox. He asks a nearby Enderman where he is

- Fundy and the Enderman go searching together

- Fundy can’t find the fox. He keeps searching around the forest, until he comes back towards his house and finally finds the fox sleeping on a nearby hill

- With all his other goals done, there is only one remaining: sleep.

- He goes to his bed, hesitates...

...and sleeps.

(This is a set up for next stream)

- Foolish returns to his summer home from Las Nevadas and finds the WAR sign, confused. He then notices the disappearance of the supreme fridge

- He reads the war note left in the chest for Ponk and is outraged. That fridge was his gift! Of all the buildings that have been built here, the fridge was the one thing he allowed

- There will be consequences, but as Foolish will be gone for a bit, he can’t do anything now. 

- Foolish begins to go through the stages of grief, mourning the fridge, before leaving a note:

---

You destroyed my fridge. It was my gift from Ponk. The one structure that was built for me on this server was destroyed. Once I go through the 5 stages of grief...I will then add on a bonus stage.......REVENGE

---

- He kills one of the L’Sandburg citizen llamas to send a message

- Foolish goes to the main area and visits Eret’s fortress, noticing the totem statue Eret made in mourning. He changes the sign to simply say “in honor of Foolish” instead

- While working on his pyramid some more at the summer home, Foolish notices Antfrost just over the hill. Ant comes over, seeking to apologize for killing Foolish

Foolish: Listen Ant. From the very start I blamed the egg. And I don’t believe the REAL Antfrost killed me. Nice to see some blue eyes as well

Ant: but we didn’t listen to your warnings, we had our chances and we betrayed you and our friends. I wouldn’t blame you if you killed me right here

- Foolish doesn’t. He tells Ant that he’s moving on. 

- Ant asks if there’s any way to make it up to him, and Foolish says he could use some help gathering sand (Antfrost finds sand tasty, but Foolish doesn’t eat sand. It has too many calories)

- The two gather sand together

Foolish: I hold nothing against you

Ant: thank you

Foolish: Honestly I think the banquet has changed me for the better

Ant: how so

Foolish: It has given me new found strength. Basically from here on out...I’ll be less timid to take action

Ant: well at least something good came out of it

Foolish: So how about you Antfrost, what’s next for the old sly cat

Ant: I need to talk to Puffy and Bad and Sam and everyone I’ve wronged

- Ant asks if Foolish has seen Puffy anywhere, whether there’s something he can give her as a peace offering. She likes llamas

- Foolish thanks Ant for his help. Ant says if Foolish needs anything, to let him know. Foolish looks forward to happier times

- Puffy comes on later and finds the book Foolish left in the chest. She reads it, but she still thinks getting rid of the fridge was better for the aesthetic, and she had to get back at Ponk

- She writes another letter, this time to Foolish, titled “To my sharkyson”:

---

Dear Foolish!

It was not my intention to make you sad or angry! I didn’t know you cared so much for the fridge as well. it was kinda ugly and it stood out so much from the rest of the builds! But I assure you I’m not allied with Bad, my whole goal behind L’llamaburg was to keep an eye on Bad so he didn’t build any further on your land or cause you more problems.

Once Bad was gone I fully intended to disband l’llamaburg and tear it down!

Sorry for any sadness I may of caused.. you don’t need a fridge though to be reminded of how Supreme you are!

---

- Ant is at the animal sanctuary. Everything’s been destroyed, but at least Floof is still alive

- He saves Asshole the fish from suffocating out of the water and puts the fish back in the aquarium

- Ant goes looking for Bad. They need to talk

- They meet at the Community House. Bad hasn’t seen Ant in a while, he hasn’t been around. Bad asks if Ant is okay, and Ant doesn’t know. He died

- Ant asks what happened. Bad says things didn’t work out according to plan. Ant remembers Quackity coming in at the Banquet...

Ant: “Bad, what did we do? I killed Foolish...”

- Bad says stuff happens and he doesn’t think anyone would blame Ant

Ant: “Bad, I killed him! What do you mean you don’t think anyone blames -- Bad, we’re monsters! Do you know what we did?”

Bad: “W-well, I try not to think about it!”

Ant: “Well you can’t just ignore -- you can’t act like we didn’t do -- Bad, I killed Foolish, we were gonna kill E-- oh my god, Eret’s on the server too.”

- Bad thinks it’s fine, Foolish will recover and Puffy killed Ant but it was one for one. Ant remembers all the horrible things he said to Puffy before he killed Foolish and asks where Bad went afterwards

- Bad had no choice but to run. He couldn’t save Ant, they were outnumbered

Ant: “...Do you not feel bad about anything? Bad, we’re...we’re mon-- we did horrible things!”

Bad: “Well I mean, yeah, you did do some horrible stuff...”

Ant: “No, YOU! You did some horrible stuff! Who pushed Skeppy into lava, Bad? Who betrayed their friends? We betrayed Sam, Bad!”

Bad: “Okay, we did some horrible stuff -- hey, no! Okay, but -- there were good reasons at the time, or we felt like there was!”

Ant: “No! No no, Bad, we let the Egg control us! No! Did the Egg give you what it promised?”

Bad: “No, ‘cause...we never completed the plan...whatever it was. Ant, I can’t remember exactly...it’s not -- look, it’s -- I don’t know...”

- Ant asks if he’s talked to Sam and Puffy yet. Bad’s trying not to think about it, but Ant says they can’t ignore this. They’re friends, they should make amends

- Ant asks if Bad’s been back down there, but Bad’s steered clear. Ant is feeling normal again

Ant: “I...Bad, do you not...We’re fucked up! We did horrible things! Our friends tried to stop us, and we didn’t listen! We didn’t do anything!”

Bad: “There’s a lot of ‘we’ going on here...”

- Bad points out Ant didn’t really say anything. Ant accuses him of blaming him

Bad: “No, I’m just saying that...if the collar fits!”

- Ant says they both did horrible things, they dragged Hannah in, Punz too and Ponk. Bad hasn’t checked up on those three since. It doesn’t seem like Bad feels bad. Ant’s been gone because he felt ashamed

- If there’s anybody that they’ve hurt the most, it’s Sam. They were the Badlands

- Bad says they were brainwashed. He knows it’s not an excuse, that they should still own up to it even if they weren’t fully to blame

- They both killed one person each. Ant accuses Bad of putting the blame on him again and says that Bad killing Skeppy was worse because they’re platonic soulmates

- Ant wants an apology for letting him die and leaving him. Bad didn’t do anything, he just watched Ant die. Bad was caught off guard. On the other hand, maybe it was a good thing that Ant died, since otherwise they would’ve killed more people

- Ant says they should own up. Bad apologizes for letting Puffy kill Ant. He should have protected Ant, not just from Puffy but from the Egg too. Ant forgives Bad and says sorry for not protecting Bad from the Egg either

- Seeing as Puffy’s online, Ant suggests they go look for her. Bad says he’ll talk to Puffy later. Ant asks about Skeppy -- Bad talked to Skeppy right after what happened, but he hasn’t seen Skeppy since. They had a bit of a confrontation

- Ant wonders if Sam will forgive them. The Badlands wouldn’t be the same without him. He leaves Bad

- Puffy comes down the Prime Path and meets Antfrost face-to-face. The two have a bit of an awkward greeting

- Puffy reminds him of what happened. He doesn’t know how to apologize, but he says sorry. For saying awful things, for killing Foolish. He doesn’t expect her to forgive him, but he apologizes for what he did

- Puffy says it wasn’t right that she killed him, even though she was acting defensively, and she apologizes as well. Ant didn’t deserve to die either, he was blinded by the Egg. She holds Bad more to blame -- Antfrost talked to him recently

- Puffy forgives Ant. She asks how Bad handled it, and Antfrost says Bad is full of guilt and is hoping he can just forget about it

- Bad hasn’t apologized to Puffy, but Ant says he’ll get around to talking to everyone. Puffy made a burner Twitter account to hate on Badboyhalo and if she doesn’t get an apology, she might have to use it

- About L’Sandburg, Ant says he was there for like five minutes, but he doesn’t know what’s been happening since

Puffy: “Ant, you have to be your own person, Ant. He always uses you as his little pet to do things for you, and you murdered a man now because of it, because of Bad.”

Bad uses Antfrost to do things. Why didn’t Bad kill Foolish himself? Why was Antfrost thrown under the bus?

- She tells Ant that he needs to stand up for himself. She had to watch so many “RIP that pussy” and “Why’d you have to kill my cat” edits, it was the worst timing

- Puffy messages Bad asking if he’s apologized to Ant. They spot Bad nearby and walk over to confront him. He’s selling arrows

- Bad says he said sorry for letting Ant die, but Ant wants an apology for Bad making him do everything. Bad says they were both just following the Egg’s orders, that Ant had a grudge against Foolish -- but Ant says he didn’t, that Bad said he had to kill people

- Bad says sorry, but the Egg just wanted it that way. They accuse him of making excuses. Bad apologizes to Antfrost for making him kill Foolish, and the two hug

- Bad and Skeppy had a disagreement after the Red Banquet, and he has to check up with him to make sure he’s okay

- Bad says sorry to Puffy for what they did while under the Egg’s influence. Puffy was told that they were turning a new leaf, letting bygones be bygones so many times that if she took a shot every time she was told that, she would get alcohol poisoning

- Bad says sorry for everything to both of them, from the bottom of his heart. Puffy accepts to be the bigger person. They’ve always been a trio, always been friends, and now that the Egg’s no longer here, she’ll let it slide

- They do a group hug

- After some chatting, Puffy accuses Bad of having a Wattpad account to write Skephalo fanfiction and they continue talking about Skeppy’s merch boxes

- Michael joins the call! They all hang out together

- Later on, Eret and Foolish join in as well! 

- A while after, they all go over to Ponk’s stairway to heaven to finally destroy it

(The build dates back to at least early July, possibly June, of 2020)

---

Upcoming events remain the same.

[bestworstcase]

Your opinion on diadem au zhan tiri ?

😭 my beloved

oh boy

further thoughts under the cut because i have some highly controversial™️ things to say

& to be clear. yes i read the entire fic.

so. the premise here is there are “mythics,” a group encompassing both magical creatures and human mages, and at some point an indeterminate amount of time prior to the beginning of the story, the kingdom of corona drove its mythics out and pressured five of the other seven kingdoms into signing the “mythic accords,” which made it illegal for mythics to exist in these countries. diadem—the dark kingdom analogue, this is a dark prince cassandra AU—was the only country to abstain.

zhan tiri’s family (henceforth zitifam) were among the coronan mages forced out of their homes. they, and six kingdoms worth of other refugees, sought asylum in diadem. the zitifam pledged fealty to the crown of diadem and ultimately became established as a family of court mages and advisors. further notes:

1 - a fan wrote an epistolary fanfic of the fic that is an account of a group of child refugees coming from corona to diadem, which reveals in the end that these children are the orphaned offspring of mythics whom corona disappeared when they resisted the forced exile. this is directly referenced as an in-universe text in the final chapter of diadem proper, so it can be considered as ‘canon’ within the universe of the au.

2 - while it’s unclear precisely when all of this happened, it began a long time ago; in chapter 18, zhan tiri describes her family’s desire for vengeance as “centuries-old.”

3 - diadem’s streets are evidently “overflowing with mythic refugees with nowhere else to go.”

4 - 18 years ago, there was a “peaceful advocate group” of mythics known as the nightingales. their approach to reversing the mythic accords involved “lend[ing] their magic to anyone who needed help,” with the intention of “showing the people that magic is nothing to be afraid of and encouraging them to open their minds.”

king frederic turned to them for help when arianna fell ill whilst pregnant with rapunzel. their leader, an unnamed sorceress, agreed to help in exchange for the lifting of the accords in corona. it’s a little unclear precisely what happened, but the story as recounted by rapunzel (who learns of this via a vision) seems to imply that frederic intended to execute this woman after arianna was saved, and she chose to kill herself first and, in the process and unbeknownst to frederic, bequeath her magic to rapunzel.

after the apparent murder of their leader, the nightingales planned an uprising—but rapunzel was kidnapped before they could enact this plan, and frederic assumed they were to blame and raided their homes, arresting and imprisoning or exiling every mythic the guards could catch. lady caine was among the children orphaned by these raids; her father fled to diadem without her, settled down and got married, went eighteen years without trying to contact her, and kept on with the “peaceful advocacy” thing because he is a useless bootlicking centrist.

anyways,

5 - the pertinent part of #3 and #4 is that the situation in corona is ongoing. the original purges and creation of the accords happened centuries ago, enforcement appears to have lapsed for a while, and under frederic’s reign corona’s persecution of mythics ramped up again, resulting in a second purge around eighteen years ago and subsequent decades of extreme hostility. when rapunzel is outed as a mage, frederic sets the royal guard on her, that’s how bad it is. even the literal princess of corona is not safe.

6 - further, in chapter 8, it is implied that the mythic accords may have required that participating nations intercept mythics fleeing through their borders (to what end is unclear; imprisonment or execution seems likely, but we learn this by way of arianna noting that antipe chose *not* to intervene when mythic refugees passed through en route to diadem, in defiance of the accords). antipean scholars recorded the stories of these refugees and collected artifacts and enchanted heirlooms from them which are now housed in the spire. it is worth noting that when the accords are repealed in the final chapter, these items are not returned to their rightful owners.

7 - arianna, who is antipean, privately thinks the accords are bad and expresses that she has “no personal grief” with mythics and “looks back with fondness” on mythic friends she met as a young woman, but she has done nothing about this because “that matters little when you are the queen of Corona.” her hands are tied—until frederic chases rapunzel out of corona, at which point she finds the wherewithal and public support to stage a coup against her husband within a matter of days. rapunzel is a mythic and likewise just kind of sits on her ass doing nothing except pining for cass and occasionally angsting about how her father hates mythics, until the point where she’s driven out of her home, at which time her first priority is reconciling with cass and her second priority is making sure corona doesn’t face any consequences. she can understand genocide but she draws the line at going to war to stop genocide. and prince cass i’m pretty sure isn’t even aware that there’s a refugee crisis happening in her own kingdom because she is an ignoramus. our heroes, ladies and gentlefolk.

hokay. i’m pretty sure that covers everything.

it is never referred to as such in the text of the story itself, but… calling it what it is, the premise of the diadem au is that corona instigated a centuries-long genocide of mythics, resulting in a massive refugee crisis in the one kingdom that refused to participate. the zitifam escaped this genocide, eventually secured a high station in the country that offered them asylum, and now seek to use their influence to persuade diadem’s queen edith declare war against corona and end things once and for all. this is framed, in the story, as a cruel and selfish desire for revenge, but like.

um.

corona is actively doing genocide? hello??

anyway, diadem zhan tiri.

she gets her first POV section in chapter 10, which establishes her basic goals (inciting war against corona to avenge the lives destroyed by corona’s genocide and put an end to it) and also establishes that she is viscerally terrified of her own family because she will be “disowned or worse” if she fails to accomplish this. (she is also baffled to discover that prince cass actually cares about someone, which is funny because she’s completely right, considering how utterly miserable, paranoid, and unpleasant cass is in this au)

she discovers at this point that cass’s mysterious “friend” is the princess of corona and that they’re meeting up every couple weeks to fuck in the woods. she is, understandably, alarmed by this, and takes immediate and drastic steps to interfere with their relationship before cass can do something crazy like pursue a closer alliance with corona, the kingdom that is engaged in genocide against zhan tiri’s people,

which is to say, zhan tiri makes a pact with demons to grant herself enough power to singlehandedly incite a war, in exchange for her own life. it is…pretty clear that she considers this to be a desperate last resort, and she psyches herself up for it by thinking about the anguish of her family and the plight of all the impoverished refugees living in diadem. i. i’m not even exaggerating here:

Zahn Tiri closes her eyes, breathing deeply as she disrobes. Her heart pounds in her chest, as though begging her to reconsider this desecration, but she tightens her grip on the blade’s hilt and banishes her doubts. She thinks of the sorrow in her elders’ faces when they speak of their regrets that they will likely not live to see their homeland again. She thinks of Diadem’s streets, overflowing with mythic refugees with nowhere else to go. She thinks of the stubborn queen, of how she only needs one good reason to send her warriors marching on Corona. She thinks of the day that King Frederic falls on a Diadem blade, repaying the debt of blood that he owes.

in chapter 13, we learn a bit more about what exactly zhan tiri does to herself:

This ritual is irreversible, and corrupts the magic and the very life-force of the caster forever. Such practices are incredibly dangerous, and have historically been attempted only by the very desperate. In addition to risking their own lives, mythic clans and societies do not hesitate to banish practitioners of dark magic.

and she uses this power to - rapid fire plot summary:

1 - cast a decay spell on cassandra’s hand a la RATGT in such a way that it appears to be a failed assassination attempt by rapunzel

2 - persuades queen edith to declare war against corona

3 - does her damnedest to manipulate cass into going along with this

4 - when she’s caught, flees and transforms into a massive monster a la Plus Est to attack corona by herself

which. like. good for her? good for her.

she’s canon cass with a heroic motive. she’s canon cass if the reason cass took the moonstone was to literally stop a genocide. i… i don’t know how else to say it SKDJFKSKS

1 - self-sacrificing to the point of self-destruction

2 - burning up with rage over the real injustices done to her (& her people)

3 - only “friend” is a prince(ss) with no empathy who never listens to a word she says and doesn’t give a damn about her problems

4 - out of sheer desperation turns to a dangerous and destructive source of power in order to achieve her goals

and the key difference between them is that when canon cass loses her shit it’s because she’s trying frantically to prove that she matters and when diadem zhan tiri loses her shit it’s because she is TRYING. TO. STOP. A. GENOCIDE.

meanwhile the “heroic” characters suggest that hating corona is just as bigoted and wrong as corona’s genocidal hatred of mythics, that going to war is wrong because it would be “catastrophic” and “people are going to die,” and that the right way to end literal centuries of genocide is to politely ask the people in charge to please stop because anger is bad and violent resistance is never okay.

and then like after she turns into a monster and attacks the coronan palace, cass and rapunzel kill her and everything is okay because arianna staged a coup and they can just repeal the mythic accords! and at the end when rapunzel feels vaguely uncomfortable with the fact that they killed zhan tiri, cass is like don’t be! she was awful and deserved to die! and it makes me want to yeet myself into the stratosphere.

i just 😭😭 diadem zhan tiri

she deserved so much better my heart aches

[flow-green]

19-08-2021

 “I think I’ve never had more chaotic year than this one,” I confessed one evening when we drove in a car somewhere. My SO gave me a warm look and I checked to the back seat where my Charlie-baby was sleeping. If somone would have told me year and a half ago that 2021 will be a true turnaround in my life, when I will throw away all the life chains and take full control, I would have rolled mye eyes and gotten back to my endless vicious circle of career. I think ever since 17-years old I have followed the norms the society has set up: graduate high school, sprint through university, meanwhile make sure you work so you won’t get drowned in depts, get a job for your field of interest, in the meantime take some loan for some random house and if you have a moment, please, make some babies. Ever since I was a child, I knew right away: that’s not me. I don’t know what it is that makes me want to break these frames. But, oh well, there is no point to raise my voice for my own good as all the other people around me are nicely stable in the system. Some of my exes are on the same line: if you are not a parent by age 31 and do not own a gorgeous house in the suburbs while paying a sickly huge loan, meanwhile ignoring your family, friends and hobbies to make ends meet just so you could work yourself to deah by age 40, then you are a loser.

Few weeks ago in Saaremaa, while tipping my toes and feet into the warm and comforting waters of Estonian sea, I realized where I have drifted with my life. Only now I have started to realized that, f**k me sideways, I am actually a living human being. A LIVING person. I LIVE.

About 2 months ago, near summer solstice, I finally felt the finalizing ticking in my brain that pushed me gently to the edge of unknown. “Will you?” the life asked and motioned me to jump. “Or will you stay here forever, wondering what’s down there?” And so, with shivering hands, I clicked ‘send’ button on the mail that delivered my resignation letter to my boss. Done. Over half a year full of mental terror and a slow suicide will come to an end. At this point I had insane regrets. How am I supposed to throw away an opportunity and 6-year long career just because I do not want to live anymore? Now you’re probably thinking I am being a drama queen and overexaggerating. Oh, dear god, no. There were days, where everything started to tumble down in one go: my love life, my family relations, friends and work relations. On these days I switched myself and my phone off, listened to some serious melancholic tunes, sat alone for hours or drove around with a car and now, admitting for the first time: I hoped that something will happen and I do not need to live here anymore. I admitted this once also in my therapy, that I have frozen up while driving, not really giving a damn about my leg on gas pedal and about the speed.

I am once again a fat, useless, lazy, clumsy, slow and unorganized. Blessed with sore black eyes, a girl with unstable nervs and flaked nails. And all this just to give myself to a work which does not appreciate any sacrifices I make.

And I did it. This is MY life. My path and my decision, I ain’t going anywhere and even if I do, I’ll go with a smile on my face and as a queen for a day.

Few days ago I realized with full heart that this was one of the most important decisions in my life. I went for a run, as I have started to pick it up again. I went and set a goal to run approx 20 minutes. I had time. No rush. Only responsibility waiting for me was one project to improve a home page of our fresh company, but there was no strict deadline nor a passive aggressive boss-lady stalking my every move and making sure I am around even off-hours. So, my 20 minute run became to a 1 hour run, which was successful, nicely progressive and easy. I enjoyed every minute, because I was present. I had nowhere to hurry. I did not worry about the future or the past. I was just excisted. And I breathed.

I think I have cried more this year than in total for all past years. In my 9 to 5 appartment cubical lifestyle I always pushed away everything that demanded at least some movement out of comfort zone. For exaxmple I always closed in when my ex partner had an idea to do some changes. Well, true, his changes did not comply with my dreams. I did not want to get a huge loan to buy a house and sprint out 2 babies just because ,,Martin and Marge had their second kid in their gorgeous house and Martin is only 1 year older than me.” OK, is nice for them I guess? Every time these silly arguments started to come up, I switched myself off into my safety bubble, all alone. I let no emotions, chaotic situatons to influence myself and I just slowly flew on my laid down path, with eyepatches on. I always knew I want something different. I wanted to fight and be heard. Every time there was a conflict at work, with a friend or family member or with a partner, I eliminated it in the early stages and just ignored the rest.

And when these eyepatches were finally removed, everything else followed. I had no pink glasses or filters for emotons. Real life was there for me, but not always in a bad way. Real life offered everything, you only had to have guts to reach out and take it, with all its plusses and minuses. Take it, dominate, take responsibility, but don’t just float by. Get yourself togeter, notice, do, learn and experience. If not now then... when?

This half of a year has thrown so many obstacles and opportunities on my way and I have caught most of them. I guess one of the most difficult period was spending some insane time at a house in the middle of nowhere, without any water or normal comforts. This has made me appreciate small benefts of our everyday life.

I think I have mentioned this earlier as well, that February and March were probaby the hardest months this year. I was given a challenge to overcome and boy, it was tough. Namely, I got pregnant. As a woman who has never wanted to become a mom due to several and long reasons which I will not discuss today, I was in a cocmplete shock. I felt happy, scared, angry. Why now? Universe has its twisted sense of humour and it turned out that the pregnancy is not carriable for medical reasons and abortion is a must. I did not have a single day to stay home and mourn and endure grief. Oh, no, they needed me back to work ASAP. So I ignored the pain of loss and carried on with even more enormous work tempo to keep up. This period started a chain reaction which pulled me cruelsomely to the edge of the cliff. Work does not sleep, it waits impatiently. Even on these two horrible days I had to go through with the process, I did some work since I had become irreplacable.

All the emotions sealed up just blasted out as soon as some smaller bebble hit my bicycle. I cried hysterically, screamed. There were no days where my eyes weren’t bloodshot and with dark underlines.

In some sort of a sick twisted way I felt good, since I was needed, everything depends on me and I am sure it will get paid off nicely in the end when I have worked until my nose bleeds. In this tunnel vision I did not realize that skipped recovery and unresolved grief had made me this maniacal, delusional self-centered zombie, who lived for her workdays. All my free time I spent worrying about next work day. I did not notice anymore how my mom is doing, how are my friends and what is my partner up to. Every time we went off to one of our van trips I just existed somewhere in my thoughts about how much there is still to do. And it’s even more sadder, that I did not even notice myself anymore in the free world.

“Yea, but how would you go on?” was the main question I was asked when with a shaky voice I admitted that I need to quit my job right now and don’t want to take such responsibilities for a while now, only for myself. Everyone can do it. If there is a will, there is a way.

I am happy that I have at least won almost the entire battle with eating disorder, although I have to admint I am not proud over the inner criticizm about my body, which has grown 8 kg heavier since last summer. This means I still have days I hide under baggy clothes and just wait until these dark thoughts pass. There are days where I absolutely veto going to the beach because ‘it’s cold’. Actually I am reminding myself of that year where I had a killer six-pack, hip bones and tiny bikinies fit me so well, but now I look more like a curvy, slightly soft female not nearly showing signs of being physically active. Although, I am now in that golden zone where my weight is not going up nor down almost at all, no matter how much or little or what kind of foods I eat (plant based always of course). I guess it is positive, my body has found it’s perfect zone, but I--- don’t really like it. This mentality here is something now that I have to work with, with all my spare and peaceful time.

Since 25 July I am (f)unemloyed. And happy. I have made sure that I will be secured, will not be homeless and have food and I have a first step of a plan prepared. Priority for now is to help myself out of this destructive black hole that influences not only me but other close ones as well.

I don’t have black shadows under my eyes anymore. I sleep deep, without any random wake ups, I finally have time and motivation to cook, bake and test out recipes that have been collecting dust since forever. From day to day I get back to introduce myself to my long lost hobbies like kite surf, reading, writing, drawing and yoga.

I have finally startrd to realize that next to me there are people that I love unconditionally and to whom I have shown insanely rude attitude. Have you ever felt that re-falling in love again? I am currently feeling it with tripple multiplications, because I have once again fallen in so much love with my dog, my boyfriend and my hero on this topsy-turvy road, my family, friends and life itself.

I will not even take a glance anymore to that 100 promises I made earlier this year. Life is just so much different with completely new challenges. If anything, then I can mark this time period here as my new and fresh chapter for my life.

[allie1804-fan]

A Doorway is Opened (Chapter 1)

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Some time in the Autumn of 2019

 “Hey Hannah, great to see you”

 “You too”

 “Are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

 “Just nervous I guess” Hannah laughed “Silly really after the book tour and interview, you’d think I’d have gotten used to it!”

 “Well this is Keanu Reeves we’re talking about – he’s enough to make even an old pro like me catch my breath! Come on” said Ella, “let’s get this meeting started”

 Ella was Hannah Johnson’s publisher and Hannah had written a book for which Keanu Reeves’ production company, Company Films, was interested in buying the rights. The book chronicled a couple’s journey to having a family through infertility to having their first son followed by three miscarriages before a second son finally arrived. They were due to meet with the actor himself and his partner Stephen Hamel that morning to talk more about a possible deal.

As it turned out, there was no need for nerves. The minute Keanu arrived and introduced himself, he put everyone at their ease. His focus on the work and his enthusiasm for it took the attention off him plus he seemed a little shy himself.

 The first thing he’d said on shaking Hannah’s hand was “Hi I’m Keanu,  I really loved your book, I can’t wait to talk to you about it!”

 “Thanks, it’s an honour to meet you. I’ve been a fan of yours for a long time”

 At this, a flush rose up, starting from Keanu’s neck and pretty soon turning his face quite a bright pink as he softly muttered his thanks.

 “First thing you learn about Keanu” Stephen joked, “The man cannot take a complement”

 They all laughed including Keanu who covered his mouth with his hand before looking down at his feet.

 “All right, shall we get this meeting started” he said.

 “Can we start with the origins of the story, how much if it is autobiographical? It’s so beautifully raw …..”

 Now it was Hannah’s turn to blush.

 “Thanks, well yes it is largely auto-biographical. I did research too and changed some of the details but it’s essentially my family’s story”

“Wow, I’m sorry you went through all that” Keanu said sincerely. “You did a great job with the pain but also the anger and err, the err”

 “The nasty side?”

 “Yeah I guess” he replied looking a tad embarrassed

 “infertility, baby-loss – it tends to bring out the less balanced side of one’s persoality” Hannah sighed. My husband often referred to it as the dark years!”

 “I can imagine” Keanu said softly and the room went quiet. Everyone knew what was on Keanu’s mind. Even 20 years on, everyone remembered the loss of his daughter to stillbirth.

 “Look don’t worry, I’m not offended” Hannah rushed to reassure him. “I wanted to show the full experience, the light and the dark.”

 The conversation thankfully turned to some of the lighter moments  - even infertility treatment can have some comedy in it after all.

 “I’d have loved to have played the husband but I think I’m too old now unless some of the details about the couple’s ages were altered. Do you have a view on that?”

 “Err well I’ve not really thought too much about it, it came as a surprise that anyone was interested in turning it into a film if I’m honest”

 Hannah could see out of the corner of her eye that Ella was rolling her eyes skyward at this since it didn’t exactly make it seem like the book rights were in demand! Keanu picked up on it and smiled catching Hannah’s eye who blushed and looked down at her hands before adding:

 “I guess the only impact could be on the sense of exclusion that comes from not being part of the club, you know. not having a child at all when everyone else does, not completing your family when everyone else has. That kind of relies on the friendship circle also being at that stage and driving that sense of exclusion. But there are many people who start later or where the husband is slightly older so I don’t see necessarily why it couldn’t work as people tend to be drawn to make friends with others who are at the same stage of life regardless of age.

 “Ok, well if we could make it work, do you think your husband would be willing to talk to me about his perspective?”

 As Ella drew in a sharp breath, Keanu knew he’d said something wrong and looked to Hannah who was momentarily speechless.

 “Erm, sadly no, you’ll have to rely on me for that ….. errr, Mark died, 18 months ago.

 “Oh god!, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, shit”

 “Don’t worry, please don’t worry, it’s not like that fact is all over the back cover. The book was published before his death and we didn’t update the bio with the 2nd edition, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for” she reassured him.

 “Thanks” Keanu said “well even if we can’t make that casting work, I’d still like our company to bring the story to a cinema audience. Would you be interested in writing the screenplay?”

 “Gosh, again that’s something I hadn’t anticipated … but it could be a possibility. Can I have time to  think about it?”

“Sure, I mean we have a roster of writers we can call upon  - I think even if you decide it’s not for you, we’d still want you to consult, would that be OK?”

 “Absolutely”

 The talk finally turned to finances and both Keanu and Hannah held back from the conversation until the meeting drew to a close. As they packed away their papers, Keanu asked Hannah if she’d be free to join him for coffee at the shop across the street from the offices.

 “It’s the least I can do after being so crass earlier”

 “You weren’t crass and you don’t have to do that! Not at all. Anyway wouldn’t you get mobbed out there in public at a coffee shop?”

 “Not at all, I can go about my business day to day as a private citizen - people tend to give me space if they can see I’m busy and especially when I have company – in fact you’d be acting as my personal bodyguard”

 Over at the coffee shop they settled into the booth with their coffees. Keanu encouraged Hannah to have a stab at writing the screenplay.

 “I mean, I bet you didn’t think you could write a novel before and then you did!”

 “OK, OK, I take your point” she laughed. “If I do, would you be willing to look at a first draft?”

“Of course, it would be my pleasure”

They chatted some more. Keanu wanted to see the boys who’d brought such joy to her life. Hannah shared some pictures – the ‘boys’ were now 21 and 16 years old.

“They’re handsome fellows, I can see your eyes in the older one. Do they favour you more or their dad?”

“Their Dad more, especially Josh. He’s the younger one”

“Right - that must be, a mixed blessing I guess”

“Yeah, yeah, yes is it can be. Actually Toby sounds just like him so when he comes home and says “hello” it can throw me for a loop!”

“Wow, I can’t imagine. I’ve never lost anyone that close, I mean where I lived with the person and had that kind of constant reminder of their absence…. unless you count my Dad”

“Your dad died?”

“Well, yeah actually but that was more recent, I meant when I was young, he left. We had been estranged for a long time by the time he died”

“I’m sorry – I’m glad my kids didn’t have that loss – it almost seems more cruel than death, that  he chose to leave I mean” Hannah checked herself  “sorry, sorry – we seem to be making a habit of putting our feet in it don’t we?”

Keanu laughed “no, no, I can see exactly what you mean – and don’t worry, no hard feelings”

Soon after this exchange, they each needed to leave so phone numbers were shared and Hannah agreed to contact him when she had some scenes to share.

Over the next 3 months, Hannah met Keanu in that same coffee shop every couple of weeks or so as she worked on her ideas for the screenplay.  The theme she liked best was that of closed and open worlds.  As she’d navigated infertility and baby-loss, at each stage there had been a sense of being welcomed into a world and then excluded from the next natural place. She hoped a director could capture that sense of being trapped and unable to move forwards somehow.

In their conversations she also tried to explain as best she could the different perspectives of the many people directly and indirectly involved. There was her husband who had wanted to keep the troubles they had in perspective and, especially when they had their miscarriages, to look to the future. Whilst Hannah had needed to wallow in the grief of their first loss in particular, he’d not felt that loss so much. She understood that for her, the future would have looked much different day to day with a new baby. She would have been taking her eldest to kindergarten with a new-born in tow. Yes, he would have been a dad of two but would still be going to work day to day as usual. Her work colleagues had sent her flowers after that miscarriage and he’d been angry. “why are they sending you flowers, nobody died” he’d yelled.    They’d argued after that, the difference in their perspective magnified. But in the long term she’d understood his desire to ‘fix’ things.  She’d been through grief before when her dad had died when she was just 16. She understood the need to wallow and let the grief breathe. His desire to move on felt like an attempt to stifle that but she understood the emotions behind it.

Then there were in-laws also willing things to be normal, not wanting to face the pain, telling her that she should be grateful to have her eldest and focus on him. Hearing that from people who already had 2 or 3 kids and no infertility was a bitter pill to swallow – you only really ‘get it’ if you’ve been there too after all.

He was a good listener and obviously enjoyed the process of empathising  and learning about how other people processed these traumas.

By the end of the year the screenplay was really taking shape but in January their FTF meetings had to stop as Keanu had to go to San Francisco for the Matrix 4 Shoot. They had one more coffee shop meeting in early March before he went to Berlin but otherwise, all connection was via e mail and FaceTime as they were either separated by miles or by the Corona Virus lockdown.  Through the months, their conversations and correspondence helped a close friendship to grow. Hannah felt the clouds of grief lifting and recognised Keanu’s part in that for her due to having the screenplay to focus on and his friendship.

Chapter 2

[graciouswomen]

Grief and its process

If you asked me what my thoughts on grief were five years ago, I would tell you that it was not new. I lost pets. I lost my grandmother. My mom had miscarriages, four to exact. I recall one was a brother. Boy, was I excited for his arrival! But I guess I was far too young to understand grief because all of this happened before the age of ten years old. 

The stages of grief always intrigued me. When I started studying Psychology, the five stages of grief in Developmental Psychology were the most intriguing. But my fascination with grief ended when I aced the question in my exam. 

Fast forward two years post-university, and my grief experience became a grief journey. In two months, I lost my other grandmother and my Mother. In the previous months, there were also two significant family losses. It was like grief invited me to tea and did not want me to leave. 

This time the grief was overpowering. It owned the tea party. I decided to ignore it and let it be the hostess. When these two significant losses occurred in my life, I was crippled by them. I took the death of my gran a lot easier than I did my Mother. I remember asking God the night she was admitted to hospital to please not let her go the same year my gran did. My prayers went unanswered, and five days after, she was gone.  

I was angry in the beginning. So very galled, with God, my family, myself, the world! That soon changed to depression. I wanted to get to the acceptance part, but I never did. Even three years on, I am still not there. I never allowed myself to go through the stages because it was too painful. I went from depression to anger again and stayed there for the past three years. I am still there, but I hope to move out soon. 

However, here is what my journey with grief taught me and made me realise: 

1. There is no time for it. I was impatient. I wanted to be whole again. I thought that that meant I should move on and be happy. It is not the case. There is no time allocated for grief at all. One day it is a lot easier, and you took 100 steps forward, but the next day you back at the starting line and not wanting to get out of bed. 

2. Your grief journey is your own. When I experienced these two losses, there was a loss all around me. But what I learned was that everyone person who experienced grief did so very differently. 

3. The experience of losing a loved one changes you and your outlook on life. 

4. The rites performed in Islam for mothers are hard. There are so much care, love, and pain in that process. 

5. There is no full recovery from grief. When you experience loss it means that love was present. And sorrow is just another form of showing it. 

6. There is a club for people who loses a parent. The members of this club are the only people in the world that can understand what you are going through. 

If you had asked me five years ago if I experienced a loss of a loved one would I better understand grief? I would have answered yes. Today, however, I answer no. I do not understand it. I'm still trying to make sense of the loss I faced, but what I do know  is that it is a journey and you need to be kind and patient with yourself on that journey. 

As far as I can see, grief with never truly end. It may become softer overtime, more gentle, and some days it will feel sharp. But grief will last as long as Love does - forever. It’s simply the way the absence of your loved one manifests in your heart. A deep longing, accompanied by the deepest love. Some days, the heavy fog may return, and the next day it may recede, once again. It’s all an ebb and flow, a constant dance of sorrow and joy, pain and sweet love. - Lexi Behrndt 

So be kind to yourself on your journey. 

[kabhi-haath-pakad-k-tu-mera]

Grief

In which Harry journeys through the stages of grief following Sirius’ death. IWSC Season 2 Round 2.

Written for the International Wizarding School Championship Season Two.

Round : Round Two—Working at the Ministry Of Magic

School : Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Year : Year 5-Deputy

Theme : Department of Magical Transportation—transportation points at travel, and that points to journey. The theme is used by showing Harry’s journey through the stages of grief following Sirius’ death.

Prompts :  9. (Spell) Portus [Main]

                   10. (Action) Explosion [Additional]

                 12. (Occupation ) Auror [Additional]

Word Count : 3281 (+ 10% leeway used) 

Please note, the chapter starts from the heading ‘Grief’

***********

“SIRIUS!” Harry yelled, “SIRIUS!”

He had reached the floor, his breath coming in searing gasps. Sirius

must be just behind the curtain, he, Harry, would pull him back out

again. . . .

But as he reached the ground and sprinted toward the dais, Lupin

grabbed Harry around the chest, holding him back.

“There’s nothing you can do, Harry —”

“Get him, save him, he’s only just gone through!”

“It’s too late, Harry —”

“We can still reach him —”

Harry struggled hard and viciously, but Lupin would not let go. . . .

“There’s nothing you can do, Harry . . . nothing. . . . He’s gone.”

—The Order of the Phoenix, Chapter 35 - Beyond the Veil (J.K. Rowling)

************

                                             Grief

************

Harry struggled against Lupin’s hold even as he repeated again and again, “It’s too late, Harry, there’s nothing we  can do … nothing …”

He stared at the curtain in fury and confusion, his wand aloft, still struggling against Remus as he screamed, “SIRIUS!” 

It was just a curtain he had fallen through, surely he would come back?

“SIRIUS!”

He would, of course he would. Sirius always came back. Sirius always came. And he’d come back now. Perhaps he was a bit hurt. Perhaps he couldn’t hear him.

“SIRIUS!”

If only Remus would let him go, he could help him up, and Sirius would look at his worried expression and laugh his bark-like laughter. He was just teasing him, of course. Only teasing. This was another one of his pranks. But this wasn’t funny. Everyone was dumbstruck around him, and Bellatrix was cackling triumphantly even as she sparred against Kingsley. Structures were exploding left, right, and center as they got hit by wayward spells. And Harry’s heart was racing—dear Merlin it was hammering so fast in his chest that Harry felt it would explode. His breathing had become ragged, a numb sort of pain was beginning to appear in his chest, and he had tears in his eyes that he was trying to blink away. Still, Sirius didn’t appear. 

“SIRIUS!”

Why was he making him wait like this, in such agony? Why won’t he come? Why would he make him wait now, in the middle of a battle, when he had never before? Sirius had never made him wait for him. Sirius had come even when his life had been on the line. Sirius had escaped Azkaban for him. Why won’t he come?

“SIRIUS!” he screamed harder, his scream choked with a sob, eyes trained hard towards the dais and the curtain, not even blinking. He barely noticed the stream of hot tears rolling down his face as he stopped struggling all of a sudden, and seemed to collapse in on himself, his chest feeling hollow and painful, and his throat dry. Sirius had battled against life and death to come to him. If he didn’t come now, it meant he was … he was—

“Why won’t he come, Remus?” he asked, his voice hollow and despondent as he looked at his former professor, who was also crying. “Why won’t he come!”

He screamed again. Not words, he screamed pain. He screamed grief. He screamed agony. He felt Remus draw him against himself as he mumbled words that had lost meaning to him, words that were meant to console him but were serving instead to fuel his anger. He couldn’t breathe for the rage, and the world had gone mum. Harry only heard silence, and Sirius’ gasp right before he had fallen echoed in that silence. And then the silence exploded in a crackle, and it kept echoing until his ears were ringing, and the only thing he could see was Bellatrix, her retreating form, and his anger exploded. 

He got up in a rage and began running in the direction of the retreating witch before he collided with what felt like a mound of feathers, and saw Dumbledore wave his wand forcefully in Bellatrix’s direction. The stairway exploded beneath her, and Bellatrix fell, her wand rolling away from her, and Harry struggled against the now weakening spell to reach her even as Kingsley and Neville held him back. 

************

“She killed Sirius!” he screamed. He had been screaming for what felt like ages. “I’ll murder her! I’ll fling her off the Astronomy tower! I’ll Crucio her to death! I—” he stopped suddenly, feeling incredibly drained and incredibly tired, and found that he barely had the energy to stand, let alone scream. It was as if the weight of all that had happened in the span of the past hour had accumulated on Harry’s shoulders and was weighing him down. Kingsley let go of his arm tentatively, although Neville didn't, and Harry was grateful—he didn't trust himself to keep standing on his own. He was shaking. 

He saw out of the corner of his eyes Bellatrix being tied up along with the other Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy included. He saw Moody forcing Tonks to drink a disgusting potion, and a striking thought came to his mind which made his heart go cold. 

“The others,” he said to Dumbledore, who was standing a few feet off, “the other students—DADA members. Hermione had gotten hurt, and she had fainted, and Ginny had hurt her leg, and Ron and Luna and Neville …” he trailed off, cursing himself heavily. He had forgotten, in his rage, about his comrades. What if something had happened to them? 

“They’re in that room over there,” Neville spoke from beside him, “near the circular chamber. Hermione will require immediate care—she has a pulse, but it's faint. She has lost a lot of blood.”

Harry looked at Neville in both surprise and relief. He was taking charge and clearing messes that he was obviously responsible for. If he had learnt Occlumency, Voldemort never would have been able to enter his brain, never would have been able to plant those dreams in his head. He wouldn’t have led his friends into mortal danger. And Sirius, Sirius would have been alive had it not been for him. Guilt and revulsion exploded inside him, and his mouth went dry. It was all his fault. It was all his fault. It was his fault that Sirius was ... dead. And it would be his fault if Hermione—

No. He stopped himself before he could complete his thought. Hermione couldn’t die. Hermione would be okay. She’d be okay. She had to be … He felt an arm around his shoulders draw him into a hug, and Harry was grateful to Remus for trying to comfort him—he really was—but he didn't deserve to be comforted. It was his fault they were in this situation. If anything, he was a criminal. 

Remus shouldn’t have been comforting him, he should’ve been recoiling from him—he had lost his friend—his lover—because of Harry. Neville shouldn’t have been supporting him, he should’ve been screaming at him—he had led all of his friends into mortal danger. Dumbledore, Dumbledore shouldn’t have been looking at him with guilt and sorrow, he should’ve been ordering his execution. All of it, all of it … his fault. All his fault. He pulled away from Remus abruptly and fixed his gaze onto a broken portion of a wall—he couldn’t bear to meet his gaze, see the grief there, see the hatred. He must hate him—how could he not? So must everyone else … 

His attention was caught by Moody and Tonks levitating Hermione out of the chamber on a makeshift stretcher. She looked deathly pale, her blood-soaked t-shirt a stark contrast against her skin. She was unconscious but breathing. Harry let out a shaky breath. Ron and Ginny followed them, Ron supporting Ginny as she hobbled on one leg. The ankle of her other leg was visibly twisted. Ron looked at him in concern as they passed, but Harry avoided his gaze. They must all hate him.

“It’s not your fault, Harry,” Remus said to him quietly, his tone matter-of-fact, although it wasn’t completely devoid of emotion.

“Of course it’s my fault,” Harry hissed, anger laced in his voice. Anger directed at himself. “Had I learnt Occlumency, had I forced Voldemort out of my head, none of this would have happened. I am an idiot who stopped learning Occlumency simply because he didn’t like his teacher, and it cost us …” he swallowed, “it cost us Sirius, and it might even take Hermione.” His sentence ended quietly, his blood running cold at the thought.

“No, it isn't,” Remus said again, placing a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry shrugged it off. “No one blames you for it.”

Harry spun around, his hands balled into fists at his side, anger regaining its hold on him. “Well, you should. Because—”

“There is no point in wondering about the Whos, Whats, and Whys,” Dumbledore said from behind him in a serious voice. “it's no more your fault that this tragedy took place than it's your fault that the Chudley Cannons are at the bottom of the League.” 

If Dumbledore’s words had intended to calm him, they had failed. Harry didn't uncurl his fist. Dumbledore continued, looking Harry in the eye. “There are some things we need to talk about, Harry. Things we should’ve discussed a long time ago. Perhaps … perhaps doing so could’ve prevented this.” He felt guilt and remorse in his voice. “We should head somewhere more private … and somewhere more safe.”

“Dumbledore,” Remus interrupted him firmly, “however important your conversation might be, it can wait until later. He has been through a lot today—he is yet to come to terms with it. We all are.”

“I understand your concern, Remus, but—”

“No, you don’t, Albus. You don’t. Had you understood our concerns, mine and ... and Sirius’, you would have told us all the whole truth fourteen years ago, instead of putting all of us—Lily, James, Harry, Sirius, and I—through this. Instead of leaving a child traumatised by Voldemort to his own devices without any guidance and company, it would’ve done you well to keep him close and protect him.” He put his hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Remus—”

“Petunia and Vernon do not have a care for him, and he has just lost Sirius. I shall now act as his guardian, and you owe it to us—to Harry—to tell us the whole truth. Both of us. I need to know what other harebrained schemes you intend to put the child through.” He tightened his grip on Harry. “Right now, all of us need to rest and reflect.”

Dumbledore heaved a great sight, then nodded. “Very well,” he said, pointing to a chipped piece of metal.

“Portus.”  The piece glowed blue. “This will take you to Hogwarts. I invite you to stay the night, Remus.” Remus nodded tersely and picked up the piece of metal in his hand, nodding to Harry, who put his finger on it, bracing himself for the unpleasant journey.

************

It had been a week since the fateful night at the ministry—a week since Sirius’ death. The others were okay, thankfully. Ginny, Ron, Luna, and Neville had sustained only minor injuries. Hermione’s situation was more serious, but she was recovering well. He was sat at the foot of her bed at a rather late hour, whispering to her about the situation outside of the hospital wing. 

Hermione and Ron were the only people he could bear talking to just yet, apart from Remus, and even those conversations were limited now, and not just because they were inside the hospital wing. Harry didn’t much feel like talking to anyone anymore, nor did he feel like smiling—which was unfortunate considering that after The Prophet’s article, everyone wanted to talk to him. He avoided people throughout the day by remaining in his dorm, or in the library, which was deserted given that it was the end of the year. He barely ate at all, and when he did, it was in Remus’ company. 

He would visit Ron and Hermione during particularly harsh nights when he couldn’t sleep or keep his thoughts away from Sirius, and they’d distract him as though through an unspoken agreement. And then he’d return to his dorm to stare at the ceiling until morning came. It had finally sunk in, he supposed, that Sirius was gone. He’d never return. The realization had left him feeling … hollow. Empty. Miserable. It was just his luck, he supposed. Just when he had thought he finally had a family … Sirius was taken away from him. It wasn’t that he didn’t have people who cared for him—he had Ron and Hermione, and the Weasleys were like a surrogate family, but it was different from having your own family. It was different having someone who would  go all out for you, having someone who valued you more than anything. Someone who wouldn’t think twice before dying for you. 

With Sirius and Remus, he had that. They were his parents. He had felt safe with them. He had been happy. Now, with Sirius gone and the prophecy looming over him, he doubted if he’d ever be happy again. 

“So they believe you now?” Hermione asked, her indignation palpable. Harry nodded, even though he wasn’t entirely sure she could see him—the hospital wing was lit only by the light of the full moon, which meant that Remus was out in the shrieking shack all alone in his wolf form. 

“Hypocrites, the load of them!” she hissed and put to use some words which made Harry turn red. Ron was asleep due to the influence of the potion Madame Pomphrey had given him for his pain. “At least they won’t be making your life miserable anymore.”

Harry hummed distractedly, twisting the corner of Hermione’s duvet. “Listen, Harry,” she said suddenly, sitting up straighter. He looked up inquiringly. “Are you going to be sent back to your Aunt and Uncle’s?”

Harry sighed and nodded again before he replied. “Dumbledore says it’s necessary. There are some charms and wards there, which will keep me safer than anywhere else. There’s going to be more security around there, and Remus says he’ll visit often. I don’t know if I’ll be able to visit the Weasleys at all during summer.”

“Oh. That’s … that’s terrible, Harry,” Hermione said, and Harry hummed again. 

“Harry ... this silence that you have taken to,” she said tentatively after a moment. Harry raised his eyes to meet hers, filled with worry. “It’s not healthy.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked gently.

“No.” His tone wasn’t particularly harsh, but the topic was dropped.

************

The train ride to King’s Cross was different than any other journeys they had made. He supposed the looming war made things different. Many students had been taken home by floo or portkey instead of the traditional train ride, so the train was emptier than usual. To Harry, its emptiness felt desolate. He was looking forward to the hum and buzz of chatter in the train ride to distract himself, but they were all submerged in an uneasy silence which refused to be broken. 

The train had Professors and Aurors on board for protection—Moody, Tonks, and another wizard that Harry didn’t know, and Professor McGonagall, Professor Aurora, and Remus, who was taking up the position of DADA professor again. 

Harry was accompanied by the entire entourage as he deboarded the train. They made their way over to the Weasleys first—Mrs.Weasley enveloped him into a tight hug upon seeing him, and Harry allowed himself a small smile. Mr.Weasley handed Harry a small, wrapped package, whose purpose was explained to him by Remus as they made their way over to where the Dursleys were waiting with their noses upturned. 

“This is a portkey,” Remus said, opening the brown cover slightly to show him the tin can inside, “which will take you to Grimmauld Place.”

Harry stopped dead in his tracks for a moment, his eyes wide. Remus was not surprised at this. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I understand how you feel Harry, I really do. Grimmauld Place has … memories, and it’s not easy for me either, but …” 

Harry glanced at Remus and nodded in understanding. It was already hard enough for Remus to get a place to live. Sirius had left Grimmauld Place to Harry, and Harry had gladly welcomed Remus into the equation. He would be living there. 

“If and when you feel comfortable coming to Grimmauld Place after all, or if you want to talk or anything, this portkey will send you there. You’ll have to say ‘Portus’ to it, and tap it with your wand. That’ll do it.”

Harry looked at the brown package in his hand and nodded, turning to look at Remus, who was smiling sadly. He placed the package in his pocket carefully, and gratefully returned the hug that Remus gave him, returning his weary smile.

“Take care, Harry,” he said to him seriously, “and keep your wand with you at all times. Aurors will be patrolling the area but …” he trailed off. “Write to me from time to time, yeah?” 

Harry nodded again, swallowing. “You take care of yourself too.” Remus returned his nod. With a small sigh, both of them made their way over to the Dursleys, where Mad-eye was already waiting. He too nodded at Harry and repeated Remus’ instructions—“keep your wand with you all the time.”  

He then turned to the Dursleys. “Don’t try anything funny, understand? We’ll know what you’re doing. Be warned.”

They turned on their heels and walked away, leaving Harry with the Dursleys again.

************

Harry had spent most of his summer in his cramped bedroom, pacing, worrying, and swearing, from time to time when Dudley set up traps outside his door. Aunt Petunia didn’t call him for chores anymore, and he didn’t have anyone to talk to. But that was okay. He was a little relieved, truth be told. He found talking to people draining nowadays, although he was starved to talk to Remus and to meet him. 

He looked at the brown package he had been given daily. He thought about leaving Privet Drive and going to Grimmauld Place every day. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Because he was scared. Scared of what he’d find once he got there. How many memories would come up if he went there, memories that he was trying to bury deep down inside of him? Sirius had hated the place, sure, but it was still a part of Sirius. He didn’t know if he was ready yet, to face something that reminded him so much of Sirius. He sighed and plopped down into his bed. He’d have to face it someday. Someday he would come to terms with it,  he hoped, but right now, he wasn’t sure. The wound was still ripe. He missed him terribly. 

He rolled over and began to sift through his trunk, looking for nothing in particular, until his hand found the Marauders map, which he hadn't opened since Sirius’ death. He opened it but didn't activate it, waiting for the flourishing handwriting to appear. 

“Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs are pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

“Who might this young lad be?”

Harry smiled, even though his eyes burnt with tears. Sirius had told him all about it—how they had made it, how much fun they had had making it, and how they had made him do all the writing because he was the only one who had decent handwriting. Harry tranced the letters stroked onto the parchment softly, as if he were afraid they might fade. But the letters remained stark a contrast against the parchment, and somehow the parchment felt warm—as if words had only now been written on it. He clutched at the map tightly and sighed, but this sigh was not of sorrow. It wasn't one of happiness either, but one of … release. For the first time in three months, Harry felt light and unburdened. It still hurt that he was gone, of course, but thinking of Sirius didn’t make him feel so … miserable anymore. 

He got up from the bed in a flash—he knew what he had to do. He removed  his wand from his pocket and grabbed the tin box wrapped in brown paper. 

“Portus,” he said firmly and closed his eyes as it took him to Grimmauld Place.

[zendelai]

Life Update

Aka: How I went from one of the darkest places in my life to one of the best in the span of almost exactly a year.

(This might be long, so continued below the cut)

I’m writing this thinking that no one (except for maybe my close friends on here) will read it, but my hope is that it will provide some encouragement to someone in a dark place that there’s a chance for hope, even when you’re feeling at your worse. 

(TW: Talk of death upcoming)

Let’s go back to about a year ago in my life. My boyfriend’s mom was in the hospital, and she wasn’t making it out this time. The cancer won. I won’t go into details, but I will say this: cancer isn’t pretty. It takes and it takes, and to this day, her loss is a dark cloud over our lives. Grief brings bad days when you least want them or expect them. I was both inside and outside the grief, being there through every step from her diagnosis to her treatments, and I had my own grief, but I still wasn’t in the family. I just did my best to help all of them with every part of myself that I could. 

About two weeks after her loss, while we tried to get ourselves back into our normal routines of our lives, I injured myself at the gym. At the time it felt like a small tweak, something I thought I’d be over in a day. It ended up being a lower back injury that bothered me for almost 8 months and made me entirely re-evaluate my approach to training. Although it was good in the end, it lead to endless days of frustration with my training and a lot of ups-and-downs when I’d think it was getting better, and then realize it wasn’t. I’d lost the gym as an outlet to my grief. Being able to go to the gym is a privilege in itself, one I’ve since checked and reflected on and become more grateful for, but it was still a coping mechanism gone for me. 

Around that time, my partner and I made a difficult but important decision: I had to pay off my credit card debt. Spending at times had been therapeutic to me, and cutting it down to almost zero while taking on any side jobs I could (and eventually taking on a second job) weighed on me. I want to reflect on my privilege and know that many live like this out of necessity, and not out of choice like I did. But I still struggled with it, and often. I began to work 60 hour weeks (because my part-time job never respected my availability), plus freelancing and podcasting -- some weeks, when I was podcast editing, I was doing much closer to 80 hours. Having the two jobs and freelance writing on the side and having a podcast and trying to fit fitness in when I could... sacrifices started to have to be made. My training went on the backburner, again. My partner and I found ourselves spending significantly less time together. Time with friends and my family was infrequent. Sleep suffered.

While I was going through this money madness, I was looking for a replacement full-time position. I knew I wouldn’t have to work the two jobs to pay off my debt if I just had a better paying full-time position (and I was ready for something with more upward growth -- I had been in my full-time job for over 5 years and the raises and upward growth were non-existent). At first I had hope -- I got a couple responses! Even an interview or two! But nothing worked out. And it kept not working out. Every job that I really wanted when I applied I didn’t hear back from, everything else was too big of a sacrifice (far commute, pay cut, industry or position that I didn’t really want). I started to feel like I was trying to claw myself out of a hole using only my bare hands. No matter how much dirt I kicked aside, I couldn’t seem to get my way out. By November of last year, I was grieving, I was broke, I had no job prospects, I was spending so much time at work and I was already weak from a previous injury so my lifting sucked, I barely saw my partner and my pets. 

But things began to look up.

Mid-last year, we bought a house. Which was a thrilling and terrifying decision (and the catalyst for my paying off my debt). After living in a basement apartment for years, we had a little space of our own. With a fenced in back yard for the dog, and a garage for us to build a gym in. 11 hour days are made more tolerable by coming home to a space that is yours, that you love (even if you had to buy a house in a Very White town with a neighbour that flagrantly sells pot and loudly argues with his girlfriend). For five years, I felt stuck in my debt, in my job, in my crappy basement apartment, and this was the first breath of air for us.

But January 2019 was when things started to change, and quickly.

Summer of 2018, my podcast was asked to be featured guests at Podcon. Which was... the most wild and wonderful offer that I could ever recall. It was so wild that when I was struggling, I wouldn’t look to that for positive light because I was certain they invited us accidentally and would soon realize we didn’t deserve to be there or it would somehow get cancelled because things that great didn’t happen to people like me. But in January it DID happen, and it was every bit as wonderful -- and more -- than I could’ve imagined. I got to meet my heroes, and learn from them, and they’re all 100x more incredible than you could imagine. All of them. And we had a live show in front of 100-150 people and let me tell you, having people cheer when you’re introduced on stage is... one of the most wild experiences of my life, one I’ll never forget, one I am eternally grateful for. 

Shortly thereafter, I paid off my debt. The endless hours, desperate saving, doing ridiculous things like online surveys and freelance articles about plumbing all came together and I did it. 

The ball kept rolling.

I had interviewed for a position in summer of 2018 that I desperately wanted that was in the fitness industry. I didn’t get the position (and later found out it went to someone who was simply more qualified than me), but at the very end of last year, the manager contacted me again asking if I was looking for a position. He took me out to lunch to discuss it, and three weeks ago, he offered me a job. With a company I adore, in an industry I'm passionate about. Today is my last day at my old position, and I’m leaving on a more positive note than I could have imagined. I only have 2 shifts left at my part-time position. Next week I start at the new job, and I’m unbelievably excited. I’m not even nervous. Maybe once you meet all your heroes and in the same weekend go on stage in front of 100+ people and play D&D everything else seems easier, or maybe I’m not nervous because I’m completely confident that it’s the right thing to do. I haven’t felt so sure of anything in a long time. 

Two days after I got the job offer, my boyfriend -- now fiance -- proposed on our seven year anniversary. I think my response was “what the fuck” but it was such a joyful blur I can’t even recall fully. 

Swiftly and fully, everything in my life came together. 

My intention isn’t to brag. My intention is to remind you that even when you’re in the darkest part of your life -- when you feel like everything’s going wrong, when you feel like you’re working for nothing, when you feel like the hamster toiling on the wheel that turns but goes nowhere, there is hope. There is goodness on the horizon. Sometimes you have to wait for it, and sometimes that wait is longer than you’d like.

Persist.

[hannahharrington]

CRYING IN EUROPE (postcards from italy)

I struggled with whether or not to post this; I still am, honestly, because it is very raw in every sense. This is something I wrote a year-minus-two-weeks-ago, holed up in an AirBNB in Rome, about losing my good friend Jaymee and the bizarreness of having the best and worst time of your life simultaneously. I did not look at it ever again until a few days ago. It wasn’t written to share with anyone, only because I needed to put thoughts down at the time. Any editing has been very minimal.

The last section I wrote yesterday.  

CRYING IN EUROPE (postcards from italy)

1. The first time is on the first day. I land at Heathrow only to find out the express train isn’t running because of the snowstorm and the tube is beyond fucked. I nearly cry out of frustration and jet lag exhaustion but I don’t. I end up emerging from Shepherd’s Bush Market half a mile from the hotel and have to drag my suitcase through blustery snow that whips me so hard in the face it makes tears leak out of the corners of my eyes.

2. The second time is the next morning, five minutes after I first find out you’re dead. I guess the first five minutes are a mix of me just having woken up, an hour before my alarm, still on New York time as I scroll idly through my phone messages only to see it blowing up with the news; and maybe shock can be used as an excuse, even though we all knew it was coming.

3. Over the Hilton London Kensington breakfast buffet for Hilton Honors Members. I’m telling Barry how I was supposed to see you before it happened. My voice cracks and eyes overflow with tears, and I’m apologizing and Barry is being so kind about it even though I can tell he’s not really sure what to do or say, which is okay because I don’t know either. It occurs to me later that in all the years we’ve known each other, this is the first time I’ve ever cried in front of him.

You said you were terminal, and released to home hospice care, and I told you I would fly to California if you wanted and read you mean celebrity blog comment sections, like how I did for you when you visited me in Brooklyn (I’ll never forget how we laughed until we cried like middle schoolers at a sleepover). I followed your lead in trying to blunt reality with a joke because that’s what you always did. The last thing you posted on any social media was a repost of our Facebook “Friendaversary”, saying how you were due for another one of my dramatic readings. I was going to buy a plane ticket when I got back from this trip. I was supposed to be there.

4. The first cigarette I smoke.

5. And the second, all while thinking about how terrible a person I am for smoking because you hated it and hated having cancer and hated that I would do something that could make me sick. You wanted me to stop, and if this were a movie I’d quit on the spot. But it isn’t and so instead I stand chain-smoking and hating myself.

6. In the shower.

7. We go see the Hamilton matinee hours after we find out, and it’s the cruelest twist of fate, experiencing this thing you loved so deeply and brought into my life and that we shared together. You’re the reason I saw it with everyone else at the matinee Obama attended. I lost the lottery, the lone one of all of us without a way in, and I was feeling a little sorry for myself and about to leave. I went to say goodbye to you, and immediately you pulled your Jaymee magic and got me a ticket at the literal last minute. And it really did feel like magic.

When you first saw it at the Public, I tried the lottery and lost, and I joked for you to go on without me, to die a million happy deaths. You said if I were being mugged and you were the only one who could save me, you’d still make me wait until after the show. I know if I skipped it you’d literally come back to life and kick my ass. But that doesn’t seem like a bad deal. I’d never see Hamilton again, I’d burn all of my playbills, even the one from the off-Broadway run I got signed by the original cast at the stage door. I’d tear the donut bag in half, the one we joked about being good luck, the one I had Lin-Manuel Miranda autograph. I’d do all of that if it gave me five more minutes with you.

I keep my shit together more or less until the second act. When Hamilton pleads to Washington with Why do we have to say goodbye?, I start crying and don’t stop until curtain call.

8. Right before I left on this trip, I threw together a playlist for my phone. The last song I added was Eva Cassidy’s cover of “Fields of Gold”, thinking it’d be pretty background soundtrack for train rides through lush, rolling Italian countryside. A year ago I went down one of my weird little Internet research rabbit holes and read all about Eva, her melanoma, how she died and her last performance, and wondered why there hadn’t been a movie made about that particular beautiful tragedy. After Hamilton I tell Barry I feel better, like it was an emotional release, but then the next afternoon we go to a pastry café and they play a jazz standard cover of “Fields of Gold” over the speakers and my chest seizes.

9. Friday night we’re supposed to meet up with Jen for dinner before she flies back to Philly. I’m sick to my stomach in the cab ride over to her hotel, and when we get to her room I drop my purse and hug her and don’t let go. That thing happens where I’m trying not to cry and it makes me cry harder and I can feel Jen crying too. We sit and Jen and Danielle talk about their travels and the whole time I feel on the verge of throwing up. Finally I say we need to talk about you, about what we’re going to do. Jen says June told her sometimes in Filipino culture they ask for donations for the family instead of flowers, so she’s not sure what’s preferred. I don’t know why I was expecting Jen to have more information, something to make me feel better, but nothing she tells me does. I take one of the Ativans my mom gave me for the plane ride because I can’t calm down. You said they gave you Ativan at the end. You said it helped. It helps me too.

I excuse myself from their room and get lost in the dimly lit maze of their hotel, until finally I find a side exit to the courtyard, and I light a cigarette and text my mom, who happens to be around. I try calling, but this stupid SIM card I got won’t let me connect to the US, so I wait until I’m back at the hotel and Barry is out at his show. The instructions to dial out don’t tell me the overseas rates, but I call my mom anyway, and spend twenty minutes on the phone with her sobbing like a child.

When we check out of the hotel, I’ll find out the call cost me over a hundred pounds, which probably with the obscene exchange rates approximates to three hundred dollars. I rationalize that’s what I would have paid out of pocket for an emergency therapy session anyway.

10. I find your aunt on Facebook and ask her what the family wants done. An hour later she messages me back to say flowers would be lovely. Your mother is beside herself with grief, she says. You were her best friend, she says.

It feels better to be doing something, to feel productive, so I make it my mission to organize the flowers for your memorial. The whole next day between sightseeing at Kensington Palace I’m looking up florists in San Mateo, figuring out who wants to contribute, making sure everyone is included. Bridget agrees to place the order. It’s midnight my time when I run downstairs for a smoke. Bridget and I are trading texts, trying to figure out what to write on the card. I’m not a writer, she says. You should do it, she says. I start crying because I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this. When I go to head back into the hotel, a British girl with blue hair sees me wiping at my eyes. She calls me love and asks if I’m okay. I’ve been in New York too long; my own public meltdowns don’t even embarrass me anymore. I’ve forgotten that the rest of the world doesn’t politely ignore you when you’re losing your shit on the sidewalk. I know how I must look, crying messily in my pajamas, walking around like an open wound just bleeding over everything.

I try to stop the tears long enough to assure her I’m fine, really, and when I stumble out the words that a friend of mine just passed away, she grabs me in a hug before the words finish getting out. She’s so nice that it makes me cry even more and I let her convince me to take the free cigarette she offers. She tells me she’s here with her gay husband and I joke through tears that I’m here with mine too. We stand and talk about Camden Market and the magic of New York at Christmastime, and when she’s satisfied I’m not a suicide risk she adds me as a friend on Facebook.

11. Things feel different in Venice. I start to feel like maybe I’ve hit the bottom of this, it’s only up from here, and even as I’m thinking it I know it’s delusional. I had the same feeling when my dad died, and I learned then that grief is not linear. There can be moments where it’s all temporarily bearable, only for a fresh wave of pain to knock you flat on your ass a minute later.

But for most of Venice I feel lighter, like the darkest clouds of the storm have passed. We get lost in the labyrinth of alleyways and eventually I duck into a Murano glass shop. Back in January when I went to Fort Myers, I took an Uber from the airport, and for the first time ever I had a woman driver. During the drive to the beach somehow the subject of this trip came up. I mentioned I’d be in Venice, and she told me how her day job was at an art gallery. They made jewelry from Murano glass, a Venetian technique. She made me promise to seek it out when I went.

The shop has all kinds of figurines, and in the back corner I discover these thimble-sized cows. Cows were your thing. Not just thing—borderline obsession. I still don’t know what it is about them you loved so much, but you did. When I was in Amsterdam I passed by an actual Cow Museum, snapped a photo of the storefront and sent it to you. You couldn’t believe I didn’t go inside. Now I’m here in Venice, looking at these little cows and thinking of you, and of course I have to get them. I scoop four of them into my palm and go to the cashier and whatever part of my heart that’s been healing over gets ripped open raw again. My throat burns too much for me to manage anything more than a cursory grazie as I watch him bundle them delicately in bubble wrap. It almost feels selfish to hurt this much, when there are people in this world who loved you longer and harder and better than I did. But I do.

12. In Florence Barry and I split up for the day. He runs off to the Duomo while I visit the Ambrogio market, the one the owner of our B&B tells me is for locals. I pick up random ingredients for my mother, whose burgeoning interest in the culinary arts still baffles me considering I subsisted on almost nothing but microwave dinners as a child, and two sweaters for myself. 

I’m back at our apartment-sized suite, arranging the packaged pasta and sun-dried tomatoes on the wooden table for an Instagram photo when I click some random button that takes me to my inbox.

There’s only one message in there and I realize it’s from you, from over two years ago. I click to see it’s a video taken in Marie’s Crisis. Some pitch perfect soprano sings bars from an unrecognizable show tune at the piano, and then you turn the camera to yourself, bobbing your head along with a coy smile. I can’t believe it. I click out accidentally and have to Google for instructions on how to find it again. The video is only fifteen seconds but I watch it ten times in a row and then put my head down on the table and cry until it hurts.

13. Bucket list items have a greater sense of urgency now than they used to. At the last minute I find a woman who agrees to take me to a horse farm in Tuscany. She meets me at the Piazza Cavalleggeri behind one of Florence’s countless gorgeous ancient basilicas and takes me to meet her business partner so he can drive. He’s an old guy who speaks zero English, and it becomes evident when he climbs into the driver’s seat that he has Tourette’s. Every ten seconds his tic makes him jerk the steering wheel so the whole car swerves. We lurch our way up narrow roads that wind up huge hills, endless greenery on all sides, the woman chattering happily about vineyards and olive trees as I brace myself in the backseat, positive the guy is going to tic us right into oncoming traffic and certain death. It rains on the way there, and the woman worries it’ll be too wet to ride, but sure enough we arrive and the sky clears up just long enough for me and two other American girls to go for an hour-long trek. It’s been ten years since I’ve been on a horse, and I’m nervous about it, but the second I’m in the saddle everything comes back to me. We ride through steep hills, surrounded by the kind of scenery that’s beyond picturesque. It’s so gorgeous it doesn’t look real, like an oil painting. For the first time in days I feel a weightless kind of happiness. I know as it’s happening that this is something I will remember for the rest of my life.

When the woman drops me back off in Florence, I trip over myself thanking her profusely, holding back tears because I don’t want to explain that that was maybe the most beautiful experience of my life and I’m so grateful that for three hours the Jaymee is dead, Jaymee is dead, Jaymee is dead track stopped spinning in my head.

14. Rome is a welcome change of pace. I like big, bustling, metropolitan cities; they make me feel comfortable. Safe. Even just through glimpses out the taxi window I can see Rome is bursting at the seams, vibrant and colorful and a startling clash of ancient and modern. Our driver asks where we’re from and I say New York. He laughs and tells us he doesn’t like America, but he likes New York.

On a tour of the Vatican museums, our guide shares all the juicy stories of how Raphael and Michelangelo loathed each other, and the illicit love between Antinous and Hadrian, and we marvel at the frescos on every wall and the breathtaking scope of the Sistine Chapel and the inside of St. Peter’s basilica.

I was skeptical as I always am of anything to do with organized religion, but you liked the new Pope. You thought he was progressive, refreshing. You’d joke all the time about your “Jesus problems”, how you struggled to reconcile your Catholicism with your personal politics.

Afterward Barry scurries off to scale the bell tower. I ask our guide if there’s anywhere in the basilica to light candles, like how you can do in St. Patrick’s. She tells me it’s not allowed—it’s too much of a hazard, especially after a crazy man declared himself the second coming of Jesus and attacked Michelangelo’s Pietà with a hammer, chipping off fifteen pieces in the mayhem, including Mary’s nose.

Instead of waiting for Barry outside in the square I retreat back into St. Peter’s, to the closed off chapel. The guard asks me if I will be praying. It forces me to confront what I’m really planning to do, and after a heartbeat of hesitation I stutter out a yes, slip through the parted curtains to the pews. I’ve never prayed in my life; I have no idea how to do it. I look to see how others around me kneel and try to imitate the stance, hands folded in front of me, knees against the padded rest. It all feels clumsy and awkward until suddenly it doesn’t. Suddenly I’m just crying. I watch my thick tears plop onto concrete and absently wonder how many people before me have spilled salt on these floors. Probably a lot.

I don’t know how to pray. In my head I’m just screaming please forgive me, and I don’t know if I’m saying it to God or to you. I guess I know now what Catholic guilt feels like.

I should’ve been there. I should’ve brought Schmackary’s cookies and the good luck donut bag and flown out to California and seen you. Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was? Why did you have to make your yes a joke? (A quip about doctor’s orders, it comes as no surprise you embraced the gallows humor.) Why couldn’t you be earnest? Why couldn’t just say I need you right now, I don’t have much time, please be here? Did you even know? Because I swear I didn’t. I thought I could wait. I thought you had more time. None of it fucking matters because I can’t forgive myself, not ever.

…And that’s it. That’s where I stopped writing. I didn’t cry on European soil again after that. Not because the last cry was cathartic or healing; it wasn’t. The healing would come later, long after my plane touched down again in New York. It happened in ways I can’t explain, slowly, until one day the thought of you didn’t automatically bring me to the brink of tears or knock the wind from me like a sucker punch to the gut, where the tenderness of loving memory ran parallel with the heartbreak rather than being subsumed by it. Eventually the day came where I could think of you and how you were and what we shared, not only of the ways I failed you. A year later and I still think of those too, sometimes. And there are still tears, sometimes.

I feel like I always had this idea that you go through The Worst Thing and life just evens out after that. My Worst Thing happened when I was in my teenage years and I was supposed to be in the clear afterwards. But life doesn’t work that way. There’s no plateau, no neat ever after. And every so often we break in ways where yes, you can scrape the pieces together and carry on, but you’re never made whole again. You’re never the person you used to be. You become a new version of yourself, mismatched and full of jagged lines, and you find a way to forge ahead.

In the immediate soul-crushing wake of the 2016 election, someone created a Subway Therapy project in the tunnel of the 14th Avenue station that stretches from Sixth to Seventh. I went to see it then, a modern day marvel: the long tiled wall papered with thousands of bright post-its, each full of encouragement and commiseration from fellow grief-sick New Yorkers. The sight was a life preserver in the sea of misery I’d floated in that entire week. I was not alone in the feeling, however singularly devastating it felt.

Countless others have been here. I am not the only one to have shed my tears on ancient chapel floors, unable to imagine I would ever feel okay again. Experts painstakingly restored the Pietà after the attack, but if you were to find your way behind the bulletproof glass and touch the Virgin Mary’s cheek, you would still feel hairline traces of their work, a difference of texture; if you were to peer close enough, you would see the faint lines on marble that belie its pristine repair. It was broken once. It could not be remade exactly as it was. It’s no less a masterpiece.

That day in the 14th Street station, I peeled off a blank post-it and wrote out an Abraham Lincoln quote I’d read once: Perfect relief is not possible, except with time. You cannot now realize that you will ever feel better… And yet this is a mistake. You are sure to be happy again.

Time buffers out the rough edges. It is the only thing that does.

[poetryasf-ck]

Good Grief #1 - Catherine Wilson

This is a new project. What we’re going to do is talk to poets who have written and performed deeply personal work informed by grief, loss and/or trauma, and ask them how this affected them, and whether or not they’d do it again. As such, these posts will talk about traumatic events including assault, genocide and suicide.

In the last ‘Eight Poems…’ podcast with Claire Askew we talked about the tendency for poets - amongst other artists - to explore personal instances of loss, grief and trauma in their work, and how it can negatively affect them. There’s been some discussion about autobiographical works of this nature: how performing them over a sustained period of time (for example, a month-long festival run) can negate the cathartic effect by making the poet relive the event, and whether slams encourage performers to expose wounds that haven’t healed properly in return for heading to nationals via your devastating pathos.

This is a topic that, I feel, needs exploring in more detail. Why do poets do this? What are their reasons, and how do they feel about it in hindsight?

Photo by Chris Belous.

The first person we’re talking to is Catherine Wilson. This is specifically because of a guest slot I did at Loud Poets’ Fringe show a few years ago, when I was on after Catherine who was part of the regular bill. I was about to do a poem involving increasingly bizarre facts about the actor Robert Pattinson, which is generally considered to not be a serious piece, whereas Catherine’s poem was about the death of her sister.

In order not to give the audience mood whiplash Kevin McLean had to warm the audience back up before I went on stage (Loud Poets now let you know what tones the different parts of their show want to hit to prevent this sort of thing happening). As a result of both the poem’s content and knowing this sort of situation might arise, Catherine was visibly distressed afterwards. This stayed in my mind as we were less than halfway through a full Edinburgh Fringe run, that this was an experience she was going through daily.

As a result I asked Catherine to help me write the questions we’re asking poets in these articles, and to be the first person to answer them.

1. What motivated you to write about grief/loss/trauma?

Initially, when I first started writing about grief/loss or trauma, I think I did it because I saw it as the done thing. For context, my sister was killed in the Dunblane Massacre in 1996 and my father also died before I was born. I looked at my lived experience and thought "I can make a good poem out of this." Looking back this wasn't the right motivation at all! However, now, I'm glad I wrote what I did. It really was a fantastic first step into learning how to express myself about things that I don't often get to talk about - either because of awkwardness or not wanting to bring down the mood. Poetry offered me a place to admit that I wasn't okay and talk about it without being interrupted or edited.

Now, when I write on similar topics, it's a much more thoughtful process. I really think about how what I'm writing is going to look on stage - whether I go too far down a dark rabbit hole and need to pull myself back a little and mostly, how it will affect me personally to perform this piece again and again

2. How does performing this piece change how you look at what happened to you?

I think it has totally changed my perspective. It's given me my own way of articulating my experience which has naturally re-shaped how I conceive of it. By giving it words I've changed how I relate to it. I think too, that experiencing loss is a very de-personalising experience: you lose yourself a wee bit along the way in your grief. By writing I've put myself back in the narrative and marked out the place within the story that is mine.

3. How do you separate artistic performance from lived personal experience?

I am notoriously bad at this. When performing about my losses it's nearly always pretty much exactly my experience, I don't really write it through a fictional lens. My one tactic is to always remember that each poem is one poem, not the poem. I don't have to sum up absolutely everything with one poem - I can focus on one mood or capture one moment. Not only does this probably make my poetry better, but it stops me feeling guilty or worried about forgetting or neglecting to include something.

4. Do you find yourself affected negatively by performing this piece? If so, how do you look after yourself? 

I do find performing my pieces about loss more and more hard the more that I perform them. I always ensure I have someone in the audience I trust (usually this is my partner). At the end of the day, I have to constantly examine why I'm performing that piece: if it's because I've been booked/asked to or really want to - then great. That's a motivation. If I'm really not feeling it that day, or will upset myself then I tend to not do it. It's not healthy to constantly upset yourself onstage for the sake of performance. If it still makes you cry every time you read it, then chance is you need to process your feelings a bit more. 

5. Do you practice any aftercare after performing this piece (either for yourself or audiences)? (E.g., talking to audience members who are upset, taking some time out after your performance to ground yourself, ensuring you perform in places where you feel safe etc.)

My main piece of aftercare is recognising when to draw the line. Recently, I performed at the March for Our Lives anti-gun protest, I spent two hours there and spoke to three members of the press. I knew more press was coming, but I decided I was tired and wanted to go. 

When I perform this piece as part of a larger show, I would normally hang back and wait for some of the audience to leave. If someone is really upset I want to prioritise actually looking after them. What I don't want to do, however, is subject myself to a lot of "clumsy samaritanism": nearly everyone in Britain remembers Dunblane, it's a huge part of our history and our only school shooting. Therefore loads of people, if they see you, want to stop you and tell you where they were when it happened or how they remember it. They are processing meeting a Dunblane family member and the only way they can relate is telling you that memory. There's nothing wrong with it, they don't mean to do anything malicious at all - however - I still want to avoid it. By the time I've performed I'm normally hungry and tired anyway, and want to look after someone seriously upset. Being stopped constantly by ten or so people as I'm trying to leave by people who kind of want you to tell them "it's all okay" is too laborious and exhausting. So I normally hang back to pack up,  or hide for a wee while, or my partner helps me escape a wee bit.

Image from TedX talk

6. Do you do any content warnings for this piece? Why?

Sadly, a lot of promoters will still stop you from doing content warnings, which is unfortunate because if I saw a poem similar to mine, I would probably have to excuse myself (because of my own experience). I don't watch other poets do poems about guns or shootings - I have to leave because it's so uncomfortable (often because they don't actually have the experience themselves, but that's another story!)

I rarely do this poem at shows or in sets, if I did I would definitely give a blanket warning and also assure the audience I was totally comfortable with them leaving and/or coming back if they needed to.

7. Does the artist owe any kind of protection or safeguarding to their audience? 

I think so. Whilst I should be allowed to speak honestly about my experience, I also need to have context in mind. Most of the time, people haven't knowingly come to see me expecting to see me do very intense pieces about trauma. Most of the time I'm part of someone else's event or gig. It's not fair, then, to thrust my trauma on the room without at least some gentle framing: whether that be ending my set with another poem to soften the blow and allow breathing room, or doing content warnings.

8. Do you believe writing about areas such as grief, loss or trauma is a form of healthy catharsis or memorialisation?

I definitely think writing is one of the best, if not the best, form of catharsis and memorialisation, precisely because you get to decide what feelings you want to process or how you want to remember that person or event. It is, however, changed with performance, and I think it's important to examine WHY you want to perform this piece.

9. Do you believe artists whose work heavily focuses on their own traumas or losses should also attempt to explore other topics?

I definitely do. Whilst not every poet is going to write silly or funny poems, it's definitely not healthy to just write about your losses and traumas. Even if they never hit the stage, I think it's important to also write about what makes you happy.

10. What kind of warnings signs would you point out to someone new to poetry or performance who was performing about their traumas?

I have three:

If a poet cries, breaks down or is deeply unhappy or irritable when they do that poem, I don't think they're ready to be performing it. It's natural to be upset, but with an element of professional performance it's not healthy.

If a poet forces themselves to do the poem. If you have to push yourself to do it every time you perform, it's probably best to shelve it for a while.

If the piece becomes overly performed and completely separate from the lived experience. If a poet is doing this piece and shutting themselves down, or going into autopilot whilst they do the poem - this really isn't healthy. It's a numbing affect to shut yourself off from your real feelings.

What I would say about these warning signs is that the same poet can have all three, or none in the space of one week. Sometimes you feel everything really intensely and sometimes it's totally fine and really cathartic. I think it's about making sure you check in with your motivation for performing, how you feel on the day, and making sure you're in a space you feel comfortable in.

Catherine Wilson can be found on Twitter: @CWilsonPoet

Her website is http://www.catherinewilsonwriter.co.uk/

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[maybeyapping]

The Five Stages of Falling In Love by Edward Elric

People tell you that there are 5 stages of grief, but what they don’t tell you is that there are 5 stages of falling for someone.

 Hi, I’m a linguistics and science major at Royal Amestris, and I’ve fallen in love with my novelist Best Friend, Naomi Brighton.

 Perhaps you’ve heard of her, she wrote the groundbreaking Soul Cross triology, and a series called Koralyne, which revolves around a closeted trans lesbian. I’ve won a few awards for my projects too, but nothing she has.

 Anyways, I think I should get back to the story. Here’s stage one.

 1.       Encounter

 It was a sunny day, way too hot for my mechanic leg to rest comfortably on my skin. I was sipping a milkshake while sitting in my town’s local library, Books n’ Cookies. The name really suited the place, since it was a sort of safe haven for homeless guys, or LGBT folk hiding from family members or homophobic friends. They didn’t charge you for the cookies, at least in money. If you want a cookie and a drink, all you had to do was show your receipt for borrowing a book.

 Sheska, my classmate, was the one who first introduced it to me, and wow, I’m glad she did.

 Anyway, I was sipping the white, icy, beverage, when the door’s bell chimed. I was sitting at the tiny café area, flipping through a YA novel written in my target language, French. It was about an Asexual Biromantic girl, learning how to understand how Homophobia originated. Naomi walked past me at first, and ordered a drink and a cake. She then walked past my table, and she must’ve read an entire paragraph before saying: “The Girl and The Homophobes? Good choice. A LGBT Classic.” I looked up, and scanned her appearance. She was wearing a red headband, a light blue cardigan over a white blouse, a jean skirt with multiple LGBT and fandom badges; biromatic, demisexual, Percy Jackson, Zelda, Voltron, and some of her own merch. She was also sporting white sneakers on which she had painted the words ‘I’m Here and I’m Queer’ over them both. Her left leg was made of the same metal which my right one was created with. She had light brown skin, which reminded me of Professor Miles, freckles, deep black hair, and steely silver eyes.

 “Wh—oh, yeah. You know it?” I spluttered after a moment. She laughed, and leaned against the table, “Know it?” she asked, “I wrote it!” I gaped, “Seriously?” she laughed simply, nodding, “Yeah. It’s the first thing I’ve published,” she supplied. I nodded, eyes wide and lips parted slightly. “It’s good,” I said, “have you published anything else since?” Naomi nodded, “I’ve written the Soul Cross Legends book, and the short story Petrified.” My jaw dropped, “Seriously!? I love Petrified!” Naomi laughed, and nodded to the chair in front of me, “May I?” she asked. I nodded, a little surprised she wanted to continue talking.

 She sat down and unpacked her macbook. I whistled, “sweet.” Naomi rolled her eyes, “Only one of the perks of being a semi popular author,” I clicked my tongue, “Semi? Dude, my entire linguistics class loves your books. You should start your own library.” Naomi barked a laugh, “What? I wouldn’t make any money with that! I don’t even have enough books to fill a library.” I propped my arm on the table, “But you could.” “Do you have any idea how long it takes to write a book?” “No, but I bet you’ll tell me.” “Petrified took two years, with character creation and research. I asked people with PTSD and war veterans to write Gabby.” I whistled appreciatively, “That’s commitment.” Naomi huffed, starting up her macbook, “Or is it just proper representation?” She asked, at my widened eyes she chuckled: “I asked my trans lesbian friend on Koralyne too, so don’t underestimate my ability to do the proper research.”

 I raised my arms defensively, “Alright, I won’t. You’ve proven yourself worthy, bookworm,” I joked. Naomi laughed, “If I’m bookworm,” she pointed at the Bill Nye The Science Guy badge on my sweatshirt, “Does that make you Science Prince?” I laughed, “That’s better than Alchemy Prince,” Naomi giggled, tilting her head, “What’d you do to earn that name?” I groaned, rolling my eyes, “I held a presentation in High School about Alchemy Theory, and I’m researching it now, I got the name from my High School science teacher,” I grinned, “Man, Mrs. Curtis was an amazing teacher, always encouraged me and my brother.” Naomi smiled, “You have a brother?” I nodded. “He’s a year younger than me, studying linguistics and history currently.” Naomi sighed, leaning on her palm, “Wow that’s so cool. I can’t afford going to college, so I work at a cozy little Library.” Her smirk told me that yes, I work here.  

 We ended up talking for two more hours, and exchanging numbers.

 That was how I met my best friend.

  2.       Friendship

I’ll be honest, I hadn’t noticed I’d befriended her until she invited me to play Zelda with her at her apartment. It was a larger apartment uptown, and the mailbox in the entry hall had three names pasted onto it: Brighton, Alvarez and Mckinnon. I guessed Alvarez and Mckinnon were her roommates. I knocked on her door on the 6th floor, and let her pull me inside. She jumped over her couch and crashed onto it with a muffled ‘POOMPF’.  I dropped my bag onto the floor and fell onto the couch. She had moved to sit in front of it, cross legged, controller on her lap. “Welcome,” she said, as I lied on the couch, “to El Palacio de la diversidad, The Palace of Diversity.” I chuckled, “How diverse can it be with three people?” “You’d be surprised,” she said cockily, “Lysanna is Latinx, Cuban, to be exact, Ashley is from Cherokee decent. My parents moved to France two generations ago, then, my parents moved to madrid and I was born there. Then, I came here with Lys and Ash.” I whistled, “A woman of many cultures I see.” “Not to mention the diversity in sexuality and gender; I’m Demisexual and Bi, Ash is Pan and trans, Lys is queer.” I raised a brow, “just queer?” Naomi nodded, pressing buttons on her remote, “yep, she’s still trying to figure it out, but she has dated men, women, in between – basically, she’s seen it all.” I laughed, “Seriously?” Naomi giggled, “Yep! Without her I doubt Ash would be so confident today.” I tilted my head, “And you?”

 She froze. Her muscles tightened (and believe me, there was a lot to tighten), and her nostrils flared. Her eyes turned steely, “I don’t think anyone can help me recover from my lost pride.”  For a moment, I simply stared at her. When I inhaled, ready to ask her ‘Why’s that’, she bolted up. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and waved. Then, she disappeared down the hall. As she was absent, I looked at the polaroids decorating the walls, shelves and tables. There was a white string above the kitchen counter, as well as the TV. On all pictures stood Naomi, with two other girls, sometimes just one, other times Naomi wasn’t depicted. There was a pink polaroid camera on the shelf above the TV, next to it a picture of a girl with brown skin, dark brown curly hair, and sparkling green eyes. In pink marker the white area of the picture read, ‘I’m better than you at everything, but above all else: sex. –Lys’ There was a manuscript of The Girl And The Homophobes, next to it was a picture of Naomi in a bright blue, flower printed sundress and straw hat. It read: ‘Feelings aren’t sensible. People don’t make sense, and love doesn’t either. The people who do, are often times the wrong ones. – Nao’ the last item was a mannequin head, on which orange cat-ear headphones rested. The polaroid taped to the mannequin had a picture of a girl with light brown hair, dark red eyes and brown skin, and scars along her arms. She was wearing an orange sweatshirt-vest, and black jeans. It read ‘I have a free life long trial of feeling okay. –Ash, 2017’

 Just then, Naomi returned. She was holding a blue, white and silver bracelet that she had made herself. It was made of wool, one of those classic friendship bracelets that were popular a few years ago. She must’ve noticed the ones I wore, green and blue from Winry, a brown and gold one from Al, a yellow, white and gold one from Ling, a green and black one from Lan Fan, the list went on. “Here,” she said, handing it to me, “This is for you. A gift.” I took it, eyes blown wide, “Thanks.” Naomi smiled, and sat down again. “I consider us friends, you know.” I hummed, “That’s good to know, Bookworm.” After a moment of silence, the only sound coming from her controller, I added: “I consider us friends, too.”

 She grinned, silver eyes sparkling with delight.

 3.       Trust

She hadn’t come to the Library that day. That set me off. “Don’t worry about it, Brother,” Al had said, “She was probably just feeling under the weather.” I had hummed, but I didn’t believe it. She normally texted me if she wasn’t feeling well, so this was new. I left Al when he began talking to Mei, and ran uptown – to Naomi’s apartment.

 I bounded up the stairs and knocked on the apartment door. At least, I slid to a halt before it, just as the door opened and a familiar face exited. “Hm? Ed? What are you doing here?” Lys asked, green eyes glittering curiously. “Naomi didn’t show today,” I said, “Just wanted to check that she’s okay.” Lys deflated, green eyes turning dark. “She’s in her room,” she said grimly, “last door on the right. She’s…she needs someone she can trust.” I frowned, “And it’s not you?” Lys smiled sadly, “I’m not you, apparently.” With that, she dropped the apartment key into my hand and left.

 I unlocked the door and stepped inside. After dropping the key in it’s holder on the dresser next to the door, I headed towards Naomi’s room. There was a whiteboard pinned to the door, and the quote had been written with wet marker: “Dying is Easy, Living is Harder –Lin Manuel Miranda” From behind the door I heard coughing and broken sobs. I pushed the door open carefully, and my eyes flew over Naomi, wrapped in a bi pride flag blanket, curled up into a ball, sobbing uncontrollably.

 I slowly walked to her bed and sat down. She continued to cry until I placed my hand on her head tentatively. She stopped sobbing, and moved her head to my lap. “What happened?” I asked, voice quiet. Naomi hiccupped, “M-My step mom…I-I thought…I thought she—she had texted me…” I was no mind reader, but I guessed she didn’t like her step mom much. The way she avoided talking about her ‘Family’, I could only guess that she was the victim of Homophobia, Sexism, Abuse, or all of the above. I pet her head, and whispered, “I’m here. You’re safe.” I wanted to say ‘You’re safe,’ but I couldn’t lie to her, and I didn’t know if it really was safe. She coughed. “I’m…I’m sorry, I’m bad at this.” I said. “J-Just…cuddle?” she sobbed, and I froze. After a moment my shock morphed into a smile, “Sure.” I said, crawling into bed next to her.

 We lied in silence, me cradling her in my arms. I found we did this a lot, acting like a couple, even though we weren’t. I never did this with anyone else, it was something only Naomi knew of me.

 Suddenly, she spoke: “I was 7 when Ash told me she thought my mom was abusive,” I froze, my hand stopped stroking her back, “It wasn’t until I was 11 that the police did something. I was put in a foster home. I thought…I thought mom’s hit their kids, and that they refused to feed them when they got bad grades. I though Mrs Mckinnon was the weird one.” Ashley Mckinnon saved Naomi. That was a fact I knew then. I pulled her closer and whispered, “You’re free now. You’re here.” Naomi hummed, the vibration resonating through my body, “To this day, I flinch everytime someone gets really angry.” I frowned, I knew that. I had been on the ‘really angry’ side of the situation sometimes.

 “I won’t let her hurt you again,” I said, “I know Ash and Lys won’t either.” Naomi nodded, and grasped my shirt. “Thanks,” she husked, “Thanks Ed.”

 4.       Recognition/Acceptance

It was simple, really.

 It was such a small thing, I’m surprised I didn’t notice it sooner. We were sitting at the library café, laughing, joking, talking, brainstorming fic and novel ideas. Her eyes crinkled, and her grin was wide. Her gray eyes were sparkling, and looked like pure silver, she was curling a strand of hair around her fingers, her raid nails creating a contrast to her black hair. Had her eyes always been such an indescribable shade between silver and blue? I wasn’t sure.

 I felt my face grow hot, the warmth spreading to my ears when she began to play with her red earrings. Red reminds me of you, she had said when buying them with me, so I’ll be sure to always think of you when I wear these.

 Remembering that sent electricity through my body.

 Oh no.

  5.      Confession

We were on the Central City Pier, our feet dangling over the edge as the sky painted the sea in dark shades of blue under the setting sky. The sky was dipped shades of red, blue and purple. She was wearing shorts and a blue bikini top. A red ribbon held her braid together.

 She was smiling, licking her strawberry ice cream. Her lips were red from the cold, but she never shivered. She looked at me, and I whipped my head away. I felt hot from my nose to my ears, and then she did something that made me grow hot all over:

 She touched my ear.

 I turned around and she pulled her hand back. “You’re warm,” she said, silver eyes blown wide. The wind picked up and brushed her hair into a frazzled mess. I probably looked just as disheveled. “Mhm,” I hummed, glaring at the horizon. Naomi pouted, and scooted nearer. She studied the side of my face as I sipped my slushie. I felt my cheeks heat up. She tilted her head. “What’s wrong with you? You look like the sun just ruined Al’s surprise Birthday party.” I rolled my eyes and glared at Naomi. She smiled, “Now you look like I missed an expertly planned Chemistry pun.” “That’s how I feel, too.” Naomi laughed, “Oh yeah? Pray tell, what did I miss?”

 I glared at my slushie, now, and felt the heat spread down my neck. “You’re such a hypocrite,” I deadpanned, making her squeak indigilantly, “You call me oblivious while being 100% clueless yourself.” Naomi frowned, “What do you mean?” She got on all fours and stared at me intently. I looked at her, which was a mistake. Her face was positioned in a way that it was nearly impossible not to look down her shirt. I cursed, then turned to her. I grabbed her arms and pulled her into a sitting position.

 “Are you stupid?” I asked, “or just in denial?” Naomi deflated. “Denial,” she hummed, “I just don’t get how you could possibly have a crush on me.” I scowled, “Hell if I know. You’re cute I guess.” She laughed airily, “You guess?” I shrugged, releasing her. After a minute, she said: “How can you be in love with a fuck up like me?” “If with fuck up you mean you fuck me up, then, easy, you just…do.” Naomi smiled, and intertwined our fingers, “Can you help me love myself again?” I looked at our hands, face hot, “I can try. No, I…I promise I will.” Naomi laughed, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” “I only make ones I can.”

 I hadn’t realized how much her words affected me (and vice versa) until that moment.

 Then, she pushed me against the pier and kissed me.

[bibleteachingbyolga]

In March of 2016, our daughter Leila Judith Grace died at 39 weeks and 4 days in the womb. She was stillborn four days later. My husband and I were plunged into a world we had only heard about from a distance. Involuntarily, we became members of a sad solidarity of parents who carry around the hidden grief of a child who has departed this earth.

Leila’s death was five years ago. I still have a lot to learn from the Lord as I work through his sore providence. But as I reflect, seven truths have helped to lift my eyes heavenward, seven truths I would like to share with any mother walking through a similar valley of grief and pain.

So to you, dear sister in Christ, I’m so sorry that we share this great sadness in common. I wish it weren’t so. I hope these truths help you to keep fighting to live by faith, and not by sight, as you lament the death of your precious child.

1. It wasn’t your fault.

If you’re anything like me, you have replayed the days before your child’s death in vivid detail, wondering what you could have done to prevent it. What could you have done differently? The Bible’s answer is clear: nothing!

Psalm 139 tells us that your baby’s days were numbered before they came into being: “In your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them” (Psalm 139:16). Before God knit Leila together in my womb, he had ordained that her life was only for the womb — 277 days. Nothing I could have done would have altered the eternal plans of God, even though I have often wished to go back in time and give it a try. “Nothing takes place save according to his appointment,” John Calvin once said (Institutes of the Christian Religion, 1.17.11). Satan would love for you to doubt the truth of God’s word, but the path of “what if . . . ?” leads to guilt, devastation, and hopelessness. Your baby’s days were irrevocably written in God’s book before he or she was even conceived.

2. Your baby is safe.

Maybe we think that the safest place for babies is in their mother’s arms. And how our arms ache to cradle our babies! Never has emptiness felt so heavy. But even if we were granted that privilege, we wouldn’t be able to protect them from the dangers of this fallen world.

Instead, our babies were called straight into the arms of Jesus, to a place where “the wicked cease from troubling” and where “the weary are at rest” (Job 3:17). Of course, knowing they are safe doesn’t take away the current anguish of living without them. But never will we need to worry about our children in any way — in fact, we don’t even need to pray for them. Their pilgrimage in this fallen world is over, and they are

Safe in the arms of Jesus, safe from corroding care, safe from the world’s temptations, sin cannot harm them there.

3. You will see your baby again one day.

When King David’s son died, he said with confidence, “I shall go to him, but he will not return to me” (2 Samuel 12:23). When we lowered Leila’s body into the grave, I put the first handful of soil on her tiny white coffin. “See you soon,” I whispered through tears, clinging to God’s covenant faithfulness with an even better hope than David’s. I had been helped toward such confidence by a line in the Canons of Dort:

[Christian] parents have no reason to doubt the election and salvation of their children, whom it pleases God to call out of this life in their infancy. (1.17)

Of course, our babies gained access to heaven only through Jesus, whom they needed as much as any other sinner. They too needed to be washed, sanctified, and justified by the blood of Christ, and if we are united to him by faith, then one day we will see them again.

4. Though short, your baby’s life was valuable.

It is hard to imagine how our world could have a lower view of life in the womb than it does right now. A baby’s life is viewed as disposable at any stage of development. But we know that our babies’ lives were precious from conception because they were made by God: “You formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb” (Psalm 139:13).

The image of knitting brings to mind a focus on intricate detail and a careful creation of something beautiful. It doesn’t matter at what point during or after the pregnancy our babies died, how developed they were, whether or not they had medical complications — they were still God-reflecting, soul-possessing people whom he intimately formed, and therefore they were precious in his sight.

5. God will hold you fast.

Five years ago, when the sonographer said the harrowing words, “I’m sorry, but there is no heartbeat,” my husband and I felt like the bottom of our world gave way. We were in free fall. But a friend sent us Deuteronomy 33:27: “The eternal God is your dwelling place, and underneath are the everlasting arms.” You may not always feel held, but your feelings don’t change reality — in Christ, his arms are always underneath you.

So lean the full weight of your sorrow into them; there is no grief too heavy for him — he will hold you fast. As your heavenly Father has promised,

The soul that on Jesus has leaned for repose, I will not, I will not desert to his foes. That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.

6. Even though your child isn’t with you, you are still a mother.

Right now you may not have much to show for your motherhood. No diapers to change, no baby clothes to wash, no nursing to be done — all agonizing reminders of what you have lost. But a live birth or a surviving child does not make you a mother: if your child’s life began at conception, then so too did your motherhood. And the death of your child does not undo that reality.

In Luke’s Gospel, when Jesus witnesses the funeral procession of a young man, Luke describes the young man as “the only son of his mother” (Luke 7:12). Jesus, having compassion on the mother, tells the man to “arise.” Luke continues, “And the dead man sat up and began to speak, and Jesus gave him to his mother” (Luke 7:15). In life and in death, this woman was his mother. And in resurrection life, Jesus gave her back her son.

The world may forget you are a mother to your child. Even those close to you may forget (unintentionally) to mention your baby’s name, or to include him or her in a birth order. But God will never forget. In life, and in death, he views you as your child’s mother.

7. Your baby’s story isn’t complete yet.

The separation of body and soul was never more real to me than when I was holding my daughter’s lifeless body in the hospital. Up until that point, I thought that somehow Leila must already be with Jesus, bodily. And yet, here was her very real body in my arms — all seven pounds of it — the same very real body that would soon lie in a tiny coffin and be buried in a grave. That’s when it struck me that Leila’s story was not yet complete. Yes, she was with the Lord, which was “far better” (Philippians 1:23), but it wasn’t yet best. She was, and still is, awaiting her resurrection body — her glorious, new-creation, imperishable body.

Our children’s life, death, and resurrection patterns that of the Lord Jesus, “the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep” (1 Corinthians 15:20). On the cross, Jesus’s final words to his Father were “into your hands I commit my spirit” (Luke 23:46), but as we know, his body was committed to the grave. His soul and body were separated on Friday evening until Sunday morning, when he rose from the dead.

So too, when our babies died, their souls went immediately to heaven, but their bodies went to the grave. To mark this already-but-not-yet part of Leila’s story, we had three words engraved on her coffin: “Awaiting the Resurrection.” However you laid your baby to rest, he or she is awaiting that same resurrection, when “the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable” (1 Corinthians 15:52). On that day, our children will hear the voice of our Savior calling their name, and saying, “Come forth.” Then, and only then, will their story be complete.

So, dear sister in Christ, as we grieve for our little ones, let us do so with hope, fixing our eyes on the risen Lord Jesus. For one day he will reunite us with our children on another shore and in a greater light. That day is coming. As Samuel Rutherford wrote in a letter to a grieving mother, “Prepare yourself; you are nearer your daughter this day than you were yesterday.” Every day is one day closer to seeing your child again.

[shoemon]

Depression.

Here’s my attempt at normalising conversations about depression and anxiety, at a time when many are feeling not their best.

There's some beauty in the paralysing feeling of depression. If you have dealt with it before and have a certain level of self-awareness, it starts with one day when you wake up and feel “Oh shit, this feeling is familiar. Ah, its depression.”

About 2 months ago, I decided to make a big life change, something that completely threw me off my course in life. It shook my core and everything I believed in. It was very unfortunate, and painful, and just “sucked” in every non-literal way of the word. As any big event goes, I landed into the 5 stages of grief. The first few weeks were pure bliss of denial. Logistic and rationale directed me, and I went ahead with a black-and-white task list. I was doing alright, and then few weeks ago COVID-19 hit. It has only been grey ever since. I will call it “what-must-not-be-named” in this writing. Not because I am afraid of it, but because I could’ve become a millionaire by now if I got a $ every time I read/wrote/said/heard the word.

Now, I have dealt with mental health issues in my life earlier, and I have a large toolkit of activities and to-dos in case I felt “sadness is coming”. So, I pre-emptively hiked up those activities. Work, workout, and talking to close people are the top 3 things on that list. What-must-not-be-named took away (going to) work, and it also closed working out (at the gym). In the pre-lockdown days, I could still go run outdoors and so I did that.

Then struck the hammer of loneliness. It was me, in my new apartment, by myself, trying to keep sane. I spoke to my friends and family as much as I could, but that didn’t reduce loneliness. That’s when I sensed - sadness was coming.

Upon talking to a friend, who insisted that I have handled this whole life change in a reactive mode, I decided to observe my feelings - and let the sadness in.

Here’s something amazing about sadness, you can feel yourself - feeling it (if you pay attention). As I stopped fighting the sadness, I surrendered to all the negative feelings I have resisted for more than a month. It was almost like cold mercury flowing through my body. It is engulfing in the most beautiful, and merciless way. Now, I am aware enough to know the difference between sadness and depression, and this was sadness. 2 days went by with sadness, and being completely functional in life. 3rd day is when I woke up with the expression of “ Oh F@#$!”. Theres certain level of awareness that you get from meditating and journaling every day for months - and that is the ability to sense your brain’s serotonin level.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am always smiling and happy. I love that part of me, and that is the real part of me. But here’s the thing, when you are depressed - you do not recognise yourself. You see someone having captured your real self. You are ashamed of that state and you don’t want anyone else to see or hear from you. I was still trying to be accepting of the sadness in the depression.

Slowly the feeling of dread took over. It is almost like paralysis, when you stare at the ceiling-fan not able to move. Anxiety starts playing with your head, and you are just sick of feeling that way. I spent one full day not moving, and staring at the ceiling. I knew that I had to do something to break out of this, and I did what I could. The first day of lockdown, I made a choice to go running for my mental health.

I ran in a sports ground with police van driving outside the periphery “requesting” me to go back home. But I fought with the urge to comply, and fought for my brain. After 5kms, my brain was able to come from minus 10 to 0, and that was the huge achievement for the day.

0 is great. 0 is when you can feed yourself, call up your friends. The journey of minus 10 to 0 is what takes medication, or insane amount of self-awareness and push. Everyone might not be aware of how to get from minus 10 to 0, but there are professionals to help you with it. I have seen many mental health professionals in my life, and each one has been helpful in more than one way.

Another learning that came from this was I was trying to jump from being sad to being happy directly, and it doesn’t work like that. One has to first work on going from minus 10 to 0, and then to 1,2,3….and so on. You have to work on being “okay” first, and then on happiness once you are completely “okay”.

It has been a week since then, and anxiety has replaced depression. Now good thing about Anxiety is - it is more manageable that depression. You can go about your regular life with it, and it pokes you sometimes here and there. I personally find it much easier to live with. Now, I have not experienced anxiety before. So I believe a cocktail of personal life and what-must-not-be-named, that has caused it. There’s an HBR article doing the rounds on how what we are feeling is grief, that  you can read here. https://hbr.org/2020/03/that-discomfort-youre-feeling-is-grief.

To end with, I am living with my family, and seeing a therapist(God bless Skype), and am doing okay :) 

My next writing (more fun, I promise) will be on some ways to manage anxiety, in the times of what-must-not-be-named. I am also committed to talking about mental health, recommend professionals, or anything you need. So, please reach out if you want to talk!

[macarthurmc]

Why This Doctor Decided To Follow His Own Advice

There is an old saying in Medicine, “Medice, cura te ipsum”, which in English means, “Physician, heal thyself.” This doesn’t mean that as a physician I can’t go to the doctor or that I have to perform surgery on myself. What it does mean to me is that as a physician I should set a good example for my patients, and practice what I preach. I can’t say that I have always done that. My father, who is very fit and active in his 70’s, has said to me that there are people who eat to live and people who live to eat. I fall into the second category. Food for me has been something to celebrate with, console myself with, stave off boredom or fatigue with, and occasionally, nourish my body with. When I was in college playing basketball 2 hours a day and sporting a 20-year-old’s metabolism, I could get away with eating whatever, whenever. But as happens to most of us, our activity levels decline with age, our stress levels may increase, and our metabolism decreases. And we gain weight.

Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross in 1969 described the five stages of grief as denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

While she was relating this to people faced with a terminal illness, I think that her model can be applied to those people dealing with a chronic disease, such as diabetes, hypertension, or in my case, obesity. I’m sure that over the years, as I grew more sedentary, and larger, I went through all of these stages. The last stage is acceptance. When talking about a chronic illness, such as obesity, I think acceptance is the realization that you have a chronic condition, you’re not going to wish it away, and you have to learn to manage it. I had that realization early this year when I got the courage to step on the bathroom scale, and the digital readout read, “OL”. In case you’re wondering, OL means over the limit. The limit on that scale is 350lbs. Now I’m very tall, 6’7”, but even so, I would have to be about 8 feet tall to justify more than 350lbs. I remember thinking, “Kevin, you are so fat that the scale won’t even tell you how fat you are.” In that moment, the first four stages of grief ran through my head at once, followed by a moment of clarity. I realized, and accepted, the fact that I suffer from obesity. At that moment, like many other people who realize they have a chronic condition, I had to decide what was I going to do.

The first thing was, to be honest with myself about why I wanted to lose weight.

Having a scale that doesn’t go up high enough is a wake-up call, but not a reason. The scale in my office goes up to 450lbs, and I’ve seen 5x and 6x scrubs for sale. Also, I have a fantastic family who I know loves me no matter how much I weigh. So why go through all the diet, exercise, frustration, and self-denial it takes to get back on track. I was able to come up with quite a few reasons. A lot of them had to do with my family. I also feel like I was blessed with a healthy body, and in some way, I feel that it is a sin not to take care of it. Another reason goes back to the proverb, “Physician, heal thyself.”   Every day, I see patients who are overweight, or obese, and I see the consequences of this. Obese patients often have high blood pressure, diabetes, infertility, irregular periods, or are pregnant and have pregnancy complications. As you might expect, I would try to talk to my patients about healthy eating, exercise, and the benefits of weight loss. But as the words came out of my mouth, there was always the feeling that I was in a “do as I say, not as I do,” moment. Sometimes I would try to rationalize my way out of it by saying to the patient, “I know that exercising and losing weight is hard,” with my out of shape, obese self as living proof. I’ve always felt very comfortable talking to my patients about other healthy lifestyle choices such as quitting smoking, alcohol in moderation, don’t use drugs and practice safe sex. But when it came time to talk about weight loss, I felt like a hypocrite.

Having made up my mind to do something, I sat down with my family and told them where I was and where I wanted to go, and I asked for their help.

They helped me get all the junk food out of the house, and together we’ve come up with better meals to cook at home and less eating out. We switched to using smaller plates to avoid the “have to finish your plate” syndrome and help with portion control. And then I started exercising again. When you’re out of shape and trying to get back, the number of excuses you can come up with not to exercise are almost infinite. You have to, as the Nike commercials say, “Just Do It.” I don’t recommend expensive exercise equipment or gym memberships unless you are truly committed to using them. I am however, a fan of watches or phone apps that track your steps. If you’re walking, then you’re moving, and if you’re moving, you are burning calories. I’ve worked my way up from walking, to using an elliptical machine, to cycling and jogging. I also mix in some weightlifting to try to tone up my muscles (this helps keep up your metabolism because muscle burns more calories at rest than fat). I have gotten to the point where I try to exercise at 30-60 minutes 5 or 6 days a week, and I try not to take more than two days in a row off. It probably took me 3 or 4 months to get to this point, and I constantly have to remind myself, “you always feel better after a workout than you do before or during it.” As long as you exercise sensibly and don’t overdo it, I think you will agree.

The last thing I had to do, and still do, is not be so hard on myself.

The journey to losing weight and becoming fit is a marathon, not a sprint. I remind myself every day that every meal is a choice and the choice to exercise, or not, is a chance to make a good choice. But if I slip up for a meal, or don’t get to work out one day, it's not the end of the world. As I’ve worked on my diet, exercise, and gradually seen the results, I’ve found it easier to put together a long string of good meal choices, and days in a row of exercise. Personally, I also pray and thank God for blessing me with good health, and I ask for his help in taking care of the body he gave me. Whatever way you want to look at it, the journey to getting yourself back into good health is a long, hard road. It’s ok to ask for help wherever you can. So, in case you are wondering, how has this all worked so far? Well, about nine months ago, I found a scale that would weigh me, and I was at 356lbs. At the moment, I’m down to 290lbs, and my kids tell me I need to buy clothes that don’t look so baggy on me, I’ve gotten back into running, and I finished a 5k. I remember texting my wife and kids a picture of myself on a flight without a seatbelt extender, and I definitely took a picture of the scale the first time it went below 300lbs! I’m not all the way there, but I plan to keep going. By the way, if you’re reading this and you are at a normal weight, let me give you one piece of advice. It is MUCH easier to stay in shape, than it is to get back into shape.

But like other people who have chronic conditions, I remind myself that even when I get to where I want to be, I’m going to have to remain vigilant to stay there.

Just like a person with chronic hypertension who’s used diet, exercise and medication to control their blood pressure can’t just stop all that when their blood pressure measurements become normal, I know that I will ALWAYS have to be careful about what I eat, and ask myself why am I eating and how much am I eating. I will always have to leave the excuses behind and stay physically active. I will always need to lean on my family for support, and I will always try to remember that by practicing, “Medice, cura te ipsum”, I will be setting a good example for my patients. I hope that this post gives you some hope and encouragement to take the first steps to becoming healthier. In future posts, I plan to talk more about obesity, diet, and exercise. Good luck. I truly hope that you achieve your health goals.   Dr. Keving O'Neil

[doulakaiewe]

Becoming Doula

I grew up in a time of powerful women - Eleanor Roosevelt, Golda Meir, Bella Abzug, Sandra Day O’Connor, Shirley Chisholm, Josephine Baker, Rosa Parks, Angela Davis... and my Mom. Yes it was awhile ago- but it was during a time when it was no big deal to beat your wife - your children. The blatant injustice and oppression against women, children, people of color, religion and disabilities was so prevalent in society -women,rose... not for places of cushy position- they stood up and said, “No More” understanding that their life was on the line, as there was no privilege to sit.

Their fire helped establish rights we take for granted. So much so, we as women are all over the place in what we stand for - domestic abuse, prostitution, the selling of our children and drug abuse. It boggles the mind- how are these issues prevalent in our society. It’s as if these days, what we stand for, is to be victims- only I’m not a victim... I spent my career in Early Childhood Education. I sincerely believed that to change the world, meant supporting young children and fostering their self esteem. I raised my own children much in the same way. My marriage had its challenges, but our children were always our priority and in that, when my sister passed from a overdose, our family inherited my 2 younger nieces in 2001- bringing the number of children in our household to 6 - Three oldest being teenagers, 2- 12 yr olds (as my youngest child and oldest niece was born within a month of each other) and my youngest niece was 5 yrs old ready for kindergarten.

In 2002 Lilo & Stitch became a movie- My own paternal heritage is Hawaiian and so we were all very drawn to see it as a family. As we watched the movie, Lilo shares her infamous quote, “Ohana means family. “Family” means no one gets left behind” and in the little less remembered line of the quote, but just as meaningful, continues - “but if you want to leave you can, I’ll remember you though”. I remember feeling peace, that no matter how hard it all was, that we’re doing the right thing. Family!

It was just about this time I was hearing about the Doula profession - the idea of supporting women through childbbirth resonated with me - as my own 4 pregnancies and births was difficult and unsupported. I’m a natural student - I love learning - I especially love learning about things I’m passionate about! The whole idea of learning about supporting other women through their birthing process felt healing - and completely natural to me.

My life was insanely busy over the next few years. I eventually found a course on line for my passion- and although I enrolled - I couldn’t find the time to dedicate to it... so I read - I searched Amazon and got whatever books I could on the subject that appealed to me- and I read. In the last 5 years, the Doula profession expanded offering many ways to be a certified Doula. So last year, I reapplied to the course I originally signed up for- and took some additional live courses and became a certified Holistic Doula- specializing in postpartum work. This is where I came across another block - the idea of what would happen if a Mom I was working with lost their baby... in pregnancy, during the birth process or even during the postpartum stage. How would I best support a woman in my care,through this crisis? My experience in this has been before my Doula work, I was to help my best friend at the time, when her husband couldn’t he get off work as she miscarried at 24 week gestation. Then a few years later, my sister through a full term pregnancy loss. My experience was, as much as I wanted to be there for them, presence - a witness. It was all I could offer them. In the case of my sister, it just wasn’t enough. 

Grief is a powerful emotion. It’s physically, mentally, emotionally painful. For a really long time- until you can make sense of your life. I know, because in 2008, my oldest child, and only daughter, at 25 yrs old, went to sleep, and never woke up. It wasn’t until a couple of months after when the coroner explained, she had an undiagnosed heart condition, a virus had settled in her aorta.and my beautiful girl passed in her sleep.

Fast forward to June, 2017, I found in what could be described as no coincidence a course being offered on Pregnancy and Infant Loss PAIL. I’m currently taking this course and the reason for this blog. It’s part of the course requirement that I create a blog and what about PAIL and what I’ve learned. Before I could do write that I felt I needed an intro. So there you have it!

[w1tchy13itch-blog]

For your scholars! 64 through 71 and 74 through 80 please! I'm interested in learning more about your ocs! - Toad Mod

Yo! hehehehe I like this batch of questions too XD 

I’ll answer the first half now, and the other half later after classes get out for me!

Lemme see what I can manage: 

64: Where were your scholar’s parent(s) or guardian(s) born?

Lillie: Lillie’s dad was born in Yamagata prefecture in Japan, and her mother is a second generation Japanese American from central California. 

Vivian&Darcy: Their biological parents (out of the three) were both born then the UK, and their parent’s partner was born in Melbourne, Australia. 

Flora: Her mother is British and her bio-father (divorced and deceased) was Irish. Her stepmother is of Indian descent but was born and raised in Whales. 

Abigail: Her biological parents were born in Mexico and Texas, but lived in northern Mexico. Her foster parents were born in New York but her foster mother is half Korean and her foster father is Jamaican American. (They moved to Texas, and then Arizona for the warmer climate and a desire to live in a quieter, more natural environment)

65: Is there anything about your scholar’s past that they don’t want anyone to know? 

Lillie: Her deadname, basically.

Vivian&Darcy: Vivian hasn’t got any, but Darcy, like Lillie, would rather not have his deadname spread around. He’s far more comfortable in his new body though, than Lillie, but no matter how much you physically feel good, it sucks to have people disregard you and undermine you.

Flora: for the sake of Angus’s privacy and her own, she prefers no one knows she has a child. When she meets, by chance, Angus’s biological father a few years after she’d been attending Arlington and finds out he’s transferred to the same school via a scholarship, she is apprehensive about telling him, but manages to work out an agreement with him to share custody so long as he keeps quiet about the situation. 

Abigail: If she could have her way, she wouldn’t let you know what she ate for breakfast. Mainly, she doesn’t want people to know her personal life, she wants them to appreciate her for the character she is on stage and her presence in the spotlight, but wishes for her past with her family and current relationship with Flora to be untouched and protected as much as possible. 

66: Has your scholar ever kissed anyone?

Lillie: Nope, purely clean lips here. Familial kisses don’t count, and she’s never really been desired or sought by anyone before that was of the gender she prefers so it’s kind of rough on her. Hopefully Arlington will change that, because there’s a pair of lips named Tadashi Nakano that she is dying to taste.

Vivian: She had a girlfriend who is now just a close friend. (her friend got into the T.V. acting business and is currently the star of a teen mystery drama on a British kids show channel) 

Darcy: He kissed a girl for a dare once, and had a boyfriend for 4 days that ended up being one of those “I thought I liked you but i guess i kind of didn’t, and this is awkward now” kind of people. 

Bonus: Flora kissed her kid’s dad quite a lot that one specific time, and she and Abigail kiss around 8 times a day on average. 

67: What is your scholar’s favorite holiday? 

Lillie: Lillie likes Halloween the best. There weren’t many holidays her family celebrated, and Halloween was one of the few they did. She uses it as an excuse to cosplay because she can’t afford to go to real conventions. 

Vivian&Darcy: They both love Valentines day and go all out romantic for their significant others or crushes. 

Flora: Her and Angus’s birthday. Her parents travelled the world with her so she knows of too many holidays to count, let alone choose one. And so, she figures that her day of birth and her son’s are probably the best ones there are because they’re special days that only the two of them can fully appreciate

Abigail: Halloween and Christmas both. This chick is like ‘The Nightmare Before Christmas’ in human form. 

68: What do they enjoy dressing up as on Halloween?  If they don’t dress up or go trick-or-treating, then what do they do instead?

Lillie: She uses Halloween as an excuse to cosplay and has a roster of anime characters that she’d like to cosplay next. She chooses a character from a different anime each year. Recently she went as Rock Lee, and her older sister went as (a very unfit) Might Guy from Naruto.

Vivian&Darcy: ever since being born they’ve gone for halloween in things that come in pairs, from salt and pepper shakers at 2 years old to Sweeney Todd and Mrs Lovett this year (their plan for this year is to run a meat pie, and other baked goods, cafe from within their parents home.) 

When not dressing up which is rare, they have been hired to host children’s parties in their local neighbourhood (also part of why they hold a themed cafe or barbeque each year). 

Flora: She seldom had time for Halloween as a kid seeing as she was constantly travelling but her favourite country’s practice of Halloween is Britain because of how extravagant they can get, and now that she’s dating Abby she’s learning about the history and significance of ‘The Day of the Dead’. She usually just ends up dressing like a witch with the same costume each year but accessorised differently.

Abigail: La Dia de los Muertos, which isn’t really ‘Halloween’ as most western countries view it, was always her favourite time of the year. In an otherwise rather lacking childhood, most of her good memories came from the festival. Her foster parents upon adopting her researched and studied how to help her keep in touch with her cultural history and tradition, and helped her set up a shrine in their own house so she could still celebrate her Abuela and her older brother who died when she was 6. 

69: It’s your crush’s birthday!  What does your scholar get/do for them? 

Lillie: Aside from generally stressing and not knowing what to do, she probably cooks him something and offers it to him with shaking hands, most likely looking away. Tadashi, being who he is, makes a joke to ask if it’s poisoned which earns him an irritated glare. Then he nearly cries at how good it tastes. 

Vivian: She takes you out on a date. Where do you want to eat? What do you want to wear? You wanna see a movie? Late night walk in the park? You got it. She’s on it. Already bought tickets a week ago. Reserved a private table in a restaurant. Gets her parent’s driver to take you places. 

Darcy: he’s similar to Vivian, but he does things more personalised like. He sneakily susses out what you want and like all year beforehand and does stuff like make a ghost profile on amazon or pintrest to see what things are in your wishlist etc. He’d probably also make a mixtape of songs that you and him like, or that are important to you (hard to do in his case, since he’s trying to woo Axel though). Also, he’s DTF (Down to fuck FUN!). Just saying. 

Flora: Birthdays are BIG deals for her, so she, like Darcy, finds out things you like and want. She is more direct about it though and asks you to your face what you want, or what you would like. She also is good at cake decoration and likes making personalised designs for them. She can also sing ‘happy birthday’ in 4 languages, and on occasion has been able to get ahold of foreign gifts from places she’s visited overseas before. 

Abigail: For the very first birthday she spends with you, She puts on a whole personalised performance for you! (non sexually, of course, this is the kind where your parents and kids can be invited too). She gets caterers to help with food, and she buys out a venue of whatever size she needs and you and your whole family and as many friends as you can fit are invited. 

For later on in your relationship this only happens again during milestones like 5 years anniversary or something (it’s not a secret, I’m keeping her and Flora together forever). On off years, she just cuddles with you and spoils you with shopping sprees and they buy huge donut boxes or chocolate sample boxes and watch trashy/cheesy foreign romances. 

70: How would your scholar react to seeing their crush crying? 

Lillie: If somehow, by some, horrific, ungodly force, you managed to make Tadashi of all people cry, She would probably gently ask him if she can help at all. she knows he’s a little bristly, and doesn’t always appreciate her over-empathy, but she loves him a lot and wants to help him. 

She gives him the option to turn her away if he needs time alone but wants him to know that she is available whenever he is ready to talk. If he is, by chance, ready, she sits by him and holds him closely, either listening to him talk, or listening to him cry. Kisses and head scratches are also inevitable. 

Vivian: She is the person who runs up to you and holds you, asking you what’s wrong. I’m apprehensive to go further because I don’t know much about her crushes yet (Claire and Alistair) so i’ll have to wait and see. I feel like Vivi would probably react slightly differently depending on how her crush displays grief, but on a base level, she’s a hugger and sweet-talker to get you to calm down.

Darcy: It’s time to FIGHT. Who does he need to knock the fuck out? The first few times, his crush (Axel) is probably too busy holding him back to be crying anymore. After a few more times, Darcy is still raving mad, but he keep it in long enough to responsibly evaluate the situation. Still probably ready for low-key revenge, but he’s not as trigger happy with his fists anymore. 

Flora: She calmly asks her to walk her through what happened. A future lawyer at heart, she can and will do whatever she can to make sure Abby is done right by via compensation or proper and called for retribution. However, she is fully aware of the fact that sometimes Abigail gets into trouble in the first place because of her own faults. Abby isn’t very good at making friends, but good at making enemies. Definitely not an innocent little angel. Her girlfriend is basically her #1 test client, because of how she is, socially and how much legal drama the celebrity life brings on top of that.

Abby: Abby isn’t good with emotions. She’s not even good with her own, let alone knowing how to help Flora when she’s down. It’s usually the other way around. When Flora is upset, which is very very rare, Abigail tends to leave her alone or to sit quietly by her, super anxious and not knowing what to do at all. Flora doesn’t resent this, because she knows Abby’s limitations and inabilities. She tends to prefer to cry it out until she’s done crying anyway, and typically feels better afterwards. 

71: How would your scholar react to seeing their enemy crying?

Lillie: She laughs. Quietly, of course, and to herself, but she’s typically satisfied if things aren’t going well for an enemy. Of course, unless the situation is extreme or a special case. But there is one specific enemy in mind (an OC) whom she’d happily drop kick into the sun if she could, so seeing her cry would be fine by her. 

Vivian: She ignores them and moves on. She doesn’t care enough to tempt them when they’re in a good mood, and she certainly doesn’t want to offer her kindness to someone who will probably use it against her later. 

Darcy: Same as his sister, but he also probably then asks what happened, usually out of general curiosity. 

Flora: She has very few enemies, and being a future lawyer, she is training herself to have less of a bias when it comes to justice (the exception is if you mess with Abigail). She’ll ask if she can help in anyway, or at the very least she’ll ask what’s wrong. Also, she has a deep maternal instinct in the first place, and wants to help out as many as she can manage.

Abby: Abby ignores them like the twins do, not only because of how bad she is around crying, but she might have been the reason some people have cried. 

She has gotten into fist fights with people before for her general inability to chill out, and especially if it’s a person she dislikes. She was almost expelled once for grabbing Karolina by the tie and ripping her shirt collar, and has given Axel a wedgie on more than one occasion. Naturally she and Darcy hate each other because Darcy tends to get too protective over Axel. It’s a big, ugly, sad mess. 

I’ll continue the other questions in a second post!