#i'm not mentally or emotionally equipped to write that right now

[saxandviolins77]

the land of headcanon and projection, I do see him as a socially inept and emotionally fragile man with obsessive-compulsive disorder and BAD coping mechanisms."

Fully agree on this assessment of Hook. That man is socially inept as sin and I love seeing someone else mention his obsessive compulsiveness, and bad coping mechanisms.

Curious to see more in depth how you view his obsessive compulsive behavior exhibits itself, and what kind of coping mechanisms he uses. I love this man so much and am always intrigued to hear other's ideas on how his processor works.

This is mostly going to be my AU Hook because I don't feel like saying canon Hook has obsessive-compulsive disorder JUST because he's a perfectionist.

I'll also mention Scavenger a bit because he ALSO has obsessive-compulsive disorder (albeit a different type), and he did influence Hook's coping mechanisms.

Ok, two things before I start diagnosing him.

Cybertron is really backward when it comes to the area of psychology (think 1930s knowledge), so mental illness and subsequent treatments are highly stigmatized So, uuuh, the other Constructicons don't know what the fuck is going on with these guy's minds. The funny thing is, due to how I picture the Gestalt bond working, they can literally hear and see Hook and Scavenger's thoughts, and they just... Deal with it. Sometimes they try to be understanding, sometimes they think Hook is just being fussy or Scavvy's just being impossible for no reason.

Hook grew up in a very bad environment with an abusive authority figure, toxic workplace dynamics, and dealing with the fact that he might die of starvation and/or (robot) sickness every waking day... So most of his obsessions revolve around safety.

The way I write it, Hook has checking OCD and deals with intrusive thoughts revolving around his current relationship with his team. He also ruminates A LOT; that's a trait he shares with Scavenger.

Hook's obsessive-compulsive disorder comes from a place of feelings of powerlessness and continued dread, so one of the ways he tries to get control of his situation is by assuring himself repeatedly through actions that he knows everything that has to know about the environment he is, and as much as he'd loathe to admit his compulsions got much worse after he met the Constructicons and started caring for them... Because now he also has to assure their safety, and it's like 5 cunts, so sometimes he is living 5 times harder because he is worrying for the team. In the present, he is stationed at the Victory, so most of his compulsions involve checking power sockets, locks, equipment, armament, air vents, and exits; sometimes he'll keep everyone from sleeping because he has to get up and make sure everything is "up to his standard," as he learned to say. His checking compulsion also manifests when repairing members of his team, where he'll often perform the same thing many times to make sure he did it just right and they'll not spontaneously combust or something.

His intrusive thoughts and ruminations often revolve around the thing he feels most insecure about, his personal relationships. Of course, this is Hook; he'll jump over hoops to not take direct responsibility and actually reflect on his behavior, so most of his intrusive thoughts revolve around members of his Gestalt abandoning the team (him) or secretly hating them (him). (Scavenger also deals with this, but his intrusive thoughts revolve more around him being secretly "bad" or abandoning them.)

Sooo coping...

He doesn't; that's what's so bad about it.

Visualize this: Scavenger has been dealing with obsessive-compulsive disorder longer than Hook has been alive. He meets this really smart guy who has the awful habit of not keeping to himself, ever. He quickly notices this guy has the same "thing" as him, so what does he do? He assures him it is all true, and he has to keep doing what he's doing to fix his mind, and if he tries to ignore his thoughts, it all goes to shit.

Okay, I'm exaggerating, but Scavenger's coping mechanisms are just... Keep doing what you're doing. I do think the other Constructicons actually try to help these guys out of their vicious cycles, but it's... a slooooooow process because they are stumbling through the dark.

And so Hook often falls victim to his ruminations and stumbles around to try and DO SOMETHING to get that out of his system. This often leads to Hook treating his own teammates as problems he has to fix to reassure himself. He and Scavenger often ignore the boundaries the Constructicons have set to snoop around their minds while combined and reassure themselves.

[sidneycrosbyisawitch]

For the Kings and Queen AU, Auston always reads like he's scared about admitting his feelings to Mitch but takes comfort in knowing they'll rule Toronto together. That would give Auston some place to start from. Now with JT on the scene, that's gone. How does Auston deal with the idea of Talking About Feelings? Is he scared or motivated because JT might want to steal his Queen but he's not taking Auston's boy.

auston is dumb as a rock

he has no idea he has Feelings for mitch. he knows he loves mitch. he knows no one makes him happy like mitch does. sometimes he wants to kiss mitch, when he’s tired or hasn’t seen him in a long time. he knows the idea of anyone other than mitch as Queen is a fucking joke. 

but he hasn’t put all that together yet. 

(and maybe the future Queen thing disguises auston’s feelings a little bit. makes them harder to untangle. so when tavares takes mitch and toronto starts rumbling about its son, a King, come home to dominate with another toronto son on his wing... auston feels like he’s losing all of mitch, not just the Queen part of him. and it’s terrifying.)

[ectonurites]

I feel like Jones (nor any other artist tbh) just isn't mentally and emotionally equipped to Draw and Write and Promote and Manage and everything else DC is forcing their staff to juggle right now.

They're understaffed and overpressured and everything is so chaotic at the DC offices I'm not surprised to see that Someone is starting to crack.

Oh yeah no absolutely. She really should not have been working on multiple aspects of the book longterm like that, I think with the way things are in the industry now, projects with tight deadlines like a monthly book just should not have that much burden placed on one person. It's too much. And especially her dealing with a family tragedy along the way? Like...

I have not worked in comics, obviously, but I have worked professionally in an arts field in a very high pressure environment with tight deadlines and shit and lemme tell you, those situations are simply not built to allow you... to deal with things in your own life. The work gets treated as far higher stakes than it really is (the arts are important absolutely, but theater [what I worked in] and comic books are simply not life or death situations!) and are set up with like no wiggle room, the whole environment can make you feel guilty to take time you need for yourself even when just dealing with normal every day needs- let alone when something drastic (an injury, a death in your family, etc) happens!

Again, all this to say, I still don't condone the tracing. She should apologize for that. But I do think this situation is overall probably a lot more complicated than we as people not inside the company can really be too concretely aware of.

[postmodernmulticoloredcloak]

I have several disagreements about your endgame post: 1) Tony Stark was advocating for the freedom of the civilians of foreign countries (117) that ratissed the accords to choose if they wanted or not to have the Avengers come into their countries to fight without restrictions. Anyone else (almost anyone else?) who’s not an Avengers is already supposed to respect other countries sovereignty. There’re a difference between being deprived of freedom and not being allowed to do whatever you want...

... because it’s for the right reason (yes, Tony had been guilty of that too. Which is how he learned this lesson, the hard way). The Accords are not SHRA. Steve was defending is morals, true, but so was Tony. The situation was not black and white. 2) Also disagree with you about Tony not having character development just because he used technology to save the world (not just in battles, but by developing green technologies, medical equipments, and so on). It (and his brain in general) was...

his main power, why wouldn’t he used it the best way he could to save the day? Do you also blame the other Avengers for thinking that using their gifts was the best ways they had to save the world? I don’t think you really get his character. Which is strange, because he has some interesting parallels with Dean. 3) While Tony went too far in the other direction because of his own fear of not doing enough to help and thus losing the people he loved (Steve included) because of it and seeing...

"his morals" not "is morals", sorry.

Hello anon, I suppose that tumblr ate the last ask(s) so I don't have the last part. Now, you have been polite and I'm afraid I'm going to sound rude in my answer, so please keep in mind that this is not a dig at you or anything, it's about my feelings towards the topic. To be simply blunt I am not interested in this kind of debate. Civil War and consequent developments are where I draw the line in my interest and willingness to discuss characters' motivations and in-story dynamics. The movie made me angry and hurt. I haven't been a fan of the mcu since then. My brain has been obsessing with Steve and Bucky as characters since many years ago and it is still a special interest on mine, which is way you find so much mcu on my blog, but detached from the mcu itself. I haven't seen movies and shows in years. I am not interested in understanding Tony's character, because I don't feel anything about the character and a lot about the way the character has been used.

You will only find criticism of the writing choices on my blog, and if that's unfair then I accept that I'm unfair but I don't care. I'm just angry at something I used to be emotionally invested into and hurt me.

So please don't try to have a conversation about characters' motivations inside that storyline because I believe that the entire storyline belongs to the trash can. It makes no sense, it's badly written, has been really divisive of the fandom making it a very unpleasant place to be in ways it wasn't before.

This isn't about Tony, he's a fictional character. He doesn't exist. It's about the real life people who made the movie.

I'm sorry if I was harsh but this is a topic that welded with my own mental health issues in 2016 and so it's been a sore spot for me ever since.

[faebriel]

ok ok I'm insane and couldn't pick one so have two (no need to answer both if you don't want to)

“You talk to him.” Not kindly, but he does.

“I’m used to him,” he shoots back. “I’m the only person who is.”

That makes Niki feel something, some uncomfortable tug in her chest. She mentally kicks herself. It’s not jealousy, she reminds herself, because despite the near-cliff jumping and the long nights without food and the nuclear fallout that has punctuated her last few months, being jealous of Tommy would be the least reasonable thing she’s allowed herself to be, maybe ever.

“You don’t believe me,” Tommy says flatly. “You never - eugh.” He cuts himself off with another ragged sigh, running a hand down his face. “Look, Niki, it’s - we were all together in Pogtopia, right? But I was there first. With him. And you didn’t see the start of it, it was horrible, and I’m glad no one else saw the beginning of it either but it was still just so shit and he kept saying all these terrible things about Tubbo and Fundy and you and,” he takes a shaky breath, “then, when I died, I saw him.”

Her breath catches in her throat.

Well, the voice in the back of her head whistles. If you were still wondering about all this afterlife bullshit, if you want to know where you’re going after your third life, here you go.

and

“You didn’t even - this isn’t about L’Manberg, Wilbur!” Niki shouts.

And then he stops, breathing hard, and he looks at Niki the same way he does whenever her voice is being drowned out in a crowd - the way he does when he wants to hear her, when he wants to know what she has to say.

“What else is there?” he asks.

Niki freezes. Stock still, unable to move, unable to breathe, ice threading its way through her gut, her chest, her shoulders, chilled down to the bone. With slow-dawning horror, she can feel hot tears welling up behind her eyes, sitting in her throat, threatening to spill over into a sob. She swallows - to keep her cool, to stay calm, to keep it together -

And then, something in her chest just snaps.

“You said you’d come back for me!” she cries, and her voice hitches on the lump of tears at the back of her throat and god, she sounds absolutely pathetic. Wilbur’s face softens immediately, which somehow just makes her feel even worse. “In Manberg. When Schlatt put me in prison, and you and Tommy were in Pogtopia, you said you’d break me out when it was safe. I waited for weeks , Wilbur. It was… it was horrible.”

“Niki…” a kaleidoscope of emotions flicker across his face, and he seems unsure which to settle on. “We got you out though, right? After the festival.”

“You looked for the button first,” she says quietly, and he stills.

Her sniffling sounds embarrassingly loud against the quiet background of night.

thank you sm!!! i’m gonna put these under the cut because they got a little long sorry (tw for discussion of suicidal ideation)

to preface: tommy is kind of the accidental but incredibly necessary invisible support beam for niki and wilbur’s making amends in bitter. niki cannot accept wilbur’s actions and apology without first acknowledging her own actions and making steps towards an apology, because otherwise it kind of falls flat? in that ending scene niki finally gets what wilbur is feeling and wilbur finally gets that someone else knows how he feels (it’s not perfect 100% yet, but…. that’ll get explored later)

onto the actual snippet! “tommy talks to wilbur - not kindly, but he does” was very important to me! tommy has stuck by wilbur ever since pogtopia, but the tragedy is that he is not equipped to deal with wilbur’s issues, and it shows. wilbur’s first stream after revival depicts this really clearly, where tommy tails wilbur around the whole time but insults him, is still stuck on calling him the villain, physically fights him at some point, etc. on one hand this isn’t healthy but on the other hand tommy is actually around, which is more than can be said for basically any other ally wilbur has had on the dsmp, maybe excluding his dad, who literally killed him lmfao.

this whole issue is exacerbated by the fact that tommy believes that he is the only person who properly understands wilbur, the only person who gets what happened to him, and feels like wilbur is generally his burden to bear. he failed to stop wilbur from both 1. hurting other people and 2. killing himself after the pogtopia-manberg war - and he doesn’t trust wilbur not to do either of those things again, so he’s stuck hovering around wilbur while wilbur is inadvertently setting off his own trauma and feeling responsible for any way he might fuck up and hating that but not wanting to leave. tommy’s memory isn’t perfect and he isn’t a perfect narrator, what he remembers from pogtopia the most were the scariest parts and that’s understandable but it means he’s holding wilbur to the worst expectations of behaviour (and he does so very vocally). the others showed up later, sure, but in tommy’s eyes he’s the only one who saw wilbur’s descent, and by the time they showed up wilbur had already changed irreversably. tommy tries to rationalise this by splitting the ‘different wilburs’ apart from each other in his head (he does this in canon too - there’s one quote from like late 2020 where he says he and tubbo need to keep on going for who wilbur used to be, not who he became, even though they’re,, the same person), and no one challenges that perspective, so he just keeps doing it even though it’s not healthy for him or wilbur.

and then limbo happened and, oh geez, THAT didn’t help jhfaskjjfsa

tommy is on a bit of a knife edge with niki in this fic. niki’s in this state of “ok, he’s annoying whatever, i’m moving on”, but all tommy knows is that she tried to kill him that one time, disappeared off the face of the map, joined a book club with two people who definitely do not like him, and now is just acting weirdly mellow and polite. she is not someone he wants near wilbur bc what the fuck is she gonna do? what is he gonna do? who knows. he’s frustrated that niki doesn’t seem to acknowledge how he’s feeling (especially bc once upon a time she would have been someone he trusted to acknowledge them - they were friends, they fought together) and he’s taking a big step by telling someone about his concerns here, especially bc tommy doesn’t really like talking about them at all. he wouldn’t be saying absolutely anything to niki if he didn’t truly believe she should stay away from wilbur, even if he’s wrong about him. (sometimes i think i write tommy as a little too emotionally mature here but it all goes out the window when wilbur’s brought up. idk if that balances it out)

ok onto niki: this is the first she has actually heard of limbo! she’s only just come around to the fact that resurrection is possible at all. death is kind of a touchy subject for niki both in general and re: wilbur in the fic - she’s coming off of a period in her life where suicidal ideation was, uh, a big thing (whether you want to read that into canon or not is subjective, that’s just the angle i went with in this fic). the sudden existence of a life after death, miserable as it is - and whether she really believes in such a place, when it only exists in tommy and wilbur’s words - that is a lot of information for her to absorb all at once. death is a weird connection point for tommy and niki here, coming right off of the fact that they’ve just acknowledged each other having those problems - tommy, out of, yknow, altruism, would very much like to keep niki out of that place, and niki is quietly reckoning with the fact that that is where she would have sent him. the concept of limbo from the perspective of a character with no experience of it, even secondhand, is so interesting to me like what kind of eldritch location would you feel like you’re living in asghjkl

(also - i gotta be honest the jealousy angle here but mostly when she’s talking later about dream not deserving wilbur’s companionship kinda came out after this post came across my dash while writing. whoops /j)

-

fun fact, this is the very first snippet of bitter that i ever wrote! all the way back in may!! this is like the moment of the fic - it's where the miscommunication that niki and wilbur have been having is shattered entirely - and so sticking the landing was uhhh kinda important to me lol.

wilbur's entire being in this fic is basically consumed by L'Manberg - he equates his self worth to it entirely. in his eyes, everyone (rightfully) hates him because of what he did to L'Manberg, because L'Manberg was corrupted and he himself with it, etc. niki tries to tell herself this, and while it definitely does form part of her issues with him, it was the betrayal that causes her this much pain - that he seemingly brushed her and their friendship off entirely when he supposedly left her for dead in manberg. because here is what we as the audience know: wilbur couldn’t leave niki in trouble when he heard her life was in danger, even when he was trying to find the button (pretty much the only thing he sees himself as having left at this point) and so he returned. here is what it looks like from niki’s perspective: wilbur told her to wait in manberg until it was safe to come to pogtopia, laid the place with TNT, went to blow up the place, and only returned when he couldn’t find the detonator (and then the first thing she saw him do in pogtopia was encourage the pit behaviour but that’s not what we’re talking about asdfgh). that is massive miscommunication and it’s been brewing between them for months - to make a quirky little reference to the title, niki has been carrying that anger with her so long it's gone bitter. it was never just about l’manberg with niki - not that anger, not her and wilbur’s friendship (hence the little flashback earlier in the fic, bc niki’s relationship to anarchism and statehood or statelessness juxtaposed with her friendships with wilbur and eret - she loves l’manberg bc she loves wilbur, but she loves eret too and those national ties don’t undermine that - is Real Interesting to me) - so when wilbur asks what else there could possibly be (because in his mind, what else could she have bothered staying around for?), she just fucking breaks.

“Niki freezes. Stock still, unable to move, unable to breathe, ice threading its way through her gut...with slow-dawning horror, she can feel hot tears welling up behind her eyes” - prose discussion time! heat and cold are two big throughlines in this fic - particularly for niki, cold is what she is. admittedly when i started with it i mostly wanted to subvert hot = angry and cold = dead but i kinda ended up enjoying this take on it for what it is instead of just as a subversion (also i like the idea of revived people running hot, their bodies r working hard to keep em going). she’s holding onto her feelings and refusing to deal with them, she’s frozen over. descriptions of cold are key to niki’s mental state throughout the fic - cold weight on her chest, feelings of frostbite when she and wilbur hug the first time, ice cold water during the dinner scene, waking up in the cold flat, etc. this was an attempt at describing a more visceral feeling of like, when you’re really mad and you can just feel the adrenaline running through your veins. always felt more cold than hot to me. when she starts to cry, the facade she’s been putting on is finally thawing out and cracking the ice she’s buried her feelings under. (also gives an excuse to write warm comforting hugs towards the end /hj). it’s a loss, it’s catharsis, it’s a whole mess.

and ofc this is all news to wilbur and he feels terrible, because as unintentional as it was, he really really hurt her - because the destruction of l’manberg fucking sucked but above all else wilbur hurt the people he loved because they loved him so much and not in spite of it, because they cared about him so deeply and his death was a massive blow to them. this hasn’t even dawned on him, because how could it? he respects deeply niki (lowkey respects her opinion more than his own at this point) so he has to listen, because it’s niki (“and he looks at Niki the same way he does whenever her voice is being drowned out in a crowd - the way he does when he wants to hear her, when he wants to know what she has to say” - because he does), and what she says fucking floors him. in his eyes, he failed her by putting her in danger and then by destroying her home - the idea that she valued him and their friendship so much flies entirely over his head until this moment, and he is forced to re-evaluate the mindset that has motivated him since… basically since pogtopia! the way i write wilbur is like… yes, he’s one of niki’s closest friends and he’s more aware of her insecurities and issues than most (which is why he does always take the time to listen to her, etc) but he does over-idealise her a bit. tbf, i think he does to some extent with everyone (calling tubbo strong on the anniversary stream, for example). also the fact that he really wasn’t around for niki’s lowest moments as a character! he still thinks of her the way she was in l’manberg - confident, steadfast, respected - and this moment shatters that for him as he realises exactly what effect he and his death had on her and everyone else, not just by his actions, but because they loved him and cared for him so deeply.

sorry that this got horrifically long!! and thank you so much for sending snippets in <3333

[lezliefaithwade]

A Breath of Fresh Air

The summer after my first year of theatre school, I was sleeping on the living room floor of my cousin's apartment in Toronto, trying to figure out what to do with my life. My cousin had been an actor before he became a quadriplegic in a car accident, and as I unadvisedly bemoaned my unemployment status, he said something like, "Seriously? You're complaining about your life? Don't make me burst a colostomy bag." He was right, of course. I wasn't in a wheelchair, though I did have a stepmother who had rendered me homeless because of her dislike for me. She was always saying things like, "Your hair can't be as ugly as that hat you're wearing." Or simply refusing to invite me to things like Christmas dinner. I always admired people with families. My boyfriend at the time was one of five kids who were always doing things together. Their house was always full of noise and activities. Even as a shiksa, I felt more at home there than with my stepbrothers and sisters, who never lost an opportunity to point out that I was weird. I wanted to stand up to them, but not wanting to cause my father any grief, I held my tongue and sought refuge elsewhere. It occurred to me that perhaps I was using the theatre as an opportunity to say things through characters that I couldn't find the courage to express myself.

The Toronto Star was still open on the kitchen table, and I rummage through the Want Ads, that dirty part of the newspaper near the back where complete strangers will soon become complete assholes in your life by forcing you to work menial jobs in humiliating uniforms for minimum wage.

"Find anything?" my cousin called from the bedroom, where two attendants helped wash and dress him.

"Social services are advertising for camp councilors to work with emotionally challenged kids."

"Oh yeah," He said. "That might suit you."

I'm not sure I knew what he meant but, I was beginning to think I'd outgrown my welcome. My cousin probably would have encouraged me to join the circus if the option had been available. Knowing my living room days were numbered, I thought it best to make an effort and apply.

I had no experience teaching drama—no experience working with kids and no experience going to or working at a camp. Despite all that, I was hired. It's worth noting that it's probably not a good sign if you get a job with no qualifications whatsoever.

My official position was Drama Councillor, and I prided myself that with only a year and half of theatre training behind me, I was well equipped to help others benefit from the wealth of my experience. I imagined myself, Maria Von Trapp, teaching children how to sing while they looked at me adoringly. Somehow, I conveniently blocked out the rebellious early stages she experienced and skipped straight to the good parts. Also, I might add, forgetting about the Nazis and having to climb over a mountain. Still, visions of me biking around camp with a group of happy campers behind me filled me with a sense of self-satisfaction.

As I packed my knapsack with deet and a secret stash of Twinkies, I thought of how only three weeks earlier I'd been in New York walking through Central Park and savoring Cappuccinos at outdoor cafés on Columbus. Now, here I was, ready for something different. The wilderness, I imagined, would be a welcome change—fresh air and loons instead of smog and sirens. I thought smugly about my classmates sweating behind visors at take-out windows shoveling fries into cardboard cups or wrapping sandwiches in tinfoil. Thumbs up to adventure, I told myself. The fact that I'd never once in my life enjoyed the great outdoors didn't factor into my mind. All of this changed with each accumulated minute of the 391 Kilometer drive north.

It was late afternoon when I arrived at the compound. Overcast, sullen, it was a place so secluded you'd need flares to find it. It had that distinct aura of someplace time forgot. A place left behind and neglected. In the brochure, the sun was shining, flowers filled the meadow, and you could practically hear laughter floating off the page. What I was looking at bore more of a resemblance to a situation in a Stephen King novel where camp councilors discover a pack of hungry teenage zombies have lured them to a seemingly idyllic retreat. Situated right in the heart of black fly country, I spent most of my days swatting insects so big they seem Jurassic.

During our orientation, child care workers warned us that children with mental health needs tend to run away - a lot and to keep strict attendance records and all eyes on them at all times. "These kids are resourceful and clever," they cautioned. I couldn't imagine being so determined you'd risk your life by escaping through the woods that surrounded us, but then again, I'd never been around children who weren't allowed cutlery before either

I shared my cabin with three other women with who I had absolutely nothing in common. Delia, a humorless 27-year-old cooking instructor who answered every question with a monosyllabic grunt, Jennifer, a 26-year old tennis instructor with massive blond ringlets who talked so quickly she sounded like a record on high speed, and an older aboriginal woman named Sunny who made us all dream catchers and offered advice about how to heal ourselves on days when we'd feel spent. "Remember, these kids need us," she said while purifying our cabin with sage. As I glanced around my assigned bunk, taking in the spider webs and loose floorboards, I had that sinking feeling that comes when you know you've made a terrible mistake. Before long, I was eating copious amounts of peanut butter on stale bagels amid a never-ending supply of starch. I'm not sure who thought it was a good idea to feed children with challenges like anxiety, depression, hyperactivity, and eating disorders copious amounts of sugar and carbs. It certainly did nothing to help them or me.

On the first day of class, I sat everyone in a circle. "Welcome to drama class," I said with a smile. "Let's begin by sharing with everyone a little bit about ourselves. Anything at all you'd like us to know?" A hand went up.

"I'm Tracy, and I hate my stupid ass brother. He can go straight to hell."

"Okay," I said, "That's a start. Who's next?"

Another hand. "I'm Jonathan, and this place sucks so much I wish it would burn to the ground!"

"Fair enough. Anyone else?"

"I'm Jo. I'm schizophrenic. So sometimes I'm Rachel and Julia. You'll know the difference because Rachel has a British dialect, and Julia talks slang."

"O-kay." I glanced at the social workers who sat on the edge of the room and looked at me with an expression that basically said, "We can't wait to see what you do next."

"Let's write a play," I suggested. "Write anything you want. Once you're happy with the work, I'll shape it into a cohesive piece that we'll rehearse and then present at the end of the season talent showcase."

The kids liked this idea. The showcase was a big deal. It was an opportunity for them to blow off some steam and express themselves to friends and family in a creative way. My only stipulation was not to use profanity. As the weeks passed, I was impressed with how well they all threw themselves into this project—all except Eric, the oldest boy in my 12 to 15-year-olds. Eric often wandered around the rehearsal space, unfocused and sullen.

"Any ideas for your piece?" I ask, checking in to see if I could help.

"I'm thinking," he'd say and then pace.

With three weeks left in the summer, I took my well-deserved week off to decompress. My boyfriend came up from Toronto and drove me to his parent's house at Post and Bayview, where caterers were preparing the tennis courts for an outdoor party. I walked into his mother's living room, and she gasped. "What happened to you?"

I didn't blame her. I hadn't spent much time looking at a mirror the past four weeks, but one glance at the large one in their bathroom told the full story. My hair was ratty; I had scabs on my knees, bruises on my arms and legs, and I was sunburnt. I was wearing a vintage skirt and blouse that was probably more Value Village than vintage and a pair of worn, scuffed purple moccasins; in essence, I was wearing slippers on my feet.

"Please take her to the mall and at least buy her a pair of shoes," his mother said, handing me her credit card and then rushing off to make sure the stuffed alligator would float in the pool. That week I ate my way through rugelach, hamantaschen, brisket, and bagels while his family watched me with awe and disgust.

Back at camp, the smell of burning insect repellent greeted me along with the news that the sailing and tennis instructors were sacked for disorderly conduct. Never mind, I had renewed energy and a sense of purpose. There were costumes and props to make. Sound and lighting effects to create. And we needed to rehearse. It was only a tiny stage somewhere on a remote camp in Northern Ontario, but the excitement was palpable. I was excited. This would be the best talent show ever, and my kids were going to blow the socks off everyone there!!!

"Eric," I said, "How's your piece coming along?"

"I finished it," he mentioned casually

"That's great. Can I see it?"

"I want to surprise you. You're going to love it, though. I promise."

I patted myself on the back. Eric had a breakthrough. All my encouragement and patience had paid off. Perhaps I'd helped him have a developmental breakthrough.

"Can you tell me what it's about?" I asked.

"The Beatles."

"Great. Okay," and left it at that.

Talent Night arrived along with parents and family friends. The lights dimmed, the kids performed, and the audience enthusiastically applauded as each "Mighty Mite" or "Spirit of Paradise" breezed across the stage, acting out skits about fairies and monsters and assorted escapades. Finally, it was Eric's turn. Out he came, looking serious and theatrical. He cleared his throat and addressed the audience.

"This is called, The Beatles Last Recording Session. By, Me."

Three of his closest camp friends filed out and took a space on the stage. The audience was silent.

There was a dramatic pause, then the piece began.

"Fuck you, Ringo,"

"Fuck you, Paul."

"Fuck you, George."

"Well fuck you, John."

Then they bowed and left the stage.

Personally, I thought it was kind of brilliant. Needless to say, I wasn't showered with accolades about my teaching methods or the effect I had on kids. I left there having no catharsis about mental health except that giving people the opportunity to express themselves without censor is probably a lot healthier than insisting they stay quiet. I admired the honesty displayed in the kid's work. If only, I thought to myself, I could be half as brave. Wasn't that what I was spending time and money learning how to do?

A week after being home, I found myself packing, once more, for school in New York. Our term letters had arrived with instructions on where to buy character shoes, leotards, copies of The Children's Hour, and Death of a Salesman. The camp already felt like it was 391 kilometers away - soon to be 659. My father drove me to the train station with my stepmother beside him; she was there, no doubt, to ensure I boarded.

"You going to be okay?" my father asked, giving me a hug and slipping a $50 bill into my pocket.

"She'll be fine." Elsie chimed in. "You don't have to worry about her. Let's go."

But I wanted my father to worry about me. Not all the time and to the exclusion of all else, but certainly the appropriate fatherly amount.

As I settled myself on the train, I watched my stepmother pull from father from the platform to the car and thought of Eric's brilliant play. Under my breath, I whispered the immortal words of the Beatles, "Fuck you."

#stepmother #mental health #children #young people #summer camp

[the-gift-of-submission]

Inside a Submissives Soul

Dear Diary -

It's been a while since I last wrote anything, it may be a while before I write again after this. After the despair and turmoil I have been battling with for the past few months, ontop of the past 2 years or so, maybe longer, the considerable amount of pain I have felt most recently left me ready to pack away all my desires and fantasies purely out of hurt and fear. In reality that won't aid recovery or encourage growth, suppressing myself again is not the answer. Mentally-emotionally, I am just not equipped right now to pursue further exploration of my journey, which isn't necessarily bad thing. I think I just need some time, I need time itself for me to start moving again, I have been stuck-frozen for a while, I'm not sure how to kick start myself fully but it will come sooner or later. I don't want to speak too soon either but I think I have stopped choking on the hard pills I've had to swallow, they've slowly worked their way down, however, expect I will have momentary relapses here and there.

Looking back at everything, the meet with Mr X was much needed, we have stayed in touch but not gone any further in respect to physically building on our relationship. He has been kind to me, he is good to me and that's more than I can ask for at this stage. We are friends and that's more than OK for the time being but it wouldn't be fair to attempt moving forward with my current frame of mind being in a somewhat challenging state. I have trouble finding trust in others, even more so now and it is hard to come by, searching for a genuine Dominant is a difficult task. I am not one to spread myself around and I wouldn't want to, I need the time, the 1 to 1 and the commitment. First I need to be in a better position with myself, then maybe things will fall into place naturally when I am ready to take action again.

Looking back alittle further, at the 'life lesson', I do feel I don't regret my first initial experience in exploring as much as I think I should due to how badly things turned out, it opened a door that has remained shut for so long, it was finally opened and incredibly fulfilling even though the surface was only scratched upon. Though the ending knocked me sideways, turned me inside out, and still feels like unfinished business on a more personal level, it doesn't change that it has happened, it's out of my hands now, it is what it is and there is nothing I can do about it - and believe me, I really tried. All I have left is to let go of what was and embrace the release it gave me at the time. In hindsight I only wish I had handled things better. Ending that part of my life on a positive, it gave me insight as to how I really feel about exploring kink and B.D.S.M, it was a truly amazing experience even if it was shortlived and a small dose of the things I know I enjoy, I will hopefully get to explore deeper one day. It was good to feel alive again, to not just exist and to be me at my core. I now know what I truly want and need if and when I am to search and pursue anymore of my fantasies and desires.

Now looking forward, I still have hope, which in itself means I haven't given up completely. So instead of packing it all away forever, for now, I will take a step back to take the time to recharge, refocus and regain some form of composure. Taking a break will hopefully realign my mind and soul to be able to breath freely again for a fresh return. Maybe I am stronger than I am able to recognise at present and the dark times I have been consumed by have been what's needed to prove it once and for all. It is my hope that with positive changes and some self love, evolutionary growth will follow, not into something or someone new, just something, someone stronger, more confident, alittle better, more like me and myself...

[seekingxanadu]

Also, can we talk about how the retcon of Jason being a street kid actually turns Bruce into an even bigger monster. Jason Todd, circus kid, had the nutrition and discipline and physical ability to train for a year with Bruce and go out as Robin.

Malnutritioned street kid Jason? Would need a year, even in handwave reality away comics time, to be a healthy weight, to be treated of all the health conditions children get due to malnutrition, to slowly be introduced into an energetic education schedule. Street kid Jason would need another year to build up physical fitness, begin learning martial arts or boxing, to begin his recovery with regards to health, nutrition, education, mental and physical discipline. That means, Bruce has Jason for TWO years at home before even the conversation about Robin comes up.

Enough for two curious lads like Dick and Jason to initiate contact on their own via Alfred and build their own rapport. Which would include Dick surreptitiously training Jason whenever he is anywhere near Gotham.

And the same thing happens as in the original version. Maybe Dick gives Robin to Jason himself. Maybe Jason, having now known what Robin means to Dick, decides NOPE, he won't be Robin, he will make his own. Maybe Jason will incorporate Dick's Robin colours into his own mantle as a nod to his older brother.

So, even in the retcon where Bruce actually does the right thing by street kid Jason, the whole thing as it played in canon won't work.

Unless.

Unless Bruce said eff it. I miss Dick. I miss Robin. And here is a kid with no family to account for him and I'm a billionaire who can make an adoption happen right away, voilà I have a Robin. Here is the costume, kiddo, here is the Batmobile, let's GO!

What did Bruce think was gonna happen? Street kid Jason was just not equipped to be Robin. And that's on the adult who was responsible for taking him into Gotham's dirty night without proper training.

I'm aware the Red Hood retcon is that Bruce trained Jason exactly as he trained Dick. It don't make sense. Robin training isn't gadgetry and weapons and jumping over ropes. It includes detective work. It involves shedding adrenaline and emotion to inspect and study. Dick did that and he's widely acknowledged as the most emotionally available of the Bats. Why wouldn't Jason?

(yeah, I know, it is all bad rushed writing upon bad rushed writing for Jason. His street kid retcon was to make him totally different to Dick so when he was killed off, there would be no narrative repercussions, RHaTO comes along and more retcons get added because Jason, like Bruce, is now a whiny adult and everyone is at fault except him)

Every single time someone says “Dick getting fired was a retcon,” the words “street kid Jason was a retcon” audibly pop out of my mouth like, just by rote. Before I can even think about it. Because that’s how dumb that first one sounds to me and I will never stop pointing out the second one because NOBODY thinks twice about it being Jason’s definitive origin even though it only spanned at most like…twenty issues of Jason’s actual time as Robin.

A retcon is a retcon. If you don’t want to engage with it, don’t, but enoooooooough with trying to pooh-pooh other people for accepting a retcon as the definitive take JUST LIKE LITERALLY ALL OF FANDOM ACCEPTS THE RETCON OF JASON’S ORIGIN AS THE DEFINITIVE TAKE.

There’s ZERO difference. Retcons are stories that alter existing stories into a new form that’s meant to be regarded as the foundation for everything going forward from that point, unless and until another retcon is instilled later on. Which is precisely what happened in both those instances.

First Jason was another circus kid like Dick, then he was a street kid, and then for all intents and purposes, in every story set since that one, that’s Jason’s origin.

First Dick voluntarily gave up Robin and moved onto Nightwing of his own volition AND AT THE SAME TIME GAVE ROBIN TO JASON HIMSELF 

(also never not going to point out that last part because gosh isn’t it SUPER convenient how people like to keep the part where Dick just has no basis for being upset about anything to do with Robin ever ‘because he gave it up see, that was his choice’ but also at the same time, they have ZERO problem engaging with THE RETCON THAT IS Jason not being introduced into Bruce or Dick’s lives until well over a year AFTER Dick had ‘stopped being Robin’ and was well established as Nightwing so Bruce made Jason Robin himself - like, do you NOT think your motivations aren’t SUPER obvious when you yell ‘but its a retcon’….while at the exact same time STILL willingly engaging with PART OF THAT VERY SAME RETCON, LMFAO?)

- so yeah, first Dick voluntarily gave up being Robin and GAVE IT TO JASON, then Dick was fired from being Robin and became Nightwing and over a year later Jason came into Bruce’s life and Bruce made him Robin, and then for all intents and purposes, in every story set since that one, THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED, THAT’S THE BACKSTORY FOR ROBIN, NIGHTWING AND HOW THAT ALL CAME TO PASS.

Stop being shady and sketchy and WEIRD about this and just say “I don’t like the idea that Bruce fired Dick so I’m just not going to write it that way” and stop trying to act like the rest of us are doing something incomprehensible or backwards or strange by….engaging with a THIRTY YEAR OLD RETCON THAT’S FOUNDATIONAL TO AN ENTIRE FAMILY DYNAMIC SINCE THEN, LMAO.

Like you do you, we’ll do us, and when your selective engagement with the part of the retcon where Bruce gives Robin to Jason and is responsible for that in Jason’s eyes while at the same time saying Dick voluntarily gave up Robin and ‘so has no basis to be bitter or upset about anything to do with Robin, that was his choice’ like….coincidentally just happens to coincide with Dick looking like a bitter, ungrateful and unjustified asshat in your stories because of this while Bruce is the perfect parent who has never done anything wrong ever and just can’t understand where he went wrong with Dick to be resented by him like this….like…..we’ll probably think “hey, you doing you looks an awful lot like throwing one of Bruce’s kids under the bus just to make Bruce look like he farts rainbows and puppy dogs” but like…..you have no basis to be bitter or upset about us saying or thinking this, that was your choice, lmao.

Ooops, see how messy double-edged swords can be, whodathunkit.