#if something is too personal ill tell you!
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What definition of mental disorder are you operating under? Are you behaviorist, constructivist…?
so much of the dsm has carve outs for “acceptable within cultural context” because the *institutional* understanding of the purpose of mental health care is enforcing normative behavior and pathologizing the “deviant.”
Trump is more deeply ill than anyone who has been sectioned over the past week for being suicidal over the prospect of impending fascism - Trump isn’t going to be sectioned.
look at the way that mental health care has been used a tool of control of women - the Kennedy daughter that was lobotomized for liking boys a bit too much wasn’t atypical. “mommy’s little helpers” to cope with the denial of a meaningful life. the way troubled teen programs treat young girls in particular
telling a child that they are “depressed” because of the impending climate crisis is placing the problem with the child. it is not a problem of the child’s brain (although the stress and despair will have neurological effects), it is a problem which is purposefully misplaced. similarly it is easier to tell the overworked person with anxiety to take a pill and do a CBT worksheet than to end capitalism.
why don’t we recognize the desire to rape and control others as seriously pathologic behavior? because the people who seek control get it and create these systems. (there’s a historic problem of male therapists sleeping with/marrying their clients too…)
taking graduate research classes really opened my eyes. so many psychology papers are paper thin. there’s a lack of physical evidence, explanations that use neuroscience (strongest work here is possibly schizophrenia)… there’s also a disturbing lack of legal accountability (Dr Phil slept with a patient and gave her a job - he gave up his license rather than be investigated)
the systems goal is what the system does. what the mental/behavioral health system in the US does is pathologize non normative behavior. the point here is that rape is not a non normative behavior. rape is an accepted tool in society. saying it flat like that is denied, but something that happens to ~1 in 4 women is something that society accepts. the fact that there is shockingly little research into helping individuals who have experience sexual violence recover also shows that it is a behavior society accepts - it’s normal, so if you have flashbacks or can’t leave the house on certain days, that is a problem with YOU.
This alone serves as the strongest criticism of the mental health care system for me.
The problem of coping with the experience of abuse is placed on the victim of the abuse.
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I remember reading in one of your blog entries (years ago??) that in the new book you were writing, the main character's *sister* had cancer. Does that mean that Alice was originally the main character of Long Live Evil? Was she going to go into the book to save Rae, instead of Rae going in to save herself?
How extremely kind of you to remember!
No, that was actually a YA murder mystery that I wrote while ill, revised while recovering, and sent out into the world where it died on submission. (Which means we sent it out to about 12 editors and the editor either said no, or said yes and took it to acquisitions - a group of people at the publisher including sales and marketing - and acquisitions said no.)
One editor told me she really wanted and really tried to buy it. Another person who worked in publishing (and has since changed jobs, or I wouldn’t share this) said the response at her acquisitions was - if you like this writer, find the next her (implications about health and youth were made).
I was terrified my agent was going to ditch me too, but she said ‘We’ll sell that one day, for now let’s write the next thing.’
I remember another writer telling me she missed my work that wasn’t a tie-in, and I felt ashamed to tell her it wasn’t that I wasn’t writing other things - it was that I couldn’t publish them.
The tie-ins meanwhile were paying the bills (they still are tbh!) and I was and remain so grateful for them. But I also really loved writing them - especially my Sabrina tie-ins, you don’t forget the first, and it reminded me I want to write horror and poly one day - and how they got me to love and sympathise with so many fandoms.
I see the burnout of caregivers all around me, and I wanted to write the story of one. But maybe I also wanted to take a step back from cancer. I didn’t think I did, at the time. I had a whole lot of things I tried writing before Long Live Evil, and I think some of them were really good. One of my critique partners gave me a lipstick with the same name as someone in the murder mystery. There was a romance novel another critique partner said was her favourite thing I’d ever written. But none had someone with cancer at the heart of the story.
And even though Rae isn’t much like me, maybe I had to start there. You can’t make real magic using someone else’s liver. Maybe I had to wait to be brave enough to use my own liver.
I do get requests for advice on how to cope with rejection of your writing, and I always worried I didn’t have anything else to say, but I suppose my example says - if you can, (and I know it’s hard, you feel so terrible at writing and so useless) (and you love the work you’ve done so much and you don’t see a way forward to loving the next thing) (but still, if you possibly can) write the next thing.
Even if the first thing sells, you’ll want the next thing one day. Writing the next thing is more writing practise, so it’ll make you better. Write the next thing.
Ultimately I’m really glad Long Live Evil was my comeback book. I think it needed to be. It took the time it took.
But maybe it was a shade of that past book (where the heroine’s sister with cancer was six, so not much like any of the Time of Iron characters) that made me think of the YA version of this book, which I always had in my mind as something I was intentionally hewing away from - a more straightforward book, a book that might have sold better - in which shy reader Alice was the hero. She’s the one with the suggestive hero name - Alice through the looking glass - the heroine looks, and the more projectable-upon personality. She’d get called annoying less often (though still some, because she’s a girl), partly because she is (with love, Rae knows I’m right) a genuinely less annoying person. Much kinder, much sweeter, and much better at in-depth reading! Her sister being in trouble would’ve been a backstory, a catalyst point, and - you’re totally right - a great motivation for her to get the Flower. Saving a family member is a much more sympathetic and heroic motivation than saving yourself and one I do love (the Hunger Games, Labyrinth, Mahy’s the Changeover, and I write it a lot!). I think Snarky While Tragically Dying Rae would’ve been a pretty popular side character, too. I think it would’ve been a good book! Just not mine.
I love your question because I love thinking about POV, and all the decisions that are the building blocks of a story. To me, the Alice centric Time of Iron is a version that exists. As are several versions of the Lia centric Time of Iron. And versions centring other characters exist to me, too. (Eric, absolutely.)
Speaking of POV musing, I think Rahela the wicked stepsister featured more in the musical than the book. If the Time of Iron series ever became a TV show (and at this point in time I think I’d rather a movie because it wouldn’t… get cancelled…) and I got to write it (don’t know why I would…) I would start with the beginnings for three characters about to go on a journey to somewhere strange to them: Key in the Cauldron, Rae in the hospital, and Vasilisa in the icelands. There are so many possibilities! And I really wanted the sense that there were so many possibilities, too.
But I wanted the chronically ill one to be the centre of the story, and for it to be her villain origin story, and to ask a lot of questions (hence a lot of villains!) about who gets villainised and why. And I thought hers, to my mind, would be the most fun of all the possible stories.
So that’s the one I made. But Long Live Evil has a lot of origins. Thank you for remembering one of them! I don’t think I would’ve dared tell the story, if things hadn’t worked out for me (so far, fingers crossed).
And I also tell it to be clear my publisher was taking a RISK with me and Long Live Evil, and I really appreciate that, and I’m so happy it’s worked out for them (again so far, early days, fingers crossed, etc).
I hope some writers - whether in the process of submission, rejection or making the choices that are the building blocks of story - find this helpful, and some readers find it interesting.
Let this be one of the universes in which your story is told.
#publishing#writing tips#villains#cancer#epic fantasy#isekai#Long live evil#alice in wonderland#labyrinth#the hunger games#the changeover#chilling adventures of sabrina
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Now what?
Whenever I see Trump my brain thinks of my mom and I feel angry about how she died. I have PTSD and I'm actually in the process of seeking out a therapist to address it.
And until I can get some help, I guess I'm just going to feel that anger for a while. I was really hoping I wouldn't have to see or think of him again.
This is pretty bad. And it is really scary. And I hate that one man is capable of causing so much fear and anxiety among the people I care about.
I guess there is one thought I am trying to hold onto.
I recently talked about chronic illness and the "new normal." As illness progresses you sometimes have to accept a new normal and learn to adjust and adapt to it. And every time I was faced with a new normal I was convinced I could not adjust or adapt. But every time I figured it out and found a way to keep going.
I think we will adapt because we have to. We will fight because we have to. But we will need each other to get through this.
Look to your allies. Your friends and your trusted family. Keep those relationships healthy. Do the work to maintain them. Prioritize building and sustaining a personal support system over everything else. Do your part when they need help. Keep in regular contact. Keep the emotional labor as reciprocal and balanced as possible. And don't be afraid to tell them when you feel overburdened. Keep communication healthy so you both feel comfortable expressing hard truths. Open up to them so they feel trusted and make sure they feel comfortable doing the same with you. Try not to lean on one single person too much as they might get overwhelmed.
But also remember to enjoy your friendships. They are not there just to be your therapist. (An *actual* therapist is a good idea if it is feasible.) It's important to laugh and waste time together. Shoot the shit and bond over mutual interests. Or introduce them to your interests and teach them why you love what you love. Ask them about their interests and even if you don't completely get it, be happy that something makes your friend happy.
If you feel like you don't have a support system or it is severely diminished like mine, you'll have to do the work to seek out new people. I'm in that process now after losing my parents. And trust me, I know it isn't easy. I am really struggling to connect to new people. It takes a lot of energy and I haven't had a lot of energy to spare. But I know it is what I will need to help me adapt to the new normal. So I'm going to put in the effort and figure it out. I encourage you to do the same.
You will not connect with every new person. That's okay. Remember this is a process and it takes time. And don't beat yourself up if building your support system is slow going. If nothing else, you are learning and growing and developing tools to help you on this journey.
This community has been so kind to me. You all are a part of my support system. And I feel very lucky to have you in my corner. I love you and I care for you. I'm going to try my best to advocate for what you need. Helping others is another way to keep moving forward. A righteous sense of purpose is a powerful tool in the face of a new normal.
Please take care of yourselves as best you can.
Find your people if you haven't already.
Or find *more* people if you don't have enough.
You are in my thoughts.
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╰┈➤ the pumpkin reaper
part 3: the last day of investigation
previous part here
in which you and the BAU are handling the case of a murderer in a small, sleepy town.
tw: decapitation, description of a crime scene etc, mention of a suicide attempt, mentall illness
contents: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader, solving a criminal mystery, angst, slow burn
words: 9 k....i'm insane, i'm aware
Your dad was the one who managed to explain everything to you.
Once, you hated the coldness he exuded. Everything he said seemed so devoid of emotion, as if he didn't have any at all. Probably, if he had ever tried to say "I love you," those words would have gotten stuck in his throat, causing choking and death.
At that moment, you appreciated it for the first time. He told you how your mom had found Jeremy in the bathtub, the water completely stained with blood. If an outsider had heard it, they would have thought he was talking about some stranger's child, not his own son, so composed he sounded. But you heard all the tiny breaks in his voice, the pauses to swallow saliva that slowly dripped down his throat.
You stood with your back against the door, the phone slipping from your numb hand.
For a moment, you felt simply empty. Without feelings or thoughts. What was this room you were in — the bathroom? A bathroom, what even is that? Syllables joined into a longer sound that should have some specific meaning. What meaning? You didn’t know. A loud ringing filled your ears, driving everything out of your mind.
The phone call had ended. The device was still pressed against your cheek, slipping further and further from your grip. After a while — you couldn’t tell how long — it simply fell to the floor, onto the simple black-and-white tiles. You didn’t even hear the sound it made.
You might have stayed frozen there for hours if not for the soft tapping on the other side of the door. You were only just returning to reality, so you couldn’t respond. Then someone spoke your name in a questioning tone. You ignored that too, though not intentionally. For a moment, you had simply forgotten your own name. This unsettled the person in the next room; after a few seconds, they grasped the handle and pushed the door. It met the barrier of your back, and that gentle jolt was what began to pull you out of your trance.
The first breath hurt; the first thought nearly brought you to your knees.
Jeremy. Your little brother.
Moving as if on autopilot, you turned toward the door and opened it. At first, Spencer seemed to exhale with relief, but then he saw the expression on your face, and his slightly hunched posture straightened, shifting to one of concern.
You’d taken over the bathroom as soon as you returned to the hotel, so he hadn’t had a chance to change. He’d only hung up his jacket by the door, taken off his vest, and remained in his shirt with a loosened tie and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.
“W-what happened? I thought I heard something fall…”
“It was...um...the phone,” you managed to choke out.
“I-I was talking to my dad, my dad, but first with my mom, and…and she was mad at me because of…because of…wait, what did you ask?” The words spilling from you were one big jumble. You pressed a cool hand to your forehead, burning as if with fever, your brain throbbing with effort, as if you were delivering a university lecture on nuclear physics.
Spencer was no longer just concerned — he was terrified. Seeing how you were barely standing on legs that refused to cooperate, he caught you just before you fell. You collapsed face-first onto his shoulder, surrendering entirely to gravity.
“Oh…okay, okay, it’s okay now,” he whispered, resting one hand on the back of your head and the other on your back, offering support.
You closed your eyes, only now realizing they were filled with tears. The shock was fading, the barrier that had held back every other emotion finally breaking down. They began to overwhelm you, resulting in a muffled sob against his body.
“He tried to kill himself,” you finally managed to say, the meaning of the words slowly sinking in. You repeated it several times, each time quieter but with more awareness. “He tried…he tried…”
“No, you don’t have to... just... oh god, I’m so sorry...” He stammered. He realized that no words would be enough, none would help you. Instead of wasting energy on them, he poured it all into the embrace, holding you even tighter.
You simply stayed in that position, as time passed by.
"What's with him?" he asked when your breathing finally returned to a steady rhythm, and the pain wasn't as sharp. His voice was so soft, soothing like a lullaby. "Your brother?"
You realized that, because of your secrecy, you had never even casually mentioned Jeremy to him. This was the first time you were talking about him. Under these circumstances
"Dad said his condition is stable." You raised your head, and your eyes met by accident. You quickly looked back down at your hands. You felt exposed in a way you never had before with anyone else, and it was strange, unfamiliar. But you couldn’t say it was entirely negative. "He’s under observation now; he lost a lot of blood. If my mom hadn’t found him..."
You shook your head, trying to chase away the dark visions and scenarios.
"Spencer," you sighed, struggling to put into words what had been tormenting you from the very beginning. "I... I can’t stop thinking about how much of this is my fault."
"I left him with our parents. Fully aware of what they’re like. I told him he could rely on me but I was in another city, only keeping in touch by phone. Irregulary. Since we started working on this case, I’ve spoken to him once…"
Until now, you hadn’t maintained strong eye contact; each time it happened, you pulled away. But in that moment, there was something in his gaze that wouldn’t let you look away. Reid was definitely not one to offer empty words of comfort or general platitudes. Seeing him remain silent, you were certain he was about to say something entirely his own.
“Blaming yourself is a very common, I’d even say natural, part of grief, and I’m afraid that nothing I say will make you stop feeling this way, but I’ll try anyway. You didn’t abandon Jeremy. Even if there was distance between you, you still tried to be there for him, you cared for him like no one else did. You know, even if you usually avoided talking about it, it was still very clear. Sometimes I’d see you from a distance talking to him on the phone. I couldn’t hear a word, but… I wondered a lot who that person was. The one who makes you so happy” He looked slightly flustered, blushing as he realized what he had mentioned, but continued nonetheless. “You seemed so happy and genuinely invested. I can tell that you didn’t stay in touch with him out of guilt or obligation alone. He truly meant the world to you. And… what I’m trying to say is that… sometimes, no matter how much we try, there are things we just can’t control. This is incredibly hard for you, and you blame yourself for all of it, but I hope that someday you’ll see that not everything depended on you, and none of this is your fault."
You stared at him in silence, not knowing what to say. His words… they touched you, pierced your skin, and lodged deeply within your body. They soothed you, like a lullaby sung to a child before sleep. You realized just how incredibly grateful you were that you both shared this room.
"I don't know what I would do if you weren't here," you answered softly, feeling the area around your eyes tighten, signaling the tears that were about to come.
Without hesitation, he simply embraced you.
With his chin resting on the top of your head and your forehead pressed against his collarbone.
"You would manage. You’re strong. But you deserve to have someone by your side in a moment like this."
You whispered that you were afraid you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. He offered you one of the sleeping pills he had mentioned in the car, though it would take a little while for them to take effect. You lay on your side, with your knees curled up. It wasn’t until the morning that you realized you were on his bed, surprised to find yourself so far from the window. That was your first thought, still not fully sober.
The room was drowning in darkness, the only sources of light being the faint glow of the moon sneaking in like a thief through the imperfectly drawn curtain, and the alarm clock on the nightstand between your beds, showing the time as 4:47.
You stretched your sleepy eyelids open and rubbed them with your hand, not moving from your spot. You felt a little embarrassed that you had fallen asleep in Spencer’s bed, but then you noticed his silhouette in yours. It turned out you had simply swapped places. Since it was only your second night in this hotel, it hadn’t yet absorbed his scent. Not that you were looking for it. You were just curious, which is why you pressed your face so firmly into the pillow.
Spencer was lying with his face turned toward you. However, he didn’t seem completely relaxed, almost as if even the sound of dust floating in the air could wake him. This turned out to be a very accurate observation, as the moment you opened your eyes, he did the same.
"Hey, how do you feel?" he asked. His voice was quiet, hoarse.
"I'm too awake to go back to sleep for another week. Unfortunately," you muttered, turning onto your back. Of course, it was sarcasm. You couldn’t sleep for too long, you had to... you weren’t even sure what you had to do. You urgently needed to find out what had happened with Jeremy over the past few hours. Was his condition still stable, or had it improved significantly overnight, or…
The thought of another conversation with your father drained you. Or, worse yet, your mother. They were, however, your only source of information about your unconscious brother.
So yes, you needed to make a call, then get up, pull yourself together, maybe eat something… it all sounded more than overwhelming.
"I'll talk to Hotch, if you want. He’ll let you go back, even today."
The mention of the boss’s name hit you like an ice cube dropped under your shirt. Despite everything that had happened yesterday, you were still at work. In the middle of hunting down a seven-time murderer who had discarded his last two victims just yesterday. A murderer who, from the very beginning, had stirred your intuition, suggesting that the answer to this puzzle lay somewhere at the back of your mind.
On the other hand, you felt obligated to be by Jeremy’s side when he woke up. Who else would be there for him? A nurse? An emotionally absent father? An unstable, bipolar mother who had probably stopped taking her meds again?
As if against your own will, you lifted yourself into a sitting position, a certain thought suddenly entering your mind.
"I'll stay," you decided.
"Are you sure? If you don't want to talk about it with the others, I’ll do it for you," he offered, propping himself up on his elbows. His hair was a mess, eyes gleaming with worry. "You know Hotch, he may not seem like it, but he's very understanding..."
"Really, I can handle it," you reassured him, but he didn’t seem convinced. "Reid, I need to finish this case. I think I’ve realized something."
He sat on the bed, furrowing his brow. The sudden change in the tone of your voice must have intrigued him; you sounded almost determined.
"What is it?"
You opened your mouth, ready to rush out a chaotic response, but stopped yourself at the last moment. It was so early in the morning, and your mind wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders — how could it be, when you’d only just woken up? It made more sense to wait, to go over the latest findings with the team; maybe they would fit perfectly with your newest theory.
And that’s exactly what happened.
“The victims found on the pumpkin farm have been identified,” Hotch announced instead of a greeting when you met just an hour and a half later. Everyone looked slightly dazed; the coffee they were sipping hadn’t yet kicked in. Likely, only you and Reid had been up this early—physically, you seemed the most alert, yet it was plain to see that your thoughts were still rooted in the previous day, struggling to keep up with everything happening around you. You sat close together, shoulder to shoulder, entirely on instinct, as if an invisible thread connected you, tightening painfully around your wrists whenever you tried to drift too far apart.
From time to time, he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, as if checking to see if you were okay. Twice, he gave a slight nod in Hotch’s direction, reminding you that you could still talk to him, ask for permission to go back home. You silently reassured him that you were feeling relatively fine and didn’t want to bring it up with the boss. Just as you broke eye contact, ending the wordless conversation, you noticed Morgan and Prentiss watching the two of you, their heads tilted at the same angle in an almost eerily synchronized way.
You took a breath, feeling slightly embarrassed. Your sudden closeness with Reid must have seemed at the very least… suspicious to them.
“Their names were Denise Grant and Alexa Miller, and listen to this,” Garcia began, her voice quickening as her face appeared on the laptop screen. “Both of them worked at the same orphanage. And what's more — it's the very same orphanage where one of the earlier victims worked.”
The atmosphere thickened as everyone absorbed the significance of the information.
"What are the chances this could be a coincidence?" JJ asked rhetorically.
"Well..." Reid began. His friend raised an eyebrow. "I get it, no large numbers. But small ones. Smaller than the chance that the asteroid..."
"Were the remaining body parts of these women found?" Rossi asked matter-of-factly.
Hotch shook his head.
"Unfortunately, no. The forest is so heavily guarded by the police that it's unlikely the unsub managed to dump them there."
"But he has to be doing something with them," Prentiss said, biting the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. "Doesn't it make you wonder where he's committing all these crimes? He gets rid of the bodies quickly, and there were no signs on the victims suggesting they were held captive. Do you think he could be killing them in his own house?"
"That's possible," Morgan replied. "He wouldn't be the first. And unfortunately, he won't be the last."
"If that's the case, they're going to start smelling awful soon. He'll have to get rid of them, and with so much police presence around, it won't be that easy."
"Let's hope he makes a mistake in the process," Hotch summarized, scanning your faces carefully. Finally, his gaze landed on yours. "You’ll go to the orphanage with..." He swept his eyes over everyone around you, finally settling on Derek. Reid, sitting next to you, shifted uncomfortably.
"I'll go with her," he offered a bit too abruptly.
This shifted the focus of everyone’s attention onto you. You tried to act as if it didn’t matter who would go with you, but deep down, you were hoping it would be him.
You stared at your boss, waiting for his decision. Finally, he nodded and began assigning other tasks to the rest of the team. You couldn't help but smile, barely perceptibly, feeling grateful to Spencer.
It wasn’t that you minded the company of the others; it was simply that none of them had any idea what had happened the day before. They might ask questions about your more withdrawn-than-usual behavior or your subdued mood, and you didn’t want to talk about what had happened with your brother. You knew that with Reid, you would feel the most comfortable.
For a while, you continued discussing the farm workers, who turned out to be employed without contracts, and of course the owner who was hiring them off the books. But with each new statement from your colleagues, you became more and more detached. Your thoughts kept drifting to Jeremy and his behavior over the past few weeks. He had seemed down during your conversations, but you had chalked it up to just the usual busy period at school. On top of that, there was the family situation. Living alone, you'd almost forgotten what a typical day with your mother used to look like. You started to berate yourself, feeling guilty for not being more concerned about his state.
Eventually, everyone dispersed, ready to get back to their tasks.
You went to the car alone, as Reid had been stopped by Derek, who had asked him something with an unreadable expression. His eyebrow had raised suggestively, and you could have sworn you saw it even from several meters away. You stared at the two of them, leaning against the open passenger-side door, intrigued about what the conversation might be about. Normally, you weren’t the curious type; you didn’t like it when people asked you too many questions, and you avoided prying into others’ affairs. But this time, you couldn’t take your eyes off Spencer’s face, clearly embarrassed—maybe even… blushing?
Derek laughed at his reaction and gave him a pat on the back before walking away. Your companion sat in the driver's seat without a word, avoiding your gaze.
"Where is the orphanage?" he asked.
You turned toward him, brow furrowed.
"You remembered the whole map," you reminded him.
"Oh, right..."
You fell silent for several minutes, but your curiosity grew so much that you thought you might not be able to hold it in any longer.
"What were you two talking about? With Morgan?"
"Oh... just some stuff," he replied evasively, overly focused on the road. As if you were in the middle of a busy city during rush hour, rather than on a nearly empty road in the morning.
"You know Morgan and his... sense of humor."
"Yes, I know. Did he tell some great joke?"
"Not really."
"Go ahead. I'm curious."
"I’m telling you, nothing worth repeating... Besides, I've already forgotten it myself..."
"Reid, for God's sake, you literally have a photographic memory...!"
"Okay, fine!" he finally blurted out, removing one hand from the steering wheel and raising it in a defensive gesture. His voice went up a quarter of an octave. He then took a deep breath and put on a seemingly calm expression. "Morgan wanted to know if our... well, unusual... peculiar... definitely different from the previous days... behavior means that..."
"That what?" you asked encouragingly.
"That we slept with each other”
You blinked in slow motion, too shocked to respond. Spencer couldn't resist glancing at you, trying to gauge your reaction. For a moment, you sat frozen, then you burst into laughter.
"And what did you tell him?"
"What did I tell him?" he repeated in disbelief. "The truth, what else was I supposed to say?"
You realized how stupid your question was.
"Anyway, even if it were true... you know, that we... slept together... I wouldn't have mentioned it to him. I mean, don’t get me wrong” He quickly added the last part.“It's not that I’d be ashamed to admit it or... anything like that, I just would’ve preferred to sort it out with you first..."
You watched his growing embarrassment and... simply smiled.
"Sorry," you explained your reaction, letting out a slight chuckle. "I just thought... Well nevermind. Or…Fine, I was thinking about how strangely Emily was looking at me and how Derek probably wasn’t the only one who came to that conclusion. Look, we share a room with each other for the very first time and then suddenly we become so close... and then there's the fact that you asked to come with me..."
"That's because I wanted... I wanted to keep an eye on you after what happened yesterday."
"I understand that, and... I’m incredibly grateful to you for it. Really, Spence. But to others, it might look really suspicious."
He paused for a moment, thinking about your words. Ahead of you, the orphanage building came into view. Made of a mix of red and cream bricks, it resembled a small private school. Behind the fence, there was a small playground with a pink slide, its surface now covered in brown leaves.
"Wait," Reid asked with a slightly hoarse voice as you were about to get out of the car. "Does this mean that... you’d prefer we saw each other less?"
You were momentarily speechless.
"What? Of course not. Let them think what they want. Especially those two…lacherours, Morgan and Prentiss. It doesn’t change anything between us."
The air hit your face in waves, occasionally accompanied by a stray raindrop, but overall, the weather that day wasn’t terrible.
You made your way to the orphanage doors, trying to adopt serious, professional expressions fitting for your line of work. However, you couldn’t help but let those fleeting, secret smiles slip through. You felt a tight knot in your stomach loosen.
But back to business, no staff member at the orphanage wants to see two FBI agents on their doorstep at eight in the morning. Well, no one wants to see FBI agents on their doorstep. Regardless of the time. The woman who opened the door greeted you with a slight look of confusion. She was shorter than both of you, with thick blonde hair, wearing a fluffy lavender sweater. At first glance, she seemed friendly, but… incredibly downhearted.
"Can I help you with something?" she asked, clearly forcing a smile.
You looked at Reid and took a small breath, holding back a sigh. It dawned on both of you that… she probably didn’t know yet that the heads found on the farm belonged to her two coworkers.
Everyone in the town knew about the discovery, that was beyond doubt. The fact that these two women hadn’t shown up for work in several days should have made her realize it. But sometimes, as people, we prefer to deceive ourselves right until the very end.
You hated informing people that their loved ones had died, especially in such a horrific way. However, you knew you had to do what was required of you, reaching into your pocket for your badge.
"We're from the FBI," you said after introducing yourselves, trying to keep a gentle expression to spare some nerves for the already frightened woman. "Do you work here? We’d like to have a word with all the staff and the director."
The woman took a deep, nervous breath.
“Yes, I work here. Florence Terry. I’m… I’m a psychologist.”
She opened the door wider, letting you both inside. You quickly glanced around, immediately noticing how well-kept the place was. In your line of work, you’d surprisingly often found yourself visiting orphanages, and many — even in larger cities — were in far worse condition. In the spacious hallway stood a staircase made of light wood, leading to the upper floors. On one of the steps, someone had placed a teddy bear so that it looked like it was gazing down.
“Do you think it’s afraid of heights?” you whispered to Reid, careful that the psychologist couldn’t hear.
“I think it’s an inanimate object and therefore incapable of having fears,” he whispered back, leaning slightly toward you.
“I think you’re —”
“We’re just having breakfast,” Florence interrupted, leading you into the dining room, where a long table stood at the center. At the sight of you both, the adults seated there — likely other caregivers — put their utensils aside. There weren’t that many kids here; they could almost pass for an unusually large family, if not for the fact that nearly all of them were around the same age. There were no little ones — you noticed mostly teenagers. One boy spilled his tea on the table and wiped it up with his sleeve, his black bangs brushing against the glasses perched on his narrow nose. You weren’t sure if it was his appearance or his mannerisms, but he immediately reminded you of Jeremy.
Reid immediately noticed you staring. Of course he did. You gave a slight smile, reassuring him that everything was fine.
Your arrival didn’t cause much of a stir; most of the children didn’t even look up. It probably would have been different if they knew you were from the FBI. The expression on the psychologist's face, however, alarmed the adults. They exchanged tense glances, but tried to maintain appearances in front of the children.
The woman with the tight black ponytail stood up, introducing herself as the director.
“We can talk in my office,” she offered, shaking your hand.
“We’d like to speak with all the staff,” Reid informed her.
“Oh, of course. Then please, follow me…”
She led you to a small room on the ground floor, with the word "DIRECTOR" written on the door in colorful crayons. Three more people followed you, including the psychologist.
"Not everyone is here today," the director noted. "Some employees simply work different hours, while others..."
"That’s something we wanted to discuss," you said slowly.
The women and one man exchanged glances. They knew.
"Is… is this about Denise and Alexa?" Florence dared to ask.
To their horror, you had to confirm it. It was incredibly difficult to watch someone take in the news of not only the death of colleagues, but likely close friends as well. You lowered your gaze, staring at your shoes, giving them a moment before they were ready to continue with the questioning. Together with Reid, you had to ask them countless questions, probing to understand why these particular orphanage employees had become the killer’s victims. Or perhaps, whether they remembered any former resident who had long since left but whose behavior had raised suspicions. There was a strong likelihood that the unsub had come from there.
But before you began the questioning, the doorbell rang.
"That’s probably the volunteer. A teenager from town who comes by to help from time to time, sometimes she brings friends along," the director explained, her trembling hands pressed against her chest. "Their help has been especially valuable these past few days since… since Denise and Alexa… disappeared."
"I’ll let them in," you offered, glancing at Reid. It would be worth asking these teenagers a few questions as well.
He nodded, and you headed toward the entrance of the building. One girl pulled back quickly into the dining hall at the sight of you; she must have been eavesdropping. At first, you felt like smiling, but then sadness took over. These kids didn’t know yet about the death of their caretakers. How would the staff tell them? How would they react?
Worried by this thought, you opened the door and raised your eyebrows in surprise at the sight of… Charlotte.
Worried by this thought, you opened the door and raised your eyebrows in surprise at the sight of… Charlotte.
“Oh, hi,” she greeted you, equally surprised. She wore the same white jacket you’d seen her in yesterday, with a colorful scarf covering half her face, her pale cheeks flushed from the cold. You glanced toward the parking lot, where the sheriff's car was just pulling away beside yours. He must have dropped off his daughter before heading straight back to his duties. The town needed him more than ever. “Dad told me who those women were… the ones I found yesterday. Is that why you’re here?”
You confirmed, lips pressed tightly together. She stepped inside, unzipping her jacket.
"My partner is talking with the staff right now," you said, stopping with her by the stairs, not wanting the children in the dining hall to overhear. "I had no idea you volunteered here. That’s really, really kind of you. How long have you been doing this?"
She hesitated, her cheeks flushing slightly.
"Just a few months," she replied, but there was something incomplete in her tone. As if she wanted to say more but held back. You replayed your conversation from the day before in your mind, analyzing it moment by moment, trying to deduce what might be behind her behavior.
"My dad, surprisingly, isn’t too thrilled about it. I live on the other side of town, so he has to drive me here, and he also says I should be studying instead…” She lowered her voice to an embarrassed whisper. “…wandering around with the poor."
You were taken aback, even outraged, by the sheriff’s behavior. As a parent, he should be proud that his daughter took the initiative to get involved in charity work! Yet, as you looked at the girl, who was avoiding your gaze, you felt there was something she wasn’t telling you.
“I’m glad that despite his… forgive me for saying it, but rudeness, you’re still determined to help here,” you said, choosing your words carefully. Charlotte gave a shy smile at the compliment. “Out of curiosity, was it your idea? Or maybe your friends’, and you just got… drawn into it?”
The girl hesitated before finally sighing in surrender.
Her answer didn’t surprise you much. Since she’d mentioned her boyfriend yesterday—describing him as someone who opposed rules and was the complete opposite of her father—you’d subconsciously known this topic would come up again. You didn’t hide the fact that the way she described him had raised concerns, making you question whether he was truly a good match for such a sensitive young girl.
"My boyfriend grew up here," she admitted. "He told me a bit about this place, and… hearing his stories, I felt a need to help these kids. I started coming here, tutoring them, playing with them, teaching them to draw. You know, typical volunteer stuff."
"Does he know about this? Does he come help with you?"
"N-no. He doesn't have the best memories of this place... but he's really happy that I decided to do this."
You didn’t want to turn the conversation into an interrogation, but you felt you needed to ask these questions to get the full picture.
“How long ago did he leave the orphanage?”
Charlotte seemed increasingly tense during the conversation, glancing around as if expecting someone to come and rescue her. You couldn’t help but cross your arms over your chest, a gesture that may have seemed threatening or stern. Quickly realizing that you’d frightened her, you softened your posture, taking a deep breath to calm yourself.
You were almost certain that this was a similar case. Charlotte was only sixteen, struggling with the death of her mother, a sensitive soul with an incredibly strict father—who also happened to be a cop. An older boyfriend might have given her a sense of escape from the heavy hand of her father’s authority, a feeling of freedom.
"Sorry, Charlotte. I didn’t mean to be so intrusive. Just a professional habit," you joked. She smiled faintly, still clearly on edge.
The way she spoke about him—the hint of fear, her earlier request for you not to mention him to her father, and her avoidance of answering how long ago he left the orphanage—made you start to seriously suspect that he was older than her. It wasn’t unusual for teenage girls to seek out older partners, and in most cases, it wasn’t a bad thing... but sometimes, those older partners turned out to be much older men. Manipulators.
Before you could say anything more, Reid appeared in the doorway of the office, casting a curious glance between you and the girl, whom he surely remembered from yesterday.
"Uh...Can I have a word with you?" he called you. Charlotte greeted him so quietly that he probably didn’t even hear it. "I think I’ve found something interesting."
"Oh, sure," you replied, remembering you shouldn’t leave him alone with the work for too long. Before leaving, you smiled at the sheriff’s daughter. The topic of her and her boyfriend was still nagging at you. "I’d like to talk to you later, okay? Either after we finish talking to the staff, or... you have my number, right?"
The girl nodded, murmuring a quick goodbye before disappearing into the dining hall, where a child squealed with delight at the sight of her.
"Did you find anything out?" you asked Reid. He had been watching the girl with obvious interest, which was piqued by your almost agitated stance. However, you didn’t have time to explain everything to him yet; you needed to get back to the main investigation.
You both returned to the office. The staff were standing in the same spots, looking as if they hadn’t moved an inch since you left.
"I asked a few questions that might help us figure out why the unsub chose three people who worked at this particular orphanage," he began. You noticed he was starting to speak faster, which meant a breakthrough had occurred, at least in his reasoning. You watched him, holding your breath. "And I found out that none of the people here have worked here for more than eight years. Just like the victims."
You furrowed your brow, not sure what that meant. The director quickly offered an explanation.
"Eight years ago, there was a huge scandal involving this orphanage," she explained, swallowing hard. "It came to light that the caretakers and the director at the time were abusing the children. Seriously abusing them. What’s worse, the case was reported multiple times, but no one in the town’s leadership did anything about it. The mayor stayed silent... They say he was afraid to do anything, so as not to lose the funding the orphanage was receiving. It wasn’t until eight years ago that the truth finally came out, the staff was convicted, and they were replaced by us."
"The town’s leadership didn’t react," you repeated her words, your mind working at full speed. "The earlier victims were part of the town’s leadership. This is the connection we’ve been looking for, Reid. The unsub must have been a victim of abuse right here in this orphanage."
"We need to tell the others," Reid decided. You both headed toward the exit, and then you remembered that you hadn’t even said goodbye to the orphanage staff.
"Thank you for your help, these are really useful pieces of information..." you said quickly as you passed them.
In the car, everything felt like it was spinning.
"Look, the unsub isn’t directly killing the people who abused him. If that were the case, the old staff would be the ones dying, not the current one. Remember, one of his victims was a teacher, completely unrelated to the orphanage. I think it’s not about punishing those people, but more about a symbolic revenge, one that doesn’t have to be logical. It doesn’t have to make sense to us, but it seems logical to him," Reid shared his thoughts as you drove toward the police station, where you expected to find the rest of your team. "He’s struggling with trauma. He’s been managing it somehow over the years, but now he’s unable to control the rage building up inside him. Decapitation is another symbol. It strips these people of the power they once had over him when he was a child or a teenager, and no one listened to his cries for help."
You straightened up in your seat, all the information starting to fall into place.
"Do you remember this morning when I mentioned that something came to my mind? That’s why I didn’t want to leave?" you asked. "At first, we were puzzled that some of the victims were treated with a different level of cruelty, specifically the women. Others, the ones from the city council, only had their heads cut off, with no other injuries. The unsub believes these innocent people are directly responsible for hurting him, he’s delusional. Sometimes he blames the city authorities for not reacting. The anger he feels toward them isn’t as intense as for the orphanage staff, which is why he harms them to a lesser extent. I think... he’s experiencing manic episodes, where all his feelings and paranoia are stronger. That’s when he kills with much greater cruelty."
“Mania?” Reid repeated, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You mean borderline?” You nodded. For a moment, he thought over your words, then his eyes lit up. “That... that’s very possible. There have been cases where borderline murderers nearly changed their modus operandi. During a manic episode, when someone with borderline personality disorder experiences heightened energy, a sense of grandeur, and excessive impulsivity, they may act more aggressively, brutally, and ruthlessly. In a depressive episode, on the other hand, the person may act more coldly, with calculated precision, focusing on their goal without emotional outbursts, but carrying a heavy load of negative emotions. It all fits.”
You nodded eagerly, feeling that familiar rush that came whenever you were close to solving a case. Your heart raced, and warmth crept over your neck, like a fever. You and Reid burst into the station, practically supporting each other like two converging whirlwinds, nearly colliding with Hotch in the process. He was initially startled, then his eyes narrowed as he took in both your faces, his expression becoming more focused as you explained everything.
For a moment, he was silent.
“Let’s call Garcia,” he finally said. “Have her find all the men who lived in that orphanage eight years ago.”
You took a deep breath. This was really happening. You were so close to catching the killer...
After filling Garcia in on everything you knew, she immediately set to work compiling a list of men who might fit the profile. Meanwhile, you and Reid headed to the coffee and snack machine. You bought yourself a drink and a chocolate bar, feeling the rush of adrenaline start to subside.
Taking advantage of the brief moment of calm, you checked your phone for any missed calls.
“Neither my mother nor my father called,” you said, slipping the phone back into your pocket. Sharing personal details with anyone on the team still felt strange—especially when it came to your family. You wondered if it would ever feel normal. You noticed Spencer giving you a concerned look. “It’s a good thing,” you added quickly. “It means Jeremy’s condition is stable. Or maybe even improving. If it were bad, I’d have twenty missed calls from my mom—and one from my dad.”
You tried to turn that last line into a joke, but it came out sounding more bleak than funny.
“I hope everything will be okay with him,” Reid said, as his cup filled with coffee from the machine. He reached for it, his gaze fixed on you. “You remember that you can come to me if things get tough, right?”
“I try not to forget,” you admitted, hugging your arms around yourself. “But it’s not something I’m used to.”
For a moment, he looked at you silently, holding a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. His eyes seemed so gentle and understanding that it was hard for you to look away.
"Hey, lovers!"
Spencer jumped and cursed as coffee spilled onto his hand. Startled, you both turned to see Morgan grinning at you with a playful smile.
"Come over here for a sec."
You felt the urge to cover your face at the sight of the entire team, who had all heard what he'd called you.
Some unknown force held you back from nudging Emily when she shot you an amused sidelong glance. But soon, your focus shifted to Garcia's face on the laptop screen, ready to share her findings.
"Tell us what you found, babygirl."
"So, I managed to pull up quite a long list of former orphanage residents. Surprisingly long, for such a small town. Hotch helped narrow it down a bit… I found twelve men who would now be between twenty and forty years old. Five of them still live in town, but one of them caught my eye. Well, actually, his story did. He was placed in the orphanage at ten years old after his mother, struggling with bipolar disorder, attempted suicide."
You already knew it was him.
"His name is Logan Osborne, currently twenty-four years old. He has one minor offense on record for selling weed, oddly enough, in another town. Here’s where it gets interesting—though not in a good way. His mother actually survived but passed away less than two years ago, and he inherited her house and apparently moved back into it."
"Returning to the town where he was abused must have been the trigger that pushed him to murder," said Reid.
"That would fit with my theory about bipolar personality disorder," you summarized. "Genetics alone doesn’t determine the disorder, but the fact is that in families with cases of this disorder, the likelihood of it appearing in other individuals is higher."
At one point, you had read a lot about it due to your own mother. An unpleasant shiver ran down your spine. Reid looked at you intently, surely noticing the sudden shift in the tone of your voice. God, he must have been that observant?
"What's the address of his house?" Hotch asked.
You waited in readiness as Garcia provided the information. Once she did, you all gathered and headed out.
*
If you had found him there, everything would have been so simple. Almost too simple.
But there was no sign of Logan Osborne at the house, nor any indication that it was inhabited by a serial killer who decapitated his victims. Instead of immediately securing the building, Hotch ordered a stakeout. Inside, several agents, including Morgan and Prentiss, waited for the moment he might show up.
The rest of the team had no tasks assigned. You waited at the precinct, hoping something would happen. Meanwhile, Garcia sifted through thousands of bits of information about the man. Some were more important than others, but unfortunately, it only seemed to fuel a growing sense of dread among you all.
Since inheriting his mother’s house, he hadn’t paid taxes or most of his bills. He didn’t have a steady job, though he picked up odd jobs here and there. You checked with the local police, but most didn’t recognize his name. One officer who did recall him said he didn’t have the best relations with the authorities. With anyone, really.
"A little anarchist, huh?" Rossi muttered.
You felt the vibration of your phone in your pocket. Reaching for it, you saw a message from an unknown number.
hey it’s charlotte. you said we could meet and talk when i needed to please can we meet? i can’t handle what i saw on the farm yesterday and my dad isn’t helping with his behavior either
A few hours had already passed since the ambush was set, and still nothing had happened, though the darkness outside was settling in.
“Would it be alright if I disappear for a quarter?” you asked. “I promised something to the sheriff’s daughter, and it looks like I’ll need to meet with her.”
You didn’t receive any opposition. If anything happened, you would be immediately informed by phone. Reid offered to go with you, but Hotch needed him for something. You wouldn’t have minded his company—on the contrary, you would have been glad for it—but on the other hand, Charlotte might not feel too comfortable with it. After all, she had arranged to meet only with you.
As you drove toward her house, you spent a lot of time reflecting on your earlier conversation. It was the first time you really had the chance to think about it seriously. Her mysterious boyfriend, whom she had been so reluctant to talk about and with whom there was probably an age gap. And who also grew up in that orphanage...
You didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to you earlier. Maybe because of how well-behaved Charlotte seemed? Her big, bright eyes full of kindness. She herself seemed like the perfect teenager—sensitive and eager to help. Plus, she was the sheriff's daughter. For God's sake, you were about to go to the house of another cop.
You only realized how foolish you had been when, as soon as you stepped out of the car, something hit you in the back of the head.
*
You were woken up by nothing but the pain in the back of your head.
You opened your eyes, struggling to hold back a groan. Everything around you was blurry, as if you had a terrible vision problem and were forced to go somewhere without your glasses. The image, however, began to sharpen with each passing second, causing your heart to beat faster.
You were in…
It was hard to say what kind of place this was. Incredibly dark, the only weak light source was somewhere behind your back. It was possible it was a battery-powered lamp. You couldn’t confirm your suspicions, however… because you couldn’t move. You realized this with horror.
You were tied to the chair with rope. It wrapped tightly around your body, making it hard to breathe and pressing painfully on your ribs. Some of them might even be broken.
Wherever you were, the whole situation looked far from promising. Fragments of memories swirled around your head, randomly flying into your mind and helping you recall what had actually happened.
Of course, working for the FBI, you knew how to behave in the event of a kidnapping. The most important rule was: don’t panic. The problem was, it was damn hard to follow that.
Inhale, exhale, something jabbed at your ribs. You couldn’t stop another soft groan from escaping.
As if drawn by the sound, a young man appeared in your line of sight.
“Good morning, did you sleep well?” he asked, leaning over you as if you were an infant. After a second, he straightened up, the smile completely replaced by a serious expression. “I don’t like killing people when they’re asleep.”
Garcia had sent you his pictures, and even with the poor lighting, you were able to recognize your unsub in them.
"Logan Osborne?"
"I see you've done your homework."
"Where’s Charlotte?" you asked, a sudden rush of panic flooding through you. Maybe she was behind you, somewhere you couldn’t see? Was she involved in your abduction? After all, it was her who sent the message...
"You think I know where she is every moment of every day?" he sneered, suddenly angry. The room was small, but to your left, there was a rotting bench with metal objects arranged on it. You had to turn your head sharply to confirm your worst suspicion. Knives.
It was getting harder and harder not to panic.
"Knowing her, she's probably painting. My work on the farm really inspired her."
There was a sound. Like a drop falling from the ceiling.
"Where are we?" you asked.
"None of your business."
"Is this a bunker?"
"Did you hear what I said?"
"What difference does it make if I find out? I'm tied up," you shrugged meaningfully, emphasizing your position. This caused a wave of pain to course through your chest.
For a moment, there was silence. The man was wandering around the surroundings, and all you could do was watch as he wiped each blade on his flannel shirt. The bile began to rise in your throat with every move he made. Pessimistic thoughts started flooding your mind, so tragic that you barely managed to hold back the tears.
First, everyone on your team thought you went to meet Charlotte. Meaning, it would likely be your prolonged absence that would eventually seem suspicious.
Second, you were in such a mysterious place that everything pointed to the fact that no one would find you, even by accident. Well, alive.
You knew you couldn’t give up, even though there was little you could do in such a situation. The only real solution in such a hopeless scenario was… convincing him to let you go. A scenario that was damn unlikely, but since death was already threatening you, why not give it a try?
"Logan," you said, your voice trembling. In your mind, you replayed his profile, reminding yourself of facts that could give you an edge in your conversation with him. "Killing me won't help you. It's not me you want to hurt, it's those who hurt you in the orphanage. And those who didn’t react."
"Fine, it’s a bunker," he replied, as if he hadn’t even heard most of what you said. "Back in the Cold War, people built them by the dozen. They didn’t even inform the authorities. We found this one once with the kids from the orphanage, and we didn’t tell anyone, you know what that means, agent?"
You were painfully aware of it.
"Logan," you tried again. "My people know you killed those people. They'll find you the moment you step out into the open. Killing me won’t change anything..."
"Not killing me won’t either."
"They’ll look at you more favorably..."
"Favorably?" he exploded in a manic laugh, suddenly right in front of you. You flinched at the sight of his crazed face so close to yours. "They’ll look favorably on a seven-time murderer? Are you joking? Since I’m already screwed, I might as well cut off your head too..."
Fuck the fake calm, you were terrified.
You trembled, the pain in your ribs intensified, and the first tears began to fall from your eyes. You thought about how you’d never see Jeremy again. How he’d wake up and your death would probably be one of the first things he’d find out. What would he do then? God, your team would think you were an idiot. Of course, no one would say it out loud, but that’s what you were. You got yourself into this situation. Under these circumstances, they shouldn’t even particularly mourn, though they probably would, just a little.
Spencer would probably grieve a little more than the others. Those two nights in one room had brought you closer, you couldn’t deny that. Before, you had thought of him as just a regular coworker, the genius boy, sometimes amusing in his awkwardness. The way he supported you at the worst possible moment made you realize just how valuable he was.
Wherever you end up after death, you’ll miss him.
You didn’t know what motivated you to speak up again. Was it the thought of Jeremy and Spencer, or perhaps the sound of Logan sharpening some kind of weapon, probably an ax?
“Please," you pleaded simply, no longer knowing what else might reach him.
"Don’t cry. I hate it when girls cry. Charlotte does it all the time."
"Charlotte," you repeated. "Did she... know?"
You wanted to know if the girl you had tried so hard to help had played an active role in your murder.
"Of course not," he sneered. "She didn’t help me with anything, if that’s what you’re asking. But she told me about you, the nice FBI agent who snoops around a lot. She thought I was just some rebellious guy, attractive to a teenager like her. You know, with a tough cop dad. I won't lie, it turned me on, sleeping with the sheriff's daughter, knowing I was being hunted by him. And not just by him. Even by the damn FBI."
He seemed proud of himself. Maybe that’s what you should do? Appeal to his ego?
"You were really a tough case," you said, pretending to be impressed. "Seriously. Hours spent analyzing, we sat in silence, none of my colleagues knew what to say..."
“Spare me, I see what you're doing. You're trying to manipulate me... because... you feel superior." After saying those words, a sudden fury ignited in him. He knocked over the rotting table, the knives on it scattering to the floor. You took a breath, clenching your fists tightly in pure panic. "Just like they did. They thought they could hurt little kids, abuse them... because their position allowed it. After all, they were older, their word against a child's word. They say children have too vivid an imagination, have you ever heard that?!”
You closed your eyes, he was screaming it right in your face.
"No, Logan, that's not true... they were monsters, but I would have helped you if I... if I could."
"Then why didn't you?!"
"I... I... I..." Tears tore through you, and you got lost in your own words.
Logan opened his mouth again, but suddenly fell silent. His earlier screams were completely drowned out by a sound from above. You stiffened, recognizing it. Footsteps.
"They're here," you whispered, like a prayer. Tears began to flow down your cheeks.
The man, jaw clenched, stared at the entrance to the bunker. He suppressed a scream of rage, turned around, and grabbed his head, not knowing what to do. But suddenly, he bent down to pick something up from the floor, one of the knives he had knocked over when he flipped the table.
"W-what are you doing?" you asked. Something urged you to struggle, even though you knew it was pointless, the ropes were too tight. "What are you doing?!"
The footsteps mixed with voices, even a shout, and the room was soon flooded with a tsunami of daylight.
"Since they’ve got me anyway, I might as well slit your throat..."
You couldn’t stop the scream as he approached you with the knife. A firm grip on your shoulder, keeping you from squirming. The cold metal on your neck, grazing the thin skin.
And then a shot.
NOTE:
I HATE THE ENDING THE READER IS SO STUPID....!
but in my defence i got kind of lost in my plans and i had to change many things in the last moment
but i want to say that im very grateful for reading 2 previos parts and all the notes under<3 i didn't expect so many likes and comments
epilogue for this story will be posted tomorrow!
taglist: @nightfullofparadox @miriamnox @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx
#criminal minds fanfic#spencer reid#spencer reid criminal minds#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid x oc#derek morgan#spencer reid x reader#aaron hotchner#criminal minds#jennifer jareau#jj#emily prentiss#david rossi#jason gideon#spencer reid angst#criminal minds x you#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds fic#criminal mind
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I just want to tell you that Seemingly Dark is my favorite webcomic and Its a comfort media for me. I started reading about a year ago and the PSA at the end of ghost that ends with "Remember that this is ultimately a story of hope" still makes me tear up. John and Caro's story specifically really speaks to me, because reading about two adult queer people with trauma who actually got through it and are starting to recover makes me feel like everything will turn out alright. Thank you for making this comic.
thank you SO much anon, I needed to hear that. Seemingly Dark is loosely based on my own life, a lot of the elements of it and especially the feelings of the characters, despair, grief, longing to belong, identity, navigating mental illness, they all relate to me in some way. There’s been some really dark periods, and I almost lost hope and gave up so many times. I’m glad I didn’t, cuz Ultimately, we are all stories of hope. It means so much to me that something that started out as a coping mechanism for me, can be a comfort to other people too.
From a 42 year old queer person with a lot of trauma who came out the other side alive and swinging, it is gonna be alright. Hold on to the people who love and support you, and hold on to yourself.
Lots of love <3
RJ
Just a little scene from a reconnection filled with love and trauma and hope
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third black sails rewatch is making me go nuts over mr scott. there are so many moments that are WILDLY different with the context of his actual motivations but we're never even led to suspect that somethings up until the reveal. in a cast FULL of characters putting up fronts mr scott is so successful that he keeps his secret from Us The Audience for over half the show
like. hornigold telling him "ill have to know your secret" and him turning and looking at him for just a beat too long before the clarification of "to putting up with her", and the PANIC of it only hits you in retrospect because his control is so airtight. every single interaction he has with eleanor is so diplomatic that when he finally flat out reminds her that her family is enslaving him, and she fumbles out the "you know ive never seen you like that", it rightly comes off as ignorant rather than noble– he has never once had the privilege of ignoring their power dynamic! and that theme is continued with eleanors relationship with max, how she cares about her but doesnt seem to register that they are not on equal footing, and will ultimately prioritize her own interests every time. to her, losing power is worse than losing a relationship.
and mr scott Knows This. it could only ever have made sense that eleanor isnt the person he wants to protect. but its so common for black characters' lives to revolve around white people that on my first watch, even though it seemed off, i didnt stop to ask myself whether it might not even be true. story about stories of all time
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i was recently given a writing prompt simply titled 'blue' on an online forum i use, and wanted to try my hand at doing something for it.
i'm actually really proud of it- i dont know if its my best work, it always feels that way after i make something new, but it was really therapeutic to write and hey, practice makes perfect. ill never be any good if i dont work towards it.
this piece is an expression of my gender and identity, told through a narrative perspective. most of these events are either heavily fictionalised or not actual events in my life, and i'm unsure if the main character is actually me or not, but it is heavily related to my personal thoughts, feelings, and history.
its about 959 words, a short read, enjoy! and keep an eye out for more writing on this blog if you liked this ദ്ദി(。•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊
Blue
My favourite shirt is blue. Not a bright, attention-catching blue, but a soft one. Like blue hydrangeas. That’s not why it’s my favourite—I don’t even like the colour blue all that much—but it’s what everyone notices about it. When my mother comes into my room and asks for the laundry, she’ll point out ‘the blue one that you wear all the time’. When my friends and I are coordinating our Halloween plans, they ask to borrow my blue shirt for their costume. My brother will tell me that my blue shirt has somehow ended up in his closet. I’ve come to think of it more as a title than anything else. My Blue Shirt. All words capitalised, because they are important.
The reason it’s my favourite shirt is because it’s mine. I bought it with my own money—I had a whole 15 bucks I’d earned from babysitting—at the small thrift store on the corner after school on a Tuesday. It had been the first thing I’d picked up off the rack, not even checking the price or size. I had a curfew, and I knew that if I didn’t buy something that afternoon, I never would. I was 12, and the shirt I grabbed was 3 sizes too large, but I didn't care. I wanted it.
I still remember the woman behind the counter that day. She was probably middle-aged. At the time, I was transfixed by strands of her greying hair. She seemed radiant and wise. Untouchable. She was beautiful.
When I laid the shirt out in front of her, she looked directly at me for the first time since I’d entered the store, an amused expression playing across her face.
“You know this is for a man, right?” She asked, taking in my short stature, my girlish pigtails and sport shorts. My t-shirt that had recently started clinging to all the wrong places on me. I hated my clothes; my mother bought them all. She asked me for my opinion, sometimes, but I was only ever given the option to choose between the lesser of two evils. This shirt or that one. Those skirts or these jeans. Lately, I’d just let her take over completely, letting my eyes wander through the aisles while she shopped. No matter what store we were in, my gaze would always land on the men's section. I always let it linger for a second too long.
“It’s… for my brother. Last minute costume change for his, um, dance team. He needs something blue,” I mumbled through my excuse, terrified the woman would question me more, but she’d already started ringing my purchase up. The bubble of hope that had been growing in my chest ever since I’d ridden my bike out of the school gates that afternoon finally burst, into something bright and fiery and right. Something completely new.
Later, at home, I tried the shirt on in front of my mirror. It reached down to my knees and looked utterly ridiculous, but it also didn’t hug my torso and hips trying to accentuate not yet existent curves. It made my body little more than a formless mass of cloth.
Five minutes after I put it on, my brother walked by my bedroom door. He took one look at me and laughed, and I laughed with him. He said I looked ‘stupid as shit’—words I still found scandalous at that time—and I’d agreed, but once he left I couldn’t bring myself to reach my own eyes in my reflection. I was scared of what I’d see.
It’s been four years, and I still have that shirt. I’m wearing it now, bent low over the bathroom sink, scissors clutched tightly in my left hand, watching my hair swirl down the drain. I feel bile rising up in my throat at the sight, but it’s not from… disgust or panic. It’s- fear. I am scared to see myself. I am scared to know, because once I do there is no going back. It may not seem like it, but I am not one to dwell on the past. I live in the now. The now where I have just sheared away all of my hair at 3 AM, in the house my great-grandparents built with their own two hands. I wonder if they would be disappointed in me.
I don’t know if my mother will be mad—it’s hard to tell with her—maybe she’ll scold me, or laugh and schedule an appointment to get the mess I’ve made fixed, or maybe she’ll reach out, eyes soft. Maybe she’ll finally see me.
But I need to see myself first. I have been blind for far too long.
I steel myself—taking a sharp, shuddering inhale of air—and look up into the face of the mirror before me. I look up, and it feels like the final piece slots into place. The final piece of a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve for four years. For my whole life.
The face staring back at me is no longer a reflection but a reality; the burning feeling in the centre of me flaring to life, consuming everything I thought I was.
I press a gentle hand to my chest, pressing down the two masses of fat and connective tissue that have always seemed to burden me more than my peers. I let the folds of blue obscure them until it almost looks as though they are not there. I wish more than anything that they weren’t.
I take myself in, gaze reverent and disbelieving.
My blue shirt is my favourite shirt, because unlike all my others, it fits perfectly. Ever since I first bought it, it has fit perfectly.
#trans#transgender#writing#writeblr#short story#transmasc#nonbinary#genderfluid#gender#non binary#genderqueer#enby#trans story#my writing#original writing#artists on tumblr#writers on tumblr#creative stuff#lgbtq#lgbtqia#lgbtq+#queer#lgbtqiap#pride#trans positivity#trans experience
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Stance about proanti disco horse (TW: personal CSA details)
I don't really like being a fence-sitter, especially at the risk that some mutual might grow really attached to me only to feel "backstabbed" once finding out we're not on the same page at all, and since this topic became more active after Fromsoft 'approved of incest' (debatable but it at least looks it!) and a certain person whose server is VERY appropriately literally named "a cult" makes a list of people in Soulsborne fandom to side-eye, avoid and shun, I wanted to say what I think
1) I do NOT sympathise with antis. Just try to accept this. They are insensitive loosers without basic common sense that need an excuse to feel like they are contributing to the "noble battle" and turned out to make lives of survivors of the thing they claim fictional works nOrMaLiZe uwu worse on multiple occasions. They are incredibly vile in what they accuse people of based on what they explore within the safety of fantasy, and as if they are not doing enough harm under guise of "protecting" us, survivors of incest, abuse and pedophilia, they are even eating their own if their fellow antis are "too tolerant" to proshippers. Enough instances of an anti showing sympathy under specific circumstances and being shunned too on the "if you're not with us then you're against us" notion. Antis are CULTS, plain and simple.
2) I am also disgusted by how antis tell proshippers "to seek therapy". Every person has dark impulses deep within, regardless of whether they had trauma they now cope with or not, that many people will never realise they have, and creativity is a healthy way to let them dwell. What person chooses to do with the characters is not a mental illness that somehow ruins them and the world around them. You don't get to hold having """morally better""" dark interests over proshippers and claim to be superior on that matter, and if you claim to not have dark interests at all you are just laughable in your pretence. And above all, I am upset at how trauma that I've survived is trivialised to the fanfics and fanart people can't stand.
3) People who are simply disgusted by incest, abuse and pedophilia in fanworks are NOT antis, however. Antis are people who actively police creativity, try to isolate shipper of the thing from the fandom by DMing people to unfollow them, accuse them of having horrible intentions and paraphilias, tell them to seek therapy and all that. As heartbreaking as it could be to lose a mutual over this problem, disgust is an understandable reaction to such ships and everyone should be allowed to detach from a person that posts something they're uncomfortable with for their own mental health! People have a right to not want to engage with such shippers, that doesn't make them fandom crusaders. It is a mistake that might come from someone's exhaustion with actual antis, but respectable personal discomfort is different so let's not jump onto seeing everyone as an enemy! The difference is: do they see their disgust as a personal boundary, or as a sign that you are a harmful monster they should fight?
4) Not all proshippers are innocent. There is a merit on what you could tell about a person based on what they think of fiction and how they judge it. If you want to be sure, you need to look out for the logic someone puts into their ships. For example, if someone simply discusses their pedophilia ship as something messed up yet fascinating for them, or it feels as though they're never focusing on power imbalance and manipulation aspect of it in their fantasy as horror element but instead it is just a matter of fact, or is a survivor that dwells on their trauma this way wishing their groomer was """nicer""" OR went further - they're basically Just A Guy that doesn't engage with fantasies the same way as you do. Like, it is just a guy ok? However, if they go into spiel about how age is just a number or age of consent in other countries or how maturity is psychology and not amount of years lived or how some teens are presumably mature enough to consent *flashback to yandev's suggestion about 'test for ability to consent'* etc etc..... this is probably a freak. You get the principle. If you can't help being suspicious of someone over their dark interests, you need to hear out this person's logic regarding the concept to tell which one they are, instead of assuming everyone is guilty OR everyone is innocent. Trust me, most proshippers absolutely do not want to make actual predators to feel safe in their 'let's ruin some fictional guys' interests circles, not only the trauma survived ones.
5) (STRONG trigger warning for CSA, skip to #6 if anything) Personally: I don't mind most of the incest and abuse ships. I was living under the same father figure's sexual and just emotional abuse (rarer, physical) since age 8-9 and into late teens, and only could do something to get away from him at the age of 20. Somewhere when my puberty started to kick in, I had a dream that I had an older brother and we were living under this hell together, with him protecting me from him at the expense of enduring worse physical abuse... but we were in supportive "relationship" through it. I think it altered something in my brain chemistry, that made me associate incest ships where one sibling cares for the sick/miserable/weak one and protects them, or where they're up against the same hardship or the same bad guy with safety and warmth instead.
As for the abuse ships, again, during puberty I was having guilty thoughts of seeking """consensual""" sex with my stepfather. He was not allowing me to seek a partner of my age on the side, naturally, and I was going rabid. Nonetheless, I had a will of steel and repressed those feelings, never acting on them, for the sake of what very little remained of my ruined pride. But it left me with the interest of what would happen if not, that I can take out on fictional characters (for example, a certain mutual who likes Sulyvahn x Dancer knows what I am talking about :p). If this is something I must uproot from how my brain developed, I'll do it when I am ready and consider it an improvement, and not when some no-life looser online tells me that what I can do with fictional characters somehow makes me as bad as the person who harmed me. 🤦♂️🤦♂️🤦♂️
5.1) Yes, this does mean that my blog is safe for people who like Lorian and Lothric or Miquella and Malenia or alike popular pairings. I don't really 'see' these ships personally (Aldia and Blind Swordsman are better alternatives respectively sorry lmao) but I did like artworks with them; if not because they are drawn well then as expression of support for people to do what they want. You can tell my contrarian bias is sprouting wonderfully No you did not just hallucinate my like under MalMiq fanart in 4 AM delirium and yes I am aware that I have two mutuals who openly ship it (you girls know who you are)
6) Many people avoid these ships purely based on fear of harassment and not because of genuine conviction. I could make an essay on how Miquella and Radahn is aKtUaLy not incest, but on the first glance it is. And you know what happened in the fandom after Fromsoft "approved of incest relationship in their story"? Right, people who don't mind incest ships or even openly support proshippers or even ship this stuff themselves popped up like mushrooms after the rain!! This should be telling that most people are neutral or even interested, and ALL that holds them back is lack of strong support, but what can be stronger than approval of the creator of the darn thing? If you want to make a change in how people engage with fiction and promote healthier alternatives to problematic ships, you cannot do it through holding the threat of isolation and bullying over their heads. The best way to promote healthier ships is to actually ship them, as well as passionately discuss characters who are popular to put into a problematic ship in healthy non-ship context. I think more people should promote their ideas this way, because being afraid is not being convinced and your "allies against weirdos in the fandom 🥺" WILL backstab you as soon as they feel safe to do so. Sure, I will be laughing at how frail that "allyship" turned out to be when that happens. You won't be laughing, though. Allies that are simply here out of fear of harassment are not allies, so watch your back.
7) The argument about "such fanworks help groomers to fish victims" works in reverse. Many people are convinced that a pedo will grab someone's adult x minor fanfic and go at a kid being like "hey do you want something like this? 👀" or similar stuff.. Usage of fanworks really happens to fuel the dynamic when the victim got already on the hook. And when there are no fanworks, the predator will create or commission such works on their own, initiate RPs and whatnot. However, the way questionable fanworks actually help to create new victims is isolation of the person who enjoys such fanworks. Some person, a minor, enjoys an ship between adult and minor, between siblings or noncon, and their peers start shunning them for it from the fandom. They just happen to have no one to confide in about these interests and no one to talk to. Like I said in previous pointer: if someone has these interests, they will not evaporate with fear, they will just get concealed. That person, bullied for what they like to do with fictional characters, will not """seek therapy""" like antis told them. What they WILL seek tho, is someone, anyone who will listen.
And THIS is where an actual predator lurking on some dumb community Discord server will spot the vulnerable, isolated, lonely minor and chime in like, "damn I like this stuff too, we are against the world, too bad people are so judgemental of us, right? :)". Cult-like shunning creates both victims to get scooped by another cult AND victims of individual predators. No matter how much you or anyone else is uncomfortable with certain fanworks and themes, do not allow this "freak" to fall out of the community. It is dangerous out of the loop.
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Alright I hope that I've made myself clear on the topic. I've been questioning on whether to add something so personal here or not, but decided to do so. The last time I tried to discuss this topic without showing my own wound, I got yelled at for being insensitive looser who'd speak differently had they experienced anything like that personally, so.... :^) There are times where who is speaking matter. I don't want any pity for my trauma, it's alright, really..
At the same time, if you don't like me after this post you can hardblock or softblock without any grudges from my end (pay close attention to number 3 in this post, making personal boundaries is not the same as being an anti)
#tw: csa#tw: incest#fandomry rambles#disco horse#proanti#writing this really hurt me emotionally because of both personal memories and thinking back on how much shit I've seen antis committing#so I need to check out a bit..#normally such posts are invitation for a debate but this one is basically 'I am getting off my fence and showing where I stand'
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RULE
#rule#196#Boy this is a lot of notes for something I DIDN'T MAKE#also if you know the sauce tell me plz#Btw ill be working on smut comics about robots fucking in the apocalypse#Other stuff too but thats up first#I promise I'll not let you down#If i see one more person respond to this with Disco Elysium im going to fuckin SNAP
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I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently
#facebook always does that 'here's a post from this day 8 years ago' thing. and I see old comments interacting#with people and it's so like.. OOOOO~~ where are they now?? what's going on? how much have they changed as people?#how much are they the same? this is fascinating. i should contact them!!' but then it's like... take that to it's logical conclusion though#you would contact them and then IF they even responded it would take you 80 years to respond and then they would#think there was something wrong or that you were trying to be insulting or something. To contact anyone I need to include an 85 page#disclaimer of all of my social issues & mental illness things. 'If i take 3 weeks to reply I promise it has nothing to do with u' etc lol#THIS is why more people need to be into phone calls/voice calls/some form of audio real time communication/etc.#I think one of the main things that's hard about messaging through text for me is it's so unscheduled and open ended#(plus it takes forever if you're talking about anything in detail and gets very long very quickly)#because like you can send a message and then just get a reply whenever. and then you're expected to reply back whenever#so it's like you never know when the response will come or when a new obligation to reply can come up? so it's like this sudden thing with#no outline?? if that makes sense. whereas a phone call is very like 'hello let's schedule a call from 10am - 2pm on thursday'. And you know#EXACTLY when the interaction will start and EXACTLY when it will end and you can plan around it in your schedule easily.#I have the reverse thing of a lot of people (how people don't pick up phone calls/hate calls/only text)#I would literally talk on the phone with a stranger. I would have a discord voice chat with someone I barely know.#if someone I hardly even remember from elementary school asked to have a voice call with me out of nowhere I would do it.#but if a stranger MESSAGED me?? or someone I barely know sent me a TEXT or something?? I will never reply probably#It's just too vague and weird. and you can't read voice tone over text. and the interaction could last forever with no clear end#point and etc. etc. But a call is like. set. established. clear boundaries. you can read the flow of conversation better. rapport. etc. etc#I get that I guess people feel more anonymous or distanced over text?? but you can have fake phone numbers on the computer. or do like disc#rd calls. or zoom without a camera or etc. etc. Also the distance that's present in text is BAD distance because it just means that tone is#not conveyed properly and you will never truly get a sense of the person's conversational vibe or mannerisms or how well you really click.#ANYWAY ghgjh...... I'm so so so interested in concepts of like.. How did that one kid I used to talk to in elementary school#but then they moved away in 5th grade - how did they end up? what are they doing now?? etc. etc. Like despite the severe social anhedonia#and general lack of connection with others I'm just really fascinated in like.. idk. the human development of it all and like#the concept of how we're actually a million different people through the course of our lives ever evolving in different iterations and etc.#PLUS again. i love nostalgia. sometimes old peple you know might remember a shared memory or can tell you about something you forgot#or etc. like it's SUCH A COOL THING in CONCEPT but I am too socially inept generally speaking lol. which people I still talk to today are#familiar with my 'phone call once every few months' communication style. but strangers would just be like... wtf. And I don't blame them#Sure I literally cannot change the physical health + brain issues i have - but also I know enough to not put others through that lol
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*Something poetic about the duality of humans or the impact our environment has on our behaviours and lifestyles*
#hazbin hotel#sir pentious#been wanting to do something that compares their design for like 5 or 6 months#and yet again I’d hid a bunch of details with the shading#I mean atleast you can still tell his fangs are different lengths#he’s fun to draw anyway#snake tails are fun x I hope he looks like a stuffed sock because that’s what I wanted#he’s so interesting as a character I used to hate him and now he is one of my favourites#he sucked being a sinner and I hope he continues to suck being a winner now#like he was so soft and goofy down below but up too maybe he’s too chaotic and has too dark a humour idk#it must be hard to be thrust into a pit for close to a century and a half and then placed somewhere else#and we may see some of his human life but if he was in his he’ll form for a century longer where does the real you start#and where does the person you where forced to be even begin#anyway I am spinning this around in my head like a microwave#also I hand spotted every scale and then at the end realise it looks like my sparkle brush but f it it’s too late#added over an hour onto my usual shading time but it’s cute so idk#ill stop rambling now….
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the urge to watch the pico park 2 videos vs the fact that inviting 7 friend over to play 8 person pico park is both my kind of torture and fun and itd be so much better if i wasnt spoiled
#nics rambles#8 person pico park was. something ill tell you#we almost finished the game but we had to go outside because it was making us all too mad lmao
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on that subject, obsessed with today when i was like "hey guys, can you two stop playing the jumping game for now because it's giving caden a headache" and my 6 yr old cousin is like "you mean 'me'. it's giving 'me' a headache, because your caden". it's like yeah man ur right. my bad . and then they stopped jumping. it was awesome
#the thing is like. the jumping hurt my headright away#but i let them do it for a while before they told them to stop. and then they did#and i think thats part of it too. for somw things you have to wait and let kids have whay they want for a while before swooping in and#asking for them to stop#so they dont feel super controlled#and like. as an autistic person I HAVE TO DO THAT ANYWAY USUALLY#there's so many adult people out there who i have to put up witj their noises because i KNOW if i ask for them to stop theyll get mad#or even on a lesser extent. like as an autistic person w my sorta issues. you have to a let a lot of things go that are genuenly painful#and stressful. bc if u ask people to do things too much they often get upset. even if theyre overall nice#same with kids#but with kids you get to ask them to stop way more and you get to ask earlier than you would with most adults#like. ill be trying to put up with somethinf and struggling and get to the ppont where im visibly shaking and stuttering and on the verge#of tears#and the mere request of 'could you turn the tv ofd#still gets whole ass adults telling me im entitled and bossy#meanwhile child will hear 'thats making me feel bad' and theyll hear that and theyll think about it#and often times theyll stop#and even when they dont they dont insult you!#and people still say little kids are annoying????#when i tell a little kid 'could you turn the sound off on the video game or take it to another room the sounds its making are upsetting me#they LISTEN.#adults have a strong tendency to#use the ironicallt imature logic of ' i like this thing. so it dosent matter if it is upsetting you. i like it so i want to have it. even#though we are in a shared space together. i wont change what im doing because i want to do the thing i like. and thats more important than#not upsetting you. because doing the thing i like makes ME feel good.'#like. litterallt this mindset is easily more promient in adults than small children 100% . on god#and its just about the most childish thing ever.#its understandable. but its immature#and with something this simple its silly people cant let that go. its not complex at all. its stop making noise it is hurting me. easy
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how do i do it though. how do i let go of the bitterness and the hardness when they kept me "okay" for so long? does it come when i finally leave? can it ever?
#babes i actually relate to the frigid angry woman more than im comfortable with but this time there's no prince coming to save her and idk#i was never beautiful but i was and am angry and capable and that's served me well but being angry is exhausting#it's a birthright i can't give to a younger sibling. it doesn't transfer.#i dont inspire devotion. there's no version of this that ends with me waltzing with a true love.#im not the type you launch a thousand ships for.#so what's left?#who am i when i have no one? when ive spent my life making *me* less to make others more? when im nothing but a useful piece of furniture.#i know God loves me! i love Him! but it's not the same. i want *people* to love me. i want to be someone that theyd fight for.#im feeling that 'women have minds and hearts but im so lonely' scene from little women 2019 so much right now.#except im not jo. my family loves me but theyd never do for me what jo's would do for her. theyre also all focused on surviving.#i feel like a military ration. there to be consumed but cast aside the moment something more palatable comes around.#how do i become consumed with joy? how do i let go of the cynicism? its all thats kept me safe! but its choking me too.#its like tony stark in iron man 2. the thing thats kept me alive this far is killing me. i need to find an alternative but its looking like#ill have to synthesize a new element to make it happen and that freaks me out.#ive always been derivative. never an individual. how do i become a trailblazer when my job was always to hold the hand of the one blazing#the trail? how do i become myself happy and free?#because i WANT to be more#i WANT to be more than anger and coldness and a useful idiot. i WANT to be me and be so so happy#but i dont know how to get there#and if someone suggests therapy im shooting you. i dont want to listen to one more person pretend to care about me and tell me#all the things i need to change and spend even longer not learning how to think for myself#i want to be more than this. but i also cant stand the thought of taking up any more space than i do#anyway.#anyone who's read all this thank you and i promise im fine im just in my feelings today lol#im going to work out and get some happy brain chemicals flowing and then ill take a shower and itll all be good.#please dont worry about me! im just having A Moment TM#lilac rambles
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I mean this from a social perspective not a health one : why does everything feel weird right now. Like yes I’m heartbroken about the reality of my position in the lives of my so called friends but now I just feel confused. I don’t understand why I’m not important and why I can’t change to be important to others, nor what makes a person important either.
#like okay yeah I’ve been lowkey crying in the middle of the night because of how unimportant I feel but that’s down pat now we get it#I just want to know why am I not ? like am I doing something wrong ? I could’ve sworn I’m trying my best to not be annoying frustrating and#to be there but the reality of things is that I can’t always be there given my condition#sometimes I wonder how hard it is to ask me a simple ‘are you okay’ or ‘how are you’ or god forbid that I am missed lmao pls fniesksn ignore#the last one I think that’s too much but at least the other two#I don’t want to tell people to ask me these because then it feels fake and that they’re doing it just for the sake of getting me to shut up#about it but I don’t know#dora daily#a reason why I hate insta with my whole life because it just never fails to prove how worthless I really am#like I could’ve died yk … and it’d still be the sahara desert there#anyways I like being alone a lot something I’ve found out about myself#(I hate it actually but I only like it because I cannot make myself do anything like even talking seems so very exhausting so I can manage#with the loneliness when I’m ill but I can’t cope with it when I’m even a smidge better)#sigh.#just sigh. where did I get my friends from and why does everyone seem to love their friends so much but I cannot#don’t get me wrong I talk about how much I love them to everyone and if I don’t I obsess abt them in my head but it is not reciprocated to#be honest. not at all#and that’s what makes me sad. I still love them because I love unconditionally it seems#but from a conditional viewpoint they do not cut it#and that makes me disappointed#that’s why I’d kill to be loved or heck even remotely liked the way I like others even half of that yk#I am not a good person in my eyes but I would do so much just to be liked like that I wish I knew why I’m not worth being liked only worthy#of being tolerated.
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going back through some of this fandom's history has made me realise, we really see people as black and white good or bad don't we?
#like i hope we're getting better (i think we are)#but it has me wondering. how much fandom treatment of 5sos partners was based off one specific incident#but also shaped how people viewed that one specific incident?#i'm glad we want our faves to be well and happy. i just think we also are not immune to misogyny sometimes#guess who just watched the lie to me mv for the first time ever#it's important that people get to tell their stories don't get me wrong. and there was a lot of authenticity in this#however if our instinct is to just totally not ever believe women we also have to ask ourselves why#at least people were really glad for sierra at the time? but look how that went. she was human and people turned on her too#these things can both be true. sometimes women to genuinely bad things. AND we hold women to impossible standards#and then dehumanise them the minute we do something wrong#which is bound to happen at some point!#also. someone can still be a good person and not make good decisions 100% of the time. think about that before you disregard#something someone says being like 'my fave would never they must be lying' why is lying our go-to? yes they might be lying but#this shouldn't be our assumption. just because people are reluctant to admit our faves might not be Completely Perfect#fwiw i think rn we're doing a lot better in terms of that though. in terms of destigmatising mental illness and addiction too#it's just. reality is often just complicated? no one's all good or all bad. yes people should be free to tell the story of their experience#but in order to be ethical consumers of their story we need to realise that just because it highlights one aspect of someone#it doesn't mean that's all there is to them. and it doesn't mean that's all there is to the story either (even though it's not false!)#like how we're been discussing in swiftie spaces. storytelling is GOING TO BE BIASED. when we acknowledge that we won't be as reactive
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