#it makes your life a million times harder like any other mental illness

[worldblight]

My gay ass wolf bullshit is acting up again

[andhumanslovedstories]

hi! i'm gonna overshare a little bit but i'm doing my nursing prereqs right now and i'm really worried. i'm kind of really mentally ill and i've been worrying recently if nursing is worth it. i want to help people and it sounds so interesting and i love medical stuff but i don't want to get burnt out with the stress and long hours. someone told me that nursing is a lot like being a restaurant server, and i don't want to go to school and get a degree and a career that's literally just serving again. is it satisfying? is it rewarding? is it soul-killing? i'm scared

hi there! I'll overshare in return! I'm just coming off three months of disability for burnout (which for me is just depression but with a name you can use in the workplace). My job didn't cause my depression, but it certainly exacerbated it. The hours, the stress, the constant exposure to people suffering and the limits on your ability to do something about it, all those suck and they can break your brain. (On the other hand, I've been majorly depressed while working at an ice cream parlor where the walk-in freezer was for smoking weed. You can be depressed anywhere.)

And it is a hard job! Harder in some parts of the field than others. Different places have different nursing cultures, different laws, different staffing, etc. Where I work, there's good protection and advocacy for nursing. That's not true everywhere.

With all that said--I really like nursing. I get to do work that I know contributes good to the world. I get to solve very practical problems. I meet people I would never otherwise meet. I have the opportunity every shift to do something that I am proud of. And a lot of times, I find it fun! It's fun to brainstorm how to make someone who's been puking all night feel better. It's fun to see your efforts rewarded, even in small ways. It's fun to stop something before it becomes an emergency. It's fun bustling around, juggling a dozen different things. It's not ALWAYS fun. But for me, the work is not just meaningful but also enjoyable.

That's how I knew I had bad burnout btw. Even when things went well and I did work I was proud of, every shift was such a fucking slog.

If you are interested in the basic work of nursing (managing the human response to illness and promoting health), then there's a million and one jobs you can do with a nursing degree. They cater to different traits. I've discovered I really like precepting new nurses, I like working on the floor with its routine and concrete goals, and I like symptom management. I don't like critical care or the emergency department or working on stuff that isn't patient care, like paperwork and charge nursing. I like novelty but not chaos. I like independence but not being left entirely to my own devices. I like that I physically cannot take any of my work home. I do not like being on committees. So for me, right now at this point in my life, I like being a basic med-surg night shift float pool nurse. I would be absolutely miserable as a neuro ICU critical care day shift nurse. I would be bored to death being an inpatient rehab night nurse. Being a nurse manager would probably make me suicidal again.

If you find the basic work interesting and rewarding, you can tailor it to your taste. (I can't recommend floor nursing enough for the adhd havers amongst us.)

and last thing, regarding mental illness: I think a lot of nurses (and ppl in healthcare in general) struggle with mental illness way more than they think they do. Someone who knows they have depression and works to manage it will likely be more resilient than someone endlessly pushing through their fatigue and misery. Probably a better nurse, too. I take meds, go to therapy, get sleep, push myself to eat, take sick days, protect my limited energy, do physical activity--I'm a gym girlie now!!--because I'm treating a disease I know that I have. Just knowing that there's something up with your brain and doing something about it puts you way ahead like half of the people who work the emergency department.

[spheresr4cubes]

An Open Letter, Post-Election

My dearest family,

The polls are in, the votes received and counted.

You wanted him back. Now here he is -- the man who, under his administration, insulted you, openly showed his disdain for your daughters' lives and for your family's proud history. This is the person who disrespected dead children and disabled veterans after playing nice for the television and kept top secret documents stored in a public restroom. This is the rich man who claimed an illness that killed millions was a fantasy while golfing at his resort. This is the bastard who overthrew revered legislation that allowed my sister and I to be born, for my mother to be alive and well. This is the felon who deceived and stole money from his own followers, people who hold him up as the second coming of Christ. This is the elderly white man who called Nazis "very fine people."

In choosing this man (if he can be called such), you show more than you think. You value "the economy" over the well-being of your children, who may face legal scrutiny if they miss a period yet never give birth. You value "the economy" over the deep love between people, who bound themselves to each other and may soon be severed in the eyes of the law. Do you value "the economy" over me -- your mentally ill, queer, Latina girl?

And it's not just about him. Putting him back in office emboldens the people who would hate you for your color, who wield the image of god as a shield against any wrongdoing, and who would sooner assault you than let you use the "wrong" bathroom. These are people who would look at my mother's broad, strong shoulders and her angular jaw and her wide, calloused, hardworking hands and say she's a biological man. These are the people who would look at my loving father, his good-humored smile, his military and career achievements and say he has no place in this country. You've heard it before -- I know you have.

I know you think I'm overreacting, but so many terrible things in our history have been met with indifference. I will not be able to sleep at night if I do the same.

I know you think I don't know any better, that I'm not aware of the horrid things past presidents have done, but I promise you, I know. (You've called me naive in the past, and the echo of your voice haunts my every decision).

I suspect you think this has nothing to do with you -- you, who are Mexican by blood, children of immigrants. You, who dealt with the military and know full well the danger of an incompetent leader. You, who are a woman and would have died if you hadn't been allowed to have that ectopic surgery. You, who looked at this man's policies and said, "It'll be fine. We survived last time." There were many who didn't. What makes you think you'll be spared this time?

I have so many questions for you, but it feels useless to ask them. I will love you regardless, so what is the point? I won't survive without you, so what is the point? But I need to know -- do you love me? Deep down, do you care about me? Do you care about people like me? What do you see in this man who points his finger at my people and says we don't deserve to live? What do you see in any of his allies who sneer at our tenuous grasp on middle class status and say we just need to work harder? Don't you feel any kinship with our cousins at the border, our brothers on the street, our sisters in bondage? Self-deprecating as we are, don't you feel we -- you, me, all of us -- deserve better?

I cannot forgive him for insulting you, and I don't know how you can. You have said not to take it personally, but how can I not? This is our life, these are supposed to be our leaders -- if they cannot respect us, how can we trust them to improve our lives?

How simple were the days when we could set a man's house on fire if he tarnished our honor! I would burn the White House a thousand times if so many said you were not a human being worthy of life, love, and happiness -- would you not do the same for me?

With all the love in this tiny, infinite world,

Your girl, Sam

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

I suspect quite a few people on this site don’t realize they are struggling with the effects of chronic trauma. In particular I think more people need to learn about the symptoms of C-PTSD.

Distinct from general PTSD, Complex PTSD is caused by prolonged, recurring stress and trauma, often occurring in childhood & adolescence over an extended period of time. There are many risk factors, including: abusive/negligent caregivers, dysfunctional family life, untreated mental/chronic illness, and being the target of bullying/social alienation.

I’m not a mental health professional and I’m not qualified to diagnose anyone, I just remember a million watt light bulb going off in my head when I first learned about C-PTSD. It was a huge OH MY FUCKING WORD eureka moment for me—it explained all these problems I was confused and angry at myself for having. The symptoms that really stood out to me were:

Negative self-perception: deep-seated feelings of shame, guilt, worthlessness, helplessness, and stigma. Feeling like you are different from everyone else, like something is fundamentally ‘bad’ or ‘wrong’ with you.

Emotional avoidance of topics, people, relationships, activities, places, things etc that might cause uncomfortable emotions such as shame, fear, or sadness. Can lead to self-isolation.

Learned helplessness: a pervasive sense of powerlessness, often combined with feelings of desensitization, wherein you gradually stop trying to escape or prevent your own suffering, even when opportunities exist. May manifest as self-neglect or self-sabotage. (I remember watching myself make bad choices and neglect my responsibilities, and having no idea why I was doing it, or how to stop myself. Eventually I just stopped caring, which led to more self-neglect.)

Hyper-vigilance: always feeling “on edge,” alert, unable to relax even in spaces that should feel safe. May be combined with an elevated “flight” response, or feelings of always being prepared to flee. (I used to hide important documents and possessions in a sort of emergency go bag, even when I was living alone and there was no logical reason other than it made me feel “prepared.”)

Difficulty regulating emotions: may include mood swings, persistent numbness, sadness, suicidal idealization, explosive anger (or inability to feel anger and other strong emotions), inability to control your emotions, confusion about why you react the way you do.

Sense of foreshortened future: assuming or feeling that you will die young. Recurring thoughts that "I'll be dead before the age of 30/40/18/21 etc." As a teenager I used to joke darkly that I didn't plan to live past 30—not because I planned to end my life, but because I simply couldn't imagine myself alive and happy in the long-term. I couldn't imagine a meaningful future where I wasn't suffering.

Emotional flashbacks: finding yourself suddenly re-experiencing feelings of helplessness, panic, despair, or anger etc, often without understanding what has triggered these feelings. Often these flashbacks don’t clearly relate to the memory of a single event (since C-PTSD is caused by repetitive events, which can blur together), making them harder to identify as flashbacks—especially if you’ve never heard the phrase “emotional flashback” and don’t know what to look for. For years I just filed it under “sometimes I overreact/freak out randomly for no reason, probably bc I am just a terrible human being.” (It turns out there was very much a reason, it was just hidden in the past. I have since learned to be kinder and less judgemental towards myself.)

There are other symptoms too, here are more links with good info.

I’ve been meaning to write this post for awhile, because I’ve noticed that a lot of the people I interact with online have risk factors and experiences similar to mine. These include:

growing up in a dysfunctional household

having caregivers who do not fulfill basic emotional needs (do not provide consistent positive attention, encouragement, support, acceptance, communication, a sense of safety and security)

on a very related note, experiencing neglect or abuse at the hand of caregivers or other adults. I also want to emphasize the significance of emotional abuse, since it is hard to recognize, easy to ignore, and utterly rampant in so many communities. In general, family dysfunction, abuse & neglect are quite difficult to identify when you are a child/teen and that is the only “normal” you have known.

(For example, in my family it manifested as an emotionally absent father I was vaguely frightened of, constant nagging from a hypercritical mother, and a house full of people who yelled and screamed at each other. It took me years to realize I grew up in an abusive environment, because there was no physical violence, because I participated in the fighting, and because my behavioral problems made me the family scapegoat. And I internalized that guilt: I thought I was the problem. But no—I was a child, and I deserved not to grow up in a household full of anger and fear and negativity. You deserved that too. You deserved to grow up safe and loved and treated with kindness.) 

anyway back to more risk factors:

being neurodivergent or chronically ill (especially without receiving proper treatment/support/accommodation)

being queer (especially in a conservative or undiverse community, or without the support and acceptance of family & friends)

being the target of bullying or harassment (from peers, teachers, authority figures, irl, online, etc)

being isolated or alienated from peers, from family, from your wider community.

growing up with chronic anxiety, discomfort, pain, fear, or distress caused by any of the above and more.

There are many other experiences that can cause chronic trauma, but these are some particularly common ones I see people in my own community struggling with. And I want more people to be aware of this, because we’ve been taught to ignore and second-guess the significance of our traumatic experiences. We’ve been taught to feel guilty for our own pain, because “other people aren’t struggling, so I shouldn’t either” or (contradictorily) “other people have it worse, so I shouldn’t complain.” But that’s not how it works—you are not other people, and you deserve to have it better. We all deserve better. We deserve to be happy. We deserve not to be in pain.

I used to think I couldn’t have a trauma disorder because (I argued in my head) the things that happened to me weren’t that bad. And then I spent five years in therapy learning to accept the full extent of my issues. I’ve since learned that trauma comes in many forms, and can happen quietly, invisibly, silently, chronically, and usually without the survivor being aware of the long-term repercussions of what they are surviving. That revelation comes later, after you have survived and must instead learn to live.

Finally, no single type of trauma is more real or harmful than any other. Severity is measured by the way the individual is affected, and the same situations affect different people in different ways. Because no one gets to choose how their brain reacts to trauma. No one gets to choose their hurt—otherwise there would be a hell of a lot less hurting in the world.

We can, however, choose to seek help. We can learn to recognize when something is wrong, we can learn when to reach out to professionals, and we can learn to educate ourselves on our injuries.

And gradually, we can learn to heal.

(posts like this brought to you by ko-fi supporters)

[pyroclastic727]

Owl House said fuck capitalism

So this episode was interesting. Lilith pretty much killed her sister. Why the fuck would she do that?

Even more interesting: why is Belos like that? How did Hooty put his head through one of those guards? Who the fuck is the Titan, and why does everyone like him? And how are these all tied together?

This episode was a metaphor for capitalism

...and another delicious step towards radicalizing the youth into dismantling this fucked-up neo-feudal system.

We’ll start with Belos. 

Emperor Belos is a weird name, don’t you think? We all thought it was spelled “Bellows,” but it wasn’t. In fact, it’s five letters, starts with Be, ends with os, and describes a megalomaniac emperor that restricts people’s freedom in order to accumulate wealth for himself.

Sound familiar?

Emperor Bezos Belos created capitalism. He saw the beauty of magic and decided to make himself the most powerful.

Belos created a system that destroys the masses and boosts his power.

 I’m dipping into fan theory a little, because the fan theory fits. We know that people get branded with coven magic that makes it so they can only specialize in one area. We know that Belos is the most powerful witch in the Boiling Isles. We know that the excess magic, magic created by restrictions, has to go somewhere.

It’s the same system that many viewers see all the time. A job takes up all your day and tires you for the night, so you can only do one skill for the rest of your life. Jeff Bezos is the most powerful man in the United States. Excess money, money taken by restrictions, has to go somewhere.

The magic goes to Belos, like how the money goes to Bezos. Belos created capitalism, and he won it.

The guards aren’t real. 

Look, we’ve never seen their faces. They’re all the same. Why would you work so hard to get to the top, just to become a nameless, faceless killing machine?

Oh, also Hooty stuck his face through one. There is nothing under the armor.

Why? Well, it’s the same reason you see all those celebrities going around flaunting their wealth and bragging about how hard they worked. Like all those songs about how they grind every day and work harder than everyone else while you’re out clubbing, and that makes them dope. And then you take a closer look at them and see that they had a small loan of a million dollars fueling them, or an entire talent agency behind them, or their dad was a famous country star in the 80′s. 

They’re fake. They’re hollow. They’re a ploy created by the capitalist emperor to try to delude you into working harder. 

Let me put this into perspective. I guarantee that every single one of you has heard stuff like this: “Hard work makes you successful.” “I put in the work, and that’s why I’m successful.” “If you work hard enough, then you can be as successful as Mark Zuckerberg.” 

And unless you’re a robot or really lucky, I’m sure all of you have failed at this. Maybe they told you that hard work would make you good at math, so you spent 22 hours a week working on calculus, only to pass it by 3 percentage points and have it destroy your perfect 4.0 GPA. Maybe they told you that if you talked to people enough, then you would make friends, so you spent a lot of time talking to people, only to end up lonely and friendless. Maybe they told you that if you did well in school, you would get a good job, so you spent all your time working hard to be a good student, and then ended up in a soulless, dead-end job.

The guards are there to delude you. Look, who really gains from you being productive? The answer is the ruling class, the CEOs, the government, the bourgeoisie. It has always been that. All you get from working is a paycheck that lets you survive. They get a paycheck that lets them get rich. Just like Belos gets the magic and productivity of the specialized coven witches.

The guards are there to trick you. The truth is that nobody can join the Emperor’s Coven. It’s just there to make you think that hard work will make you successful. Then you spend your entire life working hard, trying to prove to the person in charge that you’re worthwhile. You give your whole life to the Coven, and they give you nothing. 

Magic is supposed to be something you pursue for fun. Being skilled at things, being good at something beautiful...that’s supposed to be something you do because you want to. But they took that and made it into a source of productivity. It doesn’t matter if you make good content. All people fucking care about is if you upload the day of premiere, if you make a lot of content quickly, if you maintain a million different conversations with strangers who expect you to be the most interesting person in the room. They don’t care how it hurts you. They don’t care how you crack from the stress. How you cry when you think no one can see you, and then you check your phone and someone can see you, someone did see you, and you have to put on your face and be the charming, magnetic person they want you to be. (oh by the way that’s why I wasn’t online much last week)

And it ruins it. Suddenly you can’t watch The Owl House without being stressed. You can’t make any content. You can’t make spells as powerfully as you want to. Your passion is replaced by perfectionism and insecurity, a voice telling you to keep being the best at what you do, or else they’ll forget you and let you die.

There’s also the Titan. 

So nobody has mentioned him before, because in addition to the Boiling Isles being a hellscape full of witchcraft and queerness, it’s also full of atheists. 

But suddenly we have people saying all this shit about him? Shit like, he gave witches the gift of magic, and then they learned to use it in a civilized manner, since being uncivilized was disrespectful?

I mean, first off, that’s fucking wrong. The island gives people magic. The island, which just so happened to be shaped like a titan-sized human. But the island/titan gives everyone all types of magic. Hell, even Luz gets to use magic, and she’s human. 

It sounds really fucking familiar. (tw for discussion of homophobia and colonialism and misogyny). It sounds like when the news is on and they show some Tr*mp supporter talking about how fetuses have more rights than people and it is their holy duty to take away a woman’s control over her body and force her through unbearable pain and into an 18-year commitment she didn’t want to make. It sounds like all the times people tried to say homosexuality should be illegal, citing a single line in a book written two thousand years ago and heavily edited by a European king. It sounds like all the times people said God wanted them to conquer, to own the entire earth, to force the other races into pain to support them.

This is that bullshit thing people do where they commit awful sins and justify it by citing the will of God. 

Or, it’s the Coven using religion as an excuse for evil.

Look, the Emperor’s Coven is clearly colonizer-coded. Saying that people’s original form of magic was wild (and showing a picture with the same joyous, rowdy energy of an 18th or 19th -century Black or indigenous party), and that it was God’s will for them to be “civilized?” Sounds like that thing that powerful white people did where they went and murdered people and forced them into their twisted capitalist system. God, gold, and glory, is what they said, because history books just love to omit the gore.

Lilith is passing the abuse cycle along. 

You know, like a good little colonizer. God I fucking hate her. She’s a MILF, in the sense that she’s a Mother I’d Like to Fling off a cliff. 

Ah, enough screaming about how much I want to drown Lilith in a tub of Hooty’s mucus. Let’s go into why I want to do that, and how she took the evils of capitalism and just...adopted those.

So, Lilith is sick and twisted for what she did to her sister. But, uhh, that’s the point. You see, there are so many other people out there like Lilith who would do the exact same thing, if given the chance. These are the people who do mean things when the teacher isn’t looking, and then act nice and try to frame you. These are the people who will hate you if you’re better than them. These are people who would do anything to bring you down, if you dare outperform them.

It’s greed, my friends. The mental illness that capitalism blesses us all with.

Lilith herself said it: she dedicated her entire life to the Coven. What she wanted was to be the best. And she almost was...except for her own sister. Someone who lived with her, annoyed her at home, bested her at school. Someone she could never beat, no matter how hard she worked. And her sister was younger than her, too! How insulting was that? Lilith wanted to be the best, and someone in her exact situation did better than her.

Lilith was insecure. And it consumed her.

But why? Why does insecurity consume her? I mean, no one can be motivated by insecurity forever. Well, not unless someone conditions it into you.

The lovely thing about the capitalist system is the morals it teaches you. Things like: “You’re only useful if you’re the best.” “Being school smart makes you smart, while being social smart or sports smart or creative smart or fandom smart is worthless.” “Your worth can be quantified by numbers and is based off arbitrary measures like your income or your grades.” Things that can and will drive us crazy if we let ourselves believe them.

And it did drive Lilith crazy. She got so twisted by a society that said being good at magic is her only worth. Look, Lilith used to be good at things, probably. She was good at sports. At times, she slips up and does an okay job of being Eda’s sister. She has a powerful presence when she’s in a room. And she’s wicked good at manipulating people. 

But that didn’t matter. Lilith bought into the lies. She let herself believe that magical skill was the only way to measure her worth. And since she needed to be the best, she hurt Eda for it.

The beautiful thing is, Eda didn’t buy that. "It’s my power, kid. And before you showed up, I spent my whole life wasting it.” Is what Eda said, as she used up the last of her power, the last of her life, to save Luz. In her final moments, she proved that she’s not like them. She’s stronger than them.

None of this matters. Not magical prowess. Not the hierarchy. Not the promise of joining the Coven and having more power than anyone else.

The only thing that matters to Eda is her family. Her real family. Her Luz, King, and Hooty. And by extension, Willow, Gus, and Amity. Those are Eda’s real reason for fighting, for dying: to protect them. Look, there’s no way she would’ve come out of that fight alive. She has a family, and her love for them is stronger than greed or jealousy or capitalism. 

Lilith never understood that. She thought the water of the womb was thicker than the blood of the covenant. Or, that the water of the womb and the blood of the covenant are stronger than the bonds of found family. She thought it didn’t matter if Eda loved, her, only if the Emperor loved her. Fucking bitch.

And now, a little something to worry about, before we go. Amity Blight. The girl who wanted to join the Emperor’s Coven more than anything, who dedicated her whole life to doing well in school, to being the best, to being perfect.

And then she met Luz. She fell for Luz. Now she’s in a tricky place, where habit and conditioning want her to join the Emperor’s Coven, but her heart wants her to do the impossible and destroy capitalism.

She wasn’t in this episode. Funny that being injured and unable to work ended up saving her from watching her future mother-in-law die. So she bought some time.

But Luz’s true mom is dead. This is the second mom she has lost, and she’s only fourteen. As powerful as King and Hooty are, Luz needs Amity. Luz needs Amity to support her and help her get back her mom.

So Amity has to make a choice. Fear and insecurity, or love and a high chance of death? 

She’ll probably choose death. Because that’s the message that this family-friendly show is giving us kids. Fuck capitalism. All you need in life is to do what makes you happy and be with the ones you love.

[yasminbenoit]

What Is Asexuality? Yasmin Benoit for Teen Vogue

For Asexuality Awareness Week, model Yasmin Benoit answers the question ‘what is asexuality’, and busts some common myths about what it means to be asexual.

I realized I was asexual around the same time my peers seemed to realize that they were not. Once the hormones kicked in, so did a nearly universal interest in sex for those around me. I thought sex was intriguing, but never so much that I wanted to express my sexuality with someone else. I had no sexual desire towards other people, I did not experience sexual attraction, and that hasn't changed.

I didn't learn that there was a word for my sexuality until I was 15, after being interrogated for the millionth time at school about my orientation, or lack of it. After doing some Googling as soon as I got home, I realized for the first time in my life that I might not be broken, that I wasn't alone in my experience, and that it wasn't a defect I had somehow brought on myself. I had spent the entirety of my adolescent life trying to answer people's invasive questions without having the language to explain that I was just an asexual girl.

But even after I found the language, I had only solved half of the problem. We are taught in grade school that we'll become sexually interested in others, but never that not being sexually attracted to anyone is an option. Because we're not taught about it, no one else knew what I was talking about when I tried to come out to them as asexual.

Many don't believe asexuality is real,  and that makes the experience of navigating our heteronormative, hyper-sexualized society as an asexual person even harder. I've spent my life battling misconceptions about it and so have many other asexual people. Now, I try to use my work as a model and activist to raise awareness and change the way our society perceives asexuality and asexual people. This Asexual Awareness Week, I'm busting some of those myths about my orientation.

Now, let's separate fact from fiction:

Myth: Asexual people have no sexuality ✘

Truth: Asexuality is considered a sexuality, just like bisexuality, heterosexuality, and homosexuality. I often phrase it as being a sexual orientation where your sexuality isn’t oriented anywhere—because it isn't actually the same as having no sexuality or sexual feelings. Asexual people have hormones like everyone else. It isn’t uncommon for asexual people to masturbate and there are asexual people who still have sex for various reasons and gain enjoyment from it. Some asexual people are romantically attracted to others, but not sexually attracted. Since asexuality is a spectrum, the ways in which asexuality is experienced can vary in different ways.

Myth: Asexuality is a lifestyle choice ✘

Truth: This misconception stems from the idea that asexuality is a choice and not a legitimate sexual orientation. Asexuality is often confused with celibacy or abstinence, probably because they can manifest in similar ways. In contemporary society, celibacy is often defined as being sexually abstinent, often for religious reasons. Sure, for many asexual people, their asexuality means that they aren’t interested in having sex with other people, but that’s a result of their orientation—not their beliefs about sexual behavior. Celibacy is a lifestyle choice, asexuality is not. Asexuality also shouldn't be confused with being an incel. People don't decide to become asexual because they can't find sexual partners or because of any other circumstances. It isn't a state of being when you're going through a "dry spell," nor is it a choice any more than being gay or straight is a choice. It's just the way we are.\

Myth: Asexuality is an illness ✘

Truth: The assertion that asexuality is a mental or physical disorder is incredibly harmful to asexual people and has led to false diagnoses, unnecessary medication, and attempts at converting asexual people. For example, Female Sexual Interest/Arousal Disorder and Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder — which are characterized by low or absent sex drive — are in the DSM-5 and have been thought of as a medical diagnosis for asexuality. But the difference is that people who have HSDD are bothered by their lack of sexual drive, while asexual people are not. But even the inclusion of HSDD as a diagnosis is controversial — some argue that people who are asexual might feel distress at their lack of sexual desire because of lack of acceptance in society. Asexuality is not the result of a hormone deficiency, or a syndrome, or a physical or psychological ailment. Research has said as much. We don't need to be treated or fixed.

Myth: Asexual people have anti-sex attitudes ✘

Truth: There are asexual people who are repulsed by the thought of sex, or by the thought of having sex themselves. I fall into the latter category. However, that feeling does not necessarily extend to what other people are doing. The misconception that asexual people are against other people expressing their sexuality, and that all asexual people can’t stomach conversations about sex, is quite an alienating one. It leads to asexual people being left out of important discussions about sexuality. It is entirely possible and incredibly common to have sex-positive attitudes and be asexual.

Myth: There are barely any asexual people ✘

Truth: Don't let our lack of visibility and representation fool you. There are a lot of asexual people out there, but many of us aren't entirely out, and some haven't realized that there's a word for what they're experiencing due to that lack of visibility. While research into the asexual population is lacking, its estimated that around 1% of the population is asexual—but that's based on a studies where the participants have likely known what asexuality was and been out enough to identify that way. It's likely there are more asexual people than we know of, but even if we did only comprise 1% of the population, that's still tens of millions of asexual people.

Myth: Asexual people just haven’t found the right person yet ✘

Truth: The idea that asexual people just need to meet the ‘right person’ who will unlock their sexual desire and ‘fix’ their asexuality is one I’ve always found quite perplexing. It’s an argument that seems to be applied to asexuality more than other orientations. You wouldn’t tell a straight guy that they just “hadn’t met the right man yet" as an explanation of why he's attracted to women. I’d like to think that most wouldn’t tell a gay man that they “hadn’t met the right woman yet” either. It suggests that our sexuality is reflective of our company, that no one we have ever seen or encountered has met our standards, and thus we haven’t experienced sexual attraction to the extent that the term ‘asexual’ could be applied.

This assumption ignores and invalidates all of the asexual people who have found the ‘right’ person—the asexual people in happy, fulfilling, loving relationships or who have had them in the past. Because, yes, asexual people can still have romantic relationships, or any other kind of relationship. The validity of a relationship is not and should not be based on how sexually attracted you are to that person. This statement also plays into the notion that asexual people are “missing out” on something and haven’t truly discovered our entire selves, that we are incomplete because of our innate characteristics or our life experiences. This isn’t true either.\

Myth: There’s an asexual demographic ✘

Truth: Even though most people don’t know much about asexuality, they still have quite a specific idea about what asexual people are like. I’ve often heard that, as a black woman and a model, I don’t look or seem asexual. We’re stereotyped as being awkward white kids who spend too much time on social media and probably aren’t attractive enough to find a sexual partner if we wanted to. And if we are attractive enough, then we should tone that down as not to ‘give mixed signals.’ But there is no asexual way to look or dress. Asexual people have varying ages, backgrounds, interests, appearances, and experiences, just like those belonging to any other sexual orientation. So please don't use the term "asexual" as an adjective to describe someone you think is sexually unappealing or as an insult, because that's only perpetuating this harmful stereotype.

Makeup: Margherita Lascala

Photography: Becky Gannon

Hair: Kayla Idowu

Styling: Diesel, Cheimsee, Sixth June, Northskull, Lamoda

[hoe-doroki]

stay

A response to this ask:

Reader having a silent mental breakdown and trying to hide it with Bakugo and iida!( bakugo’s fine if not iida)

warning: detailed descriptions of panic attack, self-loathing

pairing: Bakugou x gn!reader

genre: hurt/comfort

word count: 2.2k

edit: I no longer write x reader but here’s my old masterlist - mobile | desktop

It seemed stupid to have any kind of mental illness around someone like Bakugou.

Bakugou had experienced near death multiple times by his mid-twenties had had witnessed the worst of the world first hand. His teens had been littered with trauma and, as an adult, his work was constantly throwing him into circumstances where his body, his life was at risk. He did this day in and day out and it wasn’t even a question. He survived it all and, more than that, he let the world think it was easy.

Sometimes just getting out of bed wasn’t easy for you.

You felt like your body was rotting. You’d been on the couch all day and it smelled stale from the layers of lazy sweat you’d gotten on it. From the shower you hadn’t taken and the hair you hadn’t touched. But was it rot from the outside in—something a bit of soap and buffing could slough off—or was it the inside out? Harder to reach, harder to fix. As your brain sent your every thought clenching on your veins, your vital organs, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was both. Rotted from the inside out and the outside in.

You tensed when you heard the door to your shared apartment click, a key being shoved into the lock. Over the cold numbness that you’d felt all day, a shot of panic sprinted through your bloodstream as a million ways to lie popped into your head. You popped off the couch and tried to think of a way to look busy, so you ran to the kitchen and started boiling some water.

This was something Bakugou couldn’t see. The last thing you wanted, the last thing he needed was for you to be another person that he had to save. Another person to risk himself for.

You eyed Bakugou when he came in, shoulders drooped, gait wide. He looked tired, but otherwise normal. You usually tried not to worry yourself with the cuts and scrapes he often showed up with after work, and, so long as he was walking, he usually told you to calm down and that he was fine. You weren’t going to test it today.

“Hi, babe,” you said, putting strained effort into your pitch, your tone, your face. Maybe your voice was too high, maybe the smile spread a bit too wide, so you turned back to the water, watching it heat.

“Hi,” Bakugou greeted as he kicked off his sneakers, voice gravely as it usually was after a shift. He was in civilian clothes now, having showered and changed at the agency. A black tee and jeans that never fit quite right on his narrow hips and tall frame. “What’re you up to?”

“Oh, I, um…” You looked down at the water, still cool enough to stick a finger into. You’d done nothing all day, having skipped out on all your classes with half-assed emails sent to the teachers. The idea of going had been too much to take—for reasons you had no language for—so you’d wallowed on the couch as the hours of the day had bled away. So the question felt like an interrogation about to put a scalpel to your flaws. “I’m just heating some water for tea. Was gonna get started on dinner.”

“What were you gonna make?”

Bakugou was in the kitchen now, coming up behind you to press a kiss against your temple. Your heart rate increased but not in the good way. Not in the way that it should. Instead of flutters it was pounding, smacking against your ribs in a reminder that he was too close, you were too visible—you might explode and you would hurt him.

“I, um, I wasn’t sure,” you said, the answer sending shameful heat to your cheeks. And then you were slapped the other way by how stupid that was. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Okay,” Bakugou said, going to the fridge. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

Bakugou was always insistent on having a stocked fridge. With his job and you in your master’s program it was hard to find the time to grocery shop, much less eat consistent meals together, but those were the kinds of things that Bakugou prioritized. The things behind his sharp persona and shrinking legacy of reckless anger that made him a good boyfriend. An amazing partner and enviable roommate.

And what did you offer him? Emotional instability without just cause? A nascent—at best—career while he was climbing the pro hero charts every cycle?

Who were you kidding? You hadn’t even gone to class. You hadn’t done any of the work that you needed to do—the evening was a wash now, so you wouldn’t catch up. You were just wasting everyone’s time, like you always did.

“Hey, babe?”

By the tone of his voice, you realized that Bakugou had called you multiple times. Your eyes flicked toward him, but your head felt heavy to lift. “Hmm?” you asked, squeezing every last bit of breath into that hum.

“The water’s boiling.” Bakugou walked over to you, two mugs with teabags slumped at the bottom. He set them on the counter and put a hand on your shoulder, turning you a degree closer to him.

“Oh,” you intoned, pulling away and turning off the fire. Stupid. You were about to grab the pot when Bakugou dropped his hand down to your elbow, giving a firm squeeze.

“Are you okay?”

You ignored his gesture to stop and reached for the kettle, putting all of your effort into keeping your hands steady as you poured hissing water in one mug and then the other. Doing something was the only thing keeping you upright as your thoughts continued to swirl in your head poisoning each brain cell you had. You hadn’t done anything worth living for today. But goddamn it, if you couldn’t make these mugs of tea, then you should just walk out of the apartment and let Bakugou be better off without you.

“Woah, woah, what’s happening?”

Bakugou’s hand was on your chin as he pulled your face a little too roughly towards him. Or, rather, it wouldn’t have been rough, if you weren’t resisting it. But you didn’t want him to look you in the eye. See what a failure you were. Someone who couldn’t even overcome a bad emotional day to go to class while he’d been out saving lives—as usual. He took the pot from your white-knuckled grip and set it on the stove.

“Why are you crying?”

Were you? You hurriedly brushed a hand under your eyes and they came away slick, the water hot as the tea you were steeping.

“The…The steam…” you started, prepared to lie and lie and lie until there was nothing real left. The real stuff was too hard to hold. “I think…It just must have irri…tated my eyes.”

Your breathing was running away with you, chest heaving as you pulled away and faced the other direction. Your attempts were thin, too threadbare to hide behind. And your boyfriend wasn’t nearly stupid enough to be fooled, even by your best efforts.

“Babe, tell me what’s wrong,” Bakugou said forcibly, stepping around to face you again.

His eyes were searching for yours, but you held fisted hands to your cheek as you turned away from him. Now you could feel the tears streaming, and you couldn’t turn them off. But what was there to tell him? That you were just a big, stupid idiot who cried for no reason? That watching him become a better man only emphasized how totally shit you were? That when the two of you were on the street together, you knew that people wondered what a guy like him was doing with a person like you?

“I just want you to stop crying,” Bakugou said, and you could hear him getting desperate, only making you feel worse. You were biting your lips closed to keep the sobs from tearing out, but that only made embarrassing little huffs come out your nose, whimpers sneak past the back of your throat.

You couldn’t stop crying. How could you stop it when you didn’t understand what had started it?

“I’ll just,” you hiccupped, backing away from him. “Just give me…I’ll be fine, just give me a minute.”

“Fuck that,” Bakugou said, grabbing your wrist. “Do you want me to go because you want me to go, or because you think you deserve to be alone?”

The words felt like a trick, a riddle from some fairytale turned nightmare intended to make you fail either way. Telling him the truth would trap him in whatever trip wires had you tied in knots right now. But, at the same time, he was expecting the lie. He wasn’t letting you save him from this.

But why? He was always saving people. Why, for once, couldn’t you save him from you?

“Idiot,” Bakugou said, pulling you in to him. You cried harder, the weight of your failure dropping in your well and spilling more tears out of you. “Why would I leave you alone?”

A sob crashed out, breaking through haphazard letters of attempted defense. He needed to go; him seeing you like this only made it worse.

“It, um,” Bakugou’s voice was low, a register that was unfamiliar even to you, unsteady and unrehearsed. “It seems easier to be alone. I know it does. But…you’ve shown me that’s not true, so just. Let me show you the same, okay?”

You could feel how hard he was trying as he pressed you into his chest and you finally, finally let him. The sobbing made you weak in the knees, light in the head, but he held you. He held you up, held you close, and he wasn’t letting go.

Everyone always talked about how crying felt good. About it being a release that helped you process your pain. And maybe that was right when talking about grief or loss, but not this. These tears felt like nothing more than splashing in the masturbatory wallowing hole of your self pity. Embarrassing and stupid.

“Why?” you finally whispered when the sobs subsided a bit, letting you keep enough of the air in to at least say that.

For a moment, Bakugou didn’t say anything, and you wondered if you’d imagined the words. If you were imagining the whole thing and he really had left like you’d wanted. But then you heard breath catch in the back of his throat as he seemed to try and fail to find the words a couple of times.

“In another world,” he finally started. “I’d come home from a day of work fucking exhausted, slump on the couch, eat, and pack it in to go to bed before starting all over the next day. And I’d probably be fine with that. But I’d be a fucking idiot, because coming home to you makes it worth coming home.”

Your breathing was steadying as he talked and you could feel the tears cooling against your cheek, against his wet t-shirt.

“Even with you looking like a damn mess like this,” Bakugou said and you could hear the smile in his voice. His smile, which had grown less rare over time, was always so wide that it made his words sound different. Warmer. They managed to draw a haggard chuckle out of you. “I’m happier just to be around you than convincing myself that being lonely at the top is the best way.”

“I don’t want to drag you down from the top,” you said. “Your company shouldn’t be dead weight.”

“Dead weight?” Bakugou repeated, pulling back to look at you. “Dumbass.”

He pulled you in again, both of his arms around the back of your head so that you were nearly smothered in his chest.

“That’s the stupidest fucking shit I’ve ever heard. You’re fucking incredible, and if that’s why you’re crying today, then you and me have to do some talking.”

Another laugh managed to crawl its way out of you and Bakugou let you pull back to breathe again.

“Are you okay now?”

‘Okay’ felt like such a far ways away. But you were above water again. Somewhere next to okay, distance undetermined.

“I’m surviving,” you decided.

Bakugou looked at you, a couple different things flashing over his eyes, too quickly for you to identify. “Well, that’ll do for now, but we’re not settling for that. Just talk to me. I’m not the best at this, but…I want to be better at it.”

In that moment, you remembered that Bakugou wasn’t perfect either. That he constantly had voices in his head telling him that he wasn’t doing enough and, not only that, he had the public constantly critiquing his attitude, his skills, his work. That, to some degree, this was already something you were going through together.

“I think you’re better at it than you think.”

Bakugou smiled again, this one not so wide, but more private. “You too, he said. Whatever bullshit you’re telling yourself—you’re better than you think.”

He pulled you in close again, and this time you sunk into it, enjoying his warm muscles, the way that his hair was still a little damp from the shower. You weren’t sure if anything had changed—all your problems were still present as they’d ever been. But yet, there was one thing. Now, with Bakugou’s arms like a buttress to your shaky but standing foundation, you, paradoxically, hoped that he would stay and stay and stay.

[khaleesiofalicante]

I'm so ready for this chapter

I'm a simple person. I see David, I get automatically happy. I'm a little late cause yesterday I couldn't find the time, but here I am once again:

"The London Institute stood before him, all glorious and redeemed – once again holding a beautiful love story of its own." Its only the beginning and David thinking poetry is my reason to live. ALSO, YESSS LONDON INSTITUTE

Ah yes, Kit running the London Institute is just amazing

"At moments like this, David wished he had magic too. He wished he could protect Max from all the people who tried to hurt him. He had seen the way people had hurt Max’s brother and his father. He would never let that happen to Max." My heart beats in Mavid!!

“Are you two sharing a room?”  “I won’t tell the Consul," And " He didn’t think sharing a room with his son would do him any favours." had me laughing so hard 😂😂

"It was not easy to get accepted into Columbia University, but Rafael had managed since he was one of the smartest people David knew." I'm so proud of my baby!! 🥺🥺

“I bought you some scones.”jseyjwiwjdh 😏

"He was in David’s arms. His face buried in David’s neck." OH MY GOD. I JUST CANT WITH TO MUCH CUTENESS!!

Ok, I won't quote it but the scene where David saw the portraits is just so beautiful like... Ugh I love my Herondales and David so much!!

Okayy, I dont know who this guy is, so I'll keep my mind open

"Because I know you, David wanted to say. I just wish I knew what’s in your heart too." Ysgsksubdn THIS!  Could I possibly love David more than I love him already??

"Of course I do. My Bapa would be personally offended otherwise.” Yup, I can confirm it

"Max often pretended like people’s words didn’t hurt him - just as he pretend that fire doesn’t burn or wounds don’t bleed.

But David knew, just beyond the surface, Max burned and bled like everyone else.

Despite his reputation as a ‘drama queen’ Max never let other people see his pain. He used humour and theatrics to hide it away." I feel this on a personal level

The mundane illnesses around shadowhunters is getting me worried ngl

"Until that, their only hope was Catarina Loss. David hoped someone sent that woman a fruit basket every single day for she went above and beyond to help shadowhunters affected by the mundane illnesses." She is such a Queen. Just. RESPECT

"Jackson Hayward" Mmm, I feel like I should know that name but I dont remember

KITTY CONTENT IS JUST *CHEF KISS*

“I’m not judging,” David smiled as he adjusted Max’s beanie. “You look very cute.” Max,’s cheeks turned purple again. David wondered why. He wondered if it had something to do with him. (David, I love you, but seriously???)

"Of course, the 'fun' mostly entailed Rafael stopping Georgia from drinking random potions she found in the stalls, Selena stopping Lexi from opening a psychic booth to help people talk to Raziel and of course David stopping Max from running to the gambling booths." 😂 I love how Selena, Rafael and David are the responsables and Max, Gigi and Lexi are the chaotic ones

THE GRUPO CHAT 😂😂😂

“Perhaps an unpublished snippet from the Beautiful Cordelia?” and “I do have a correspondence between an Iblis demon and Christopher Lightwood" just got me like: 😮😮

Oh god the necklace!!

"Most importantly, he didn’t want to cover his scar. He didn’t want to hide it. He wasn’t ashamed of it. It wasn’t a mark of a victim. It was the mark of a survivor." I'm so proud of David 💙

“I never wanted to be protected,” David had replied. “I only ever wanted to be loved.” 💙💙 this just hits so much

"Magnus Bane carried so much love inside himself you could literally feel it through him." YEAH, I would like to add this to the book of the two million reasons why I love Magnus Bane

That escalated quickly. Like... Jackson hit Max? And David hit Jackson? What?

“This is what I get for falling for a Lightwood-Bane,” I mean... Honey you knew what you were getting into

“I do love it when the quiet ones go feral," and “David! Is your hand okay?” just describes Magnus and Jace perfectly 😂

“Well, technically they are residents of the institute,” Tiberius pushed back his glasses. “So, as the Head of the insti-” “Babe, no!” Kit shushed his boyfriend. (OH GOD THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL!! 💙)

“It’s alright, Chouchou,” Mr Herondale ran a hand through David’s hair. “Next time, just-” “Use my words?” David asked. “Just don’t get caught,” the man winked. “Jace!” the Consul hissed. “What do you want me to say to him, Alec?” the man demanded. “Be nice? This is David we are talking about! You can’t get nicer than this!” “David, I appreciate you standing up for Max,” the Consul said. “But next time, please try not to punch anyone in the face.” “Yes, sir,” David nodded. “Because it’s wrong.” “Because it means more paperwork for me,” the Consul groaned and then straightened up. “But yes. Absolutely. Very wrong. No punching people!” (I'm sorry, I just had to quote all of it cause I laughed way to hard😂)

I knew that name was familiar!! Oh, god this is a plot twist. Oh my precious boy must be protected at all cost!!! HE DESERVES HAPPINES!

"It made David want to kiss him. But then the Consul spoke, and David reminded himself he didn’t want to be the third person to get punched in the face this evening." David fearing Alec never fails to make me laugh 😂😂

But if he tries to hurt you-” “You will unleash hell?” David chuckled. “Worse,” the other man grinned. “I will unleash Lexi.” It was definitely much worse. (Hell yeah, she is amazing!)

FUCK, now I want to protect Jackson with my whole soul  from the nightmares and everything else🥺🥺

Wow. I feel like I should quote lots of things from all that scene, but its just that it was all so amazing and I wouldn't finish. Like... The story, telling each other their past, talking about therapy. (Kit is right, shadowhunter need therapy!!) They would really be an amazing group

Also, David reading to Jackson was so wholesome 🥺🥺 and the whole scene was deep and beautiful!!

Yess, my boys going to therapy giving priority to their mental health is my sterotonine supply

"Well, I hope it works out well for you,” Jackson grinned. “What is that supposed to mean?” “You know what it means,” Jackson grinned harder. “Also, if that wanker tries to break your heart, I will break his face.” “You know he is the Consul’s son?” David giggled.“I’ve done it once and I will do it again,” Jackson shrugged. “He better treat you right.” “Stop it!” David had blushed and hugged him tighter, saying goodbye once more. (I STAN THIS FRIENDSHIP!!)

"Selena had broken the news that she was enrolling into Scholomance next month.This family was his soul." YESS, SELENA IS A QUEEN

"After the twins went to bed, David stepped out of the institute and went looking for his heart." ajkeyejdodj he is just to pure 🥺🥺

"At first it had felt odd. A little unsteady. And then somewhere along the way, Max’s heartbeat had become the steadiest thing in David’s life. Max, with all his chaos and drama and danger, had become the steadiest thing in David’s life." Thanks, I'm emo 🥺💙💙

"Even if Max loved him…Could Max possibly love him as much David loved the other boy?" MY HEART!!

"His love for Max was endless and impossible. Did Max love him like that? Impossibly?" JDHWJSUDH🥺🥺

“Maxwell Lightwood-Bane,” David whispered. “Love is your birth right.”

"One minute he had been laughing at the portal, his heart full of pride. The next, he was in Max’s arms, kissing the other boy." HOLY SHIT THIS WAS BEAUTIFUL!! ALL OF IT!! AND DAVID FALLING TO THE POND? *LOTS OF CHEF KISSES*

UGH I LOVED THIS CHAPTER SO MUCH AND I COULD GO EXPLAINING EVERYTHING, BUT IT WOULD MAKE THIS WAY LONGER THAT IT ALREAY IS

Anyway, David is beautiful. I stan Mavid and we love Jackson 💙💙

This was so beautiful. I love how much you and appreciate David 🥺 It makes so emotional send help 😭😭😭😭

Also this is David Tiktok 🤣🤭😎

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Religious Trauma Syndrome: How Some Organized Religion Leads to Mental Health Problems

By Valerie Tarico

Marlene Winell interviewed March 25, 2013

At age sixteen I began what would be a four year struggle with bulimia. When the symptoms started, I turned in desperation to adults who knew more than I did about how to stop shameful behavior—my Bible study leader and a visiting youth minister.  “If you ask anything in faith, believing,” they said. “It will be done.” I knew they were quoting [3] the Word of God. We prayed together, and I went home confident that God had heard my prayers. But my horrible compulsions didn’t go away. By the fall of my sophomore year in college, I was desperate and depressed enough that I made a suicide attempt. The problem wasn’t just the bulimia. I was convinced by then that I was a complete spiritual failure. My college counseling department had offered to get me real help (which they later did). But to my mind, at that point, such help couldn’t fix the core problem: I was a failure in the eyes of God. It would be years before I understood that my inability to heal bulimia through the mechanisms offered by biblical Christianity was not a function of my own spiritual deficiency but deficiencies in Evangelical religion itself.  

Dr. Marlene Winell is a human development consultant in the San Francisco Area. She is also the daughter of Pentecostal missionaries. This combination has given her work an unusual focus. For the past twenty years she has counseled men and women in recovery from various forms of fundamentalist religion including the Assemblies of God denomination in which she was raised. Winell is the author of Leaving the Fold – A Guide for Former Fundamentalists and Others Leaving their Religion [4], written during her years of private practice in psychology. Over the years, Winell has provided assistance to clients whose religious experiences were even more damaging than mine. Some of them are people whose psychological symptoms weren’t just exacerbated by their religion, but actually caused by it.  

Two years ago, Winell made waves by formally labeling what she calls “Religious Trauma Syndrome” (RTS) and beginning to write and speak on the subject for professional audiences. When the British Association of Behavioral and Cognitive Psychologists published a series of articles on the topic, members of a Christian counseling association protested what they called excessive attention to a “relatively niche topic.” One commenter said, “A religion, faith or book cannot be abuse but the people interpreting can make anything abusive.”

Is toxic religion simply misinterpretation? What is religious trauma? Why does Winell believe religious trauma merits its own diagnostic label?

Let’s start this interview with the basics. What exactly is religious trauma syndrome?

Winell: Religious trauma syndrome (RTS) is a set of symptoms and characteristics that tend to go together and which are related to harmful experiences with religion. They are the result of two things: immersion in a controlling religion and the secondary impact of leaving a religious group. The RTS label provides a name and description that affected people often recognize immediately. Many other people are surprised by the idea of RTS, because in our culture it is generally assumed that religion is benign or good for you. Just like telling kids about Santa Claus and letting them work out their beliefs later, people see no harm in teaching religion to children.

But in reality, religious teachings and practices sometimes cause serious mental health damage. The public is somewhat familiar with sexual and physical abuse in a religious context. As Journalist Janet Heimlich has documented in, Breaking Their Will, Bible-based religious groups that emphasize patriarchal authority in family structure and use harsh parenting methods can be destructive.

But the problem isn’t just physical and sexual abuse. Emotional and mental treatment in authoritarian religious groups also can be damaging because of 1) toxic teachings like eternal damnation or original sin 2) religious practices or mindset, such as punishment, black and white thinking, or sexual guilt, and 3) neglect that prevents a person from having the information or opportunities to develop normally.

Can you give me an example of RTS from your consulting practice?

Winell: I can give you many. One of the symptom clusters is around fear and anxiety. People indoctrinated into fundamentalist Christianity as small children sometimes have memories of being terrified by images of hell and apocalypse before their brains could begin to make sense of such ideas. Some survivors, who I prefer to call “reclaimers,” [8] have flashbacks, panic attacks, or nightmares in adulthood even when they intellectually no longer believe the theology. One client of mine, who during the day functioned well as a professional, struggled with intense fear many nights. She said,

“I was afraid I was going to hell. I was afraid I was doing something really wrong. I was completely out of control. I sometimes would wake up in the night and start screaming, thrashing my arms, trying to rid myself of what I was feeling. I’d walk around the house trying to think and calm myself down, in the middle of the night, trying to do some self-talk, but I felt like it was just something that – the fear and anxiety was taking over my life.” Or consider this comment, which refers to a film [9] used by evangelicals to warn about the horrors of the “end times” for nonbelievers.

“I was taken to see the film “A Thief In The Night”. WOW.  I am in shock to learn that many other people suffered the same traumas I lived with because of this film. A few days or weeks after the film viewing, I came into the house and mom wasn’t there. I stood there screaming in terror. When I stopped screaming, I began making my plan: Who my Christian neighbors were, who’s house to break into to get money and food. I was 12 years old and was preparing for Armageddon alone.”

In addition to anxiety, RTS can include depression, cognitive difficulties, and problems with social functioning. In fundamentalist Christianity, the individual is considered depraved and in need of salvation. A core message is “You are bad and wrong and deserve to die.” (The wages of sin is death [10].) This gets taught to millions of children through organizations like Child Evangelism Fellowship [11] and there is a group organized [12]  to oppose their incursion into public schools.  I’ve had clients who remember being distraught when given a vivid bloody image of Jesus paying the ultimate price for their sins. Decades later they sit telling me that they can’t manage to find any self-worth.

“After twenty-seven years of trying to live a perfect life, I failed. . . I was ashamed of myself all day long. My mind battling with itself with no relief. . . I always believed everything that I was taught but I thought that I was not approved by God. I thought that basically I, too, would die at Armageddon.

“I’ve spent literally years injuring myself, cutting and burning my arms, taking overdoses and starving myself, to punish myself so that God doesn’t have to punish me. It’s taken me years to feel deserving of anything good.”

Born-again Christianity and devout Catholicism [13] tell people they are weak and dependent, calling on phrases like “lean not unto your own understanding [14]” or “trust and obey [11].” People who internalize these messages can suffer from learned helplessness. I’ll give you an example from a client who had little decision-making ability after living his entire life devoted to following the “will of God.” The words here don’t convey the depth of his despair.

“I have an awful time making decisions in general. Like I can’t, you know, wake up in the morning, “What am I going to do today?” Like I don’t even know where to start. You know all the things I thought I might be doing are gone and I’m not sure I should even try to have a career; essentially I babysit my four-year-old all day.”

Authoritarian religious groups are subcultures where conformity is required in order to belong. Thus if you dare to leave the religion, you risk losing your entire support system as well.

“I lost all my friends. I lost my close ties to family. Now I’m losing my country. I’ve lost so much because of this malignant religion and I am angry and sad to my very core. . . I have tried hard to make new friends, but I have failed miserably. . . I am very lonely.”

Leaving a religion, after total immersion, can cause a complete upheaval of a person’s construction of reality, including the self, other people, life, and the future. People unfamiliar with this situation, including therapists, have trouble appreciating the sheer terror it can create.

“My form of religion was very strongly entrenched and anchored deeply in my heart. It is hard to describe how fully my religion informed, infused, and influenced my entire worldview. My first steps out of fundamentalism were profoundly frightening and I had frequent thoughts of suicide. Now I’m way past that but I still haven’t quite found “my place in the universe.”

Even for a person who was not so entrenched, leaving one’s religion can be a stressful and significant transition.

Many people seem to walk away from their religion easily, without really looking back. What is different about the clientele you work with?

Winell: Religious groups that are highly controlling, teach fear about the world, and keep members sheltered and ill-equipped to function in society are harder to leave easily. The difficulty seems to be greater if the person was born and raised in the religion rather than joining as an adult convert. This is because they have no frame of reference – no other “self” or way of “being in the world.” A common personality type is a person who is deeply emotional and thoughtful and who tends to throw themselves wholeheartedly into their endeavors. “True believers” who then lose their faith feel more anger and depression and grief than those who simply went to church on Sunday.

Aren’t these just people who would be depressed, anxious, or obsessive anyways?

Winell: Not at all. If my observation is correct, these are people who are intense and involved and caring. They hang on to the religion longer than those who simply “walk away” because they try to make it work even when they have doubts. Sometimes this is out of fear, but often it is out of devotion. These are people for whom ethics, integrity and compassion matter a great deal. I find that when they get better and rebuild their lives, they are wonderfully creative and energetic about new things.

In your mind, how is RTS different from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?

Winell: RTS is a specific set of symptoms and characteristics that are connected with harmful religious experience, not just any trauma. This is crucial to understanding the condition and any kind of self-help or treatment. (More details about this can be found on my Journey Free [15] website and discussed in my talk [16] at the Texas Freethought Convention.)

Another difference is the social context, which is extremely different from other traumas or forms of abuse. When someone is recovering from domestic abuse, for example, other people understand and support the need to leave and recover. They don’t question it as a matter of interpretation, and they don’t send the person back for more. But this is exactly what happens to many former believers who seek counseling. If a provider doesn’t understand the source of the symptoms, he or she may send a client for pastoral counseling, or to AA, or even to another church. One reclaimer expressed her frustration this way:

“Include physically-abusive parents who quote “Spare the rod and spoil the child” as literally as you can imagine and you have one fucked-up soul: an unloved, rejected, traumatized toddler in the body of an adult. I’m simply a broken spirit in an empty shell. But wait...That’s not enough!? There’s also the expectation by everyone in society that we victims should celebrate this with our perpetrators every Christmas and Easter!!”

Just like disorders such as autism or bulimia, giving RTS a real name has important advantages. People who are suffering find that having a label for their experience helps them feel less alone and guilty. Some have written to me to express their relief:

“There’s actually a name for it! I was brainwashed from birth and wasted 25 years of my life serving Him! I’ve since been out of my religion for several years now, but I cannot shake the haunting fear of hell and feel absolutely doomed. I’m now socially inept, unemployable, and the only way I can have sex is to pay for it.”

Labeling RTS encourages professionals to study it more carefully, develop treatments, and offer training. Hopefully, we can even work on prevention.

What do you see as the difference between religion that causes trauma and religion that doesn’t?

Winell: Religion causes trauma when it is highly controlling and prevents people from thinking for themselves and trusting their own feelings. Groups that demand obedience and conformity produce fear, not love and growth. With constant judgment of self and others, people become alienated from themselves, each other, and the world. Religion in its worst forms causes separation.

Conversely, groups that connect people and promote self-knowledge and personal growth can be said to be healthy. The book, Healthy Religion [17], describes these traits. Such groups put high value on respecting differences, and members feel empowered as individuals.  They provide social support, a place for events and rites of passage, exchange of ideas, inspiration, opportunities for service, and connection to social causes. They encourage spiritual practices that promote health like meditation or principles for living like the golden rule. More and more, non-theists are asking [18] how they can create similar spiritual communities without the supernaturalism. An atheist congregation [19] in London launched this year and has received over 200 inquiries from people wanting to replicate their model.

Some people say that terms like “recovery from religion” and “religious trauma syndrome” are just atheist attempts to pathologize religious belief.

Winell: Mental health professionals have enough to do without going out looking for new pathology. I never set out looking for a “niche topic,” and certainly not religious trauma syndrome. I originally wrote a paper for a conference of the American Psychological Association and thought that would be the end of it. Since then, I have tried to move on to other things several times, but this work has simply grown.

In my opinion, we are simply, as a culture, becoming aware of religious trauma. More and more people are leaving religion, as seen by polls [20] showing that the “religiously unaffiliated” have increased in the last five years from just over 15% to just under 20% of all U.S. adults. It’s no wonder the internet is exploding with websites for former believers from all religions, providing forums [21] for people to support each other. The huge population of people “leaving the fold” includes a subset at risk for RTS, and more people are talking about it and seeking help.  For example, there are thousands of former Mormons [22], and I was asked to speak about RTS at an Exmormon Foundation conference.  I facilitate an international support group online called Release and Reclaim [23]  which has monthly conference calls. An organization called Recovery from Religion, [24] helps people start self-help meet-up groups

Saying that someone is trying to pathologize authoritarian religion is like saying someone pathologized eating disorders by naming them. Before that, they were healthy? No, before that we weren’t noticing. People were suffering, thought they were alone, and blamed themselves.  Professionals had no awareness or training. This is the situation of RTS today. Authoritarian religion is already pathological, and leaving a high-control group can be traumatic. People are already suffering. They need to be recognized and helped. _______________________________

Statistics update:

Numbers of American ‘nones’ continues to rise

October 18, 2019

By David Crary – Associated Press

The portion of Americans with no religious affiliation is rising significantly, in tandem with a sharp drop in the percentage that identifies as Christians, according to new data from the Pew Research Center. …

Pew says all categories of the religiously unaffiliated population – often referred to as the “nones” grew in magnitude. Self-described atheists now account for 4% of U.S. adults, up from 2% in 2009; agnostics account for 5%, up from 3% a decade ago; and 17% of Americans now describe their religion as “nothing in particular,” up from 12% in 2009.

https://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Society/2019/1018/Numbers-of-American-nones-continues-to-rise

_______________________________

Marlene Winell interviewed by Valerie Tarico on recovering from religious trauma Uploaded on January 31, 2011

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIfABmbqSMA

24:12

On Moral Politics, a TV program with host Dr. Valerie Tarico, Marlene Winell describes the trauma that can result from harmful experiences with religious indoctrination. Dr. Winell explains that mental health issues are widespread and need to be understood just as we understand PTSD. There are steps to recovery, treatment modalities, and resources available as well. She now refers to this as RTS or Religious Trauma Syndrome. _______________________________

Links:
 
[3] https://www.biblestudyonjesuschrist.com/pog/ask1.htm 
[4] https://marlenewinell.net/leaving-fold-former 
[8] https://journeyfree.org/article/reclaimers/ 
[9] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Thief_in_the_Night_%28film%29 
[10] https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+6%3A23&version=KJV 
[11] https://valerietarico.com/2011/02/04/our-public-schools-their-mission-field/ 
[12] http://www.intrinsicdignity.com/ 
[13] https://www.maryjohnson.co/an-unquenchable-thirst/ 
[14] https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Proverbs+3%3A5-6&version=KJV [15] https://journeyfree.org/category/uncategorized/ [16] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qrE4pMBlis 
[17] https://www.amazon.com/Healthy-Religion-Psychological-Guide-Mature/dp/1425924166 [18] https://www.humanistchaplaincy.org/ [19] https://www.christianpost.com/news/london-atheist-church-model-looking-to-expand-worldwide-91516 [20] https://www.pewforum.org/2012/10/09/nones-on-the-rise/ 
[21] https://new.exchristian.net/ 
[22] https://www.exmormon.org/ 
[23] https://journeyfree.org/group-forum/ [24] https://www.recoveringfromreligion.org/

_____________________________________

Get God’s Self-Appointed Messengers Out of Your Head

Valerie Tarico Which buzz phrases from your past are stuck in your brain? “God’s messengers” were all real complicated people with biases, blind spots, favorite foods and morning breath. They were not gods and they are not you. So how can you get them out of your head or at least reduce them to muffled background noise?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElfyYA420F0

[thickania]

Okay.... I just watched Demi's new documentary trailer, and I'm honestly excited to watch the whole thing. But I wanna talk about the phrase "I don't even know why I'm sober anymore"... I felt that to my core. I don't think that people realize how hard it is to be sober from anything, literally anything, but at the same time it's not easy to live with an addiction either. I've been on treatment for eating disorders for about 4 years now, and I hate it, I hate every second that I'm eating, I hate every second that I have to prepare, and not count my food, I hate it that I can't change my food for alcohol or eat a few fruits, I have to eat a meal, and I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I hate having to distract myself, just so I can eat in peace.

I believe that being sober, it's awful, it's your brain begging you, to be back to your addiction, and maybe just a little sip. It's your body screaming for you to succumb to that, and when or if you do, it's all this voices in your head, yelling at you, that your family and friends will hate you, and that you don't deserve to be happy, that you deserve death, and that no one will miss you, and then it's your body begging "please, let's go to a hospital, I'm not okay", but the only time that all of this voices stop, it's when you are using whatever your drug is. And let me tell you, therapy doesn't always work, yeah you keep doing it, because you want to be okay, you want for the people around you to be happy, but you aren't, the only time, that you truly knows happiness, it's when you are starving, using, drink, eating, having sex, masturbating... It's not easy man, and when you have another mental illness with the addiction, it only makes everything harder. It's like... You want to live, but at the same time you wonder at what cost? You want to be happy, but you don't know why, exactly, I didn't asked to be born, so why do I have to fight to stay alive...

And she's on the public eye, so I can't imagine how that's like, for 2 fucking years, nearly every joke, it's about her and her overdose. It looks like people forgot what happened to Whitney, Amy, Britney, people already forgot what happened to this women because of the way that media treated them.

And don't get me started on religious people, trying to sell that bullshit to you, I swear it, every time that a religious person, tries to use my addiction, or anyone elses addiction, to sell their sky daddy, as the true one, I truly feel like sacrificing them, to any pagan god that exist. Don't get me wrong, if your God makes you happy, good for you, I am truly happy for you, and I hope, that you get to see them someday, but holy crap, let people figure out if they want that for them alone, don't try to drag me to another addiction, please. And also, what kind of god, do you follow, that you have to fear him, other than respect him, and he loves you, but he will kill you and make your life miserable, if you don't obey him... That's sounds like my mom and my brother... anyways

I'm honestly excited to that, I know that Demi has money, and that makes things a little easier, but dealing with that, it's hard on your own, but being on the public eye, and having people depending on you for a job, and having millions upon millions of people, looking up to you, it's worse, way worse. I'm on my way to a type of sobriety, and every fucking day, I ask myself if it is worth it, because it seems like it isn't. And truth be told, I don't want to be happy, I don't, happiness it's on the one side of the expectrum, while sadness it's on the other side, they are both extremes, I want to be at peace, sure, I want to feel happy, when something good happens to me, but I just want to live my life (if I get to live one) in peace

[blindedbythedarkness]

Josh,

We need to talk about what you did. About the fact you took your own life. I've been waiting for the perfect moment ever since that day to talk about it, but I don't think it's every gonna come. Right now, I'm as ready as I'll ever be and my need to say these things is growing. It's been tugging me towards this conversation for months now.

So, Josh, let's face it head on. You killed yourself. You threw yourself off that walkway with the sole intent to end your life, and you succeeded, albeit with it a short delay. I just want to make it clear, right now, that I don't blame you for what you did. However, that doesn't mean I don't get angry sometimes.

I wish I knew why you did it. I wish I knew exactly what was running through your head in the weeks, days, hours beforehand. I suppose I can imagine a lot of it, though. I don't think much of it would shock me, I suppose I just wish I'd known so in some Other Life I could have talked to you about every one of those thoughts. I guess on a wider scale too, I have some ideas about what caused your depression and kept it going strong. The things you told us about your upbringing and family would certainly seemed to play a big part in the value you saw in yourself. The lack of support from uni probably made your future options seem very bleak indeed. But the exact reasons are probably far more complex and intertwined and have gone with you to your grave.

What I really wish I knew is what happened that day. I'm not on a witch hunt, but the story I've heard makes it sound as though there were one thousand, tiny, missed opportunities to stop you. What I know is that you had an exam that day, an exam you hadn't revised for. In the middle of that exam you had one of your strange fainting fits. I'm not sure if you continued the exam after that, but it can probably be assumed that the rest didn't go well, even if the first half had done. After that, you took yourself up to the fifth floor of the maths and stats building; you pushed a chair up against the barrier and you wrote your brief, final message to the world on your hand. Then, at around 11:05am that morning, you climbed over the barrier and let go. The rest, as they say, is history.

I lost count of the number of times we told you to go to the doctor about those fainting spells. "If there's something wrong with me, I'd rather not know", you'd say. Then you'd follow it up with a story about how your dad had gone decades without a GP visit. We suggested to B one time that she should withhold sex until you agreed, but she just laughed that she couldn't wait that long. Those fainting spells were strange things. I remember you having one at the top of the stairs once. You were lying there, eyes open, but unable to speak or move. I remember feebly trying to maneuver you into the recovery position, unsure of what else I could do and feeling helpless as I stood over your body. Looking back, I don't think you were fainting. I think they were seizures, likely caused by the extreme stress you were under. I didn't know that was possible at the time, but it seems the signs you weren't coping were staring us in the face.

With this in mind, it makes sense this would happen in the middle of an exam you hadn't revised for. But that also makes me question your state of mind after it happened. The stress alone would probably warp your thinking, and if it was a seizure you had, you brain would have been even more fried. I'm not trying to minimize what you did or imply that you didn't mean it. I fully believe that you wanted to die. But the method you used implies a snap decision as opposed to a planned approach. A moment of weakness in a lifetime of fighting your own brain. It wasn't your fault, you fought so fucking hard for so long. But somehow it breaks my heart more to think it was a spur of the moment decision, potentially added to by a fried brain. You wanted to die, but the lack of plan makes me think a small part of your heart wasn't in it. In another life you could have got past that moment, yet in this reality that part of you was never allowed to grow and flourish. Your poor, tired brain had a moment of weakness and dragged your body down with it, permanently.

I have questions about the whole thing that I'll probably never know the answers to. For example, I wonder what the fuck you were doing alone after becoming unconscious in an exam? People were obviously aware it happened, otherwise we would never have been told. And yet you were just allowed to wander off alone soon after. Did someone try to help and you lied and told them you were fine? Is there someone out there forever blaming themself for believing that you were okay? Or did no one give a fuck? Were they all too self absorbed for your wellbeing to truly matter to them? Did staff stop caring as soon as the exam ended and they were off the clock? Just how did you end up alone, suicidal, five stories high right after publicly collapsing, Josh? I wish to God I knew.

I have other questions too, of course. More general ones that you could probably guess. Like, what stopped you talking to us? Why did you choose to jump instead of sending me a text? What was your last thought? Were you in any pain as you died? Who was the last person to see you properly alive? Did you think of us, of me, before you did it? And is there any reality in which I could have stopped you?

Truth be told, Josh, if I had another chance at that day I still wouldn't know how to change things. Of course I would have tried harder to talk to you about how you were feeling, but I still wouldn't know exactly what to say. Most of all, it seems, you were afraid of failing uni and nothing I could have said would have changed that. Sure, I would much rather have a living uni-dropout friend than a dead one who never technically failed. But it wasn't about what I was okay with, it was about how you felt and the million reasons you felt that way. Simply put, if I could do that day again, I feel like I would need to be by your side for the entire duration to change the outcome. And even then, I would be afraid what the next day would bring.

You were in a terrible fucking place, Josh. I fully understand that. I mean, I will never know the details of your personal mental nightmare, but having lived my own and come close to ending it myself, I feel like I can say I get it. Even now, on bad days, I think of you and just think "I get it." Your depression, a severe and chronic condition, killed you. Just like cancer and strokes and heart attacks kill. It hijacked your brain and the control of your body, just as cancer cells invade and blood clots starve the brain of oxygen. You had just as much choice in the matter as patients of any physical illness. I will never blame you Josh, I promise. It was never your fault.

But, like I say, that doesn't mean I don't get fucking angry. When it first happened the anger was constant and it took all my energy just to stop it boiling over. Now, it comes and goes. I feel angry that you did it. Despite all I know, the part of my brain that reacts impulsively wants to scream that "you're a fucking idiot!", "you're so selfish!" and "how the fuck could you do this to us?!". Of course, when I think about it more I remember that none of that is true. You just wanted to end the pain, you never intended to cause ours. But I have to be honest that those thoughts do always creep back in. It's very easy to be angry that you chose the solution that would never allow it all to get better. It's so permanent, Josh. It's so horribly, painfully permanent.

I just wish I could go back in time, to way before the day you died, and plant the seeds for you to think it okay to talk to friends. To think it okay to drop out of uni. To think it okay to ask for help. I wish so badly I could help the Josh you were before I even met you.

Thank you for letting me finally get this off my chest, Josh. Fuck, I had been holding onto that for so long. So fucking long.

I love and miss you so, so much.

C

[alarawriting]

52 Project #21: A Visit to the Doctor

“Now. Why don’t you sit down and relax. You can have a drink if you want. Bottled water? Juice? Soda?”

The thin boy shook his head. “No,” he whispered.

“That’s fine. You can sit down wherever you like.” This was obviously not 100% accurate, as the therapist herself was sitting in one of the chairs, so Jason couldn’t have picked that seat if he’d wanted to.

“Look, aren’t I supposed to be lying on a couch or something? That’s the way I always read about it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a couch, but you can lay on the floor if you want to. This is a non-judging space, Jason. You can do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

“Well, I don’t want to! And what kind of a doctor are you if you’re offering kids soda and juice? Those things are really, really bad for you! They’ll ruin your teeth, make you fat, give you diabetes…”

“As I said, this is a non-judging space. Many children feel more comfortable with sweetened drinks, but it’s perfectly fine if you don’t want any. Nobody’s forcing you to do anything, Jason. I just want you to relax.”

“You’re forcing me to relax!”

“If you don’t want to relax, that’s fine, too. It just makes it somewhat harder to help you. You do want me to help you, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said reluctantly.

“Well, then. Please sit down wherever you like. You can call me Jan, okay, Jason?”

The boy sat on the least soft of the three armchairs in the room, on the edge, with his arms tightly folded and a sullen expression. “I wanna call you Dr. Michaels.”

“All right. That’s fine too.”

“Is there anything that wouldn’t be fine?” he exploded. “I killed my little sister and you think everything I do is great! Well, it’s not! You should be punishing me, not – not telling me everything I do is fine!”

“I’m not here to punish you, Jason. I’m just here to talk to you. Why don’t you tell me about your sister?”

“She was six years old,” Jason said, miserably.

“And you’re twelve, right? So you were her big brother.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you like her? Was she fun to play with?”

“No, she was the worst pest the world has ever seen. I don’t know. I was supposed to take care of her! I was supposed to protect her, not – not—” His chest heaved, his eyes glittered with unshed tears, but whatever sobs might have wanted to burst out, he held them in.

“Tell me about what happened.”

He took a deep breath. “I was in my room, reading…”

After a moment of silence, the therapist said, “Yes?”

“And she came in. I was trying to read, and she kept bugging me. Over and over. ‘Jason, Jason, I wanna tell you about my adventure. Let me tell you about my adventure.’ She was telling me this stupid story, about how she and her imaginary playmate did something stupid. I didn’t want her to bother me anymore, and I didn’t want to hear it. So…”

“And so?” Jan prompted.

“So I killed her.”

“Tell me about that. How did you kill her?”

“I was reading this book – I’m the best reader in the class, so the teacher let me take it out. It was pretty tough to read. It was science fiction, but it was saying that, uh, I’m trying to remember how they said it… reality isn’t really just, things happen. Like, a million things might happen, but it’s the observer effect that locks down what happened. So if someone can believe hard enough in something that isn’t true, they can make it real. See, there was this guy named Bishop Berkeley, and he said that everything exists because we think it does. So if we think it doesn’t exist, well, it doesn’t.”

“But many things happen to people that they didn’t expect to happen, and many things that people don’t think exist end up existing, so how did they resolve that?”

“In the story, they said that it’s not true for everyone. Some people are, um, anchor points. They, uh, they can focus their minds on something they imagine to be true until it actually becomes true. But it’s weird because you have to know the thing isn’t true in order to believe hard enough in it that it becomes true. If you just think it’s true all by itself, you can’t focus your belief hard enough to change reality. You have to know you’re trying to change reality. That’s why only some people can be anchor points, because you gotta believe in a thing and at the same time you have to know it’s not true.”

“That sounds quite paradoxical. How could you believe something is real when you know it’s not?”

“You gotta – you gotta be able to hold two thoughts in your head at the same time where you’re not really thinking one of them, but it’s the reason you’re thinking the other one. Like, you know the game about don’t think of a swordfish?”

“I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

“It’s, sit in a corner for five minutes and don’t think of a swordfish. Except you can’t do it, or they say you can’t, because knowing that the reason you’re sitting in a corner is to not think of a swordfish makes you think of a swordfish. But I did it,” he said, almost proudly. “One time I went in the corner and I knew I was there to not think of a swordfish, so I thought of something else instead, and I got distracted by what I was thinking and I just got really into it, and then when I suddenly remembered about the swordfish, the clock said I’d been sitting there for like 20 minutes or something. So I knew, if I imagined something hard enough, I might be able to focus on it enough that I could forget about the fact that it wasn’t real.” A sob caught in his throat. “I didn’t think it would work! I didn’t mean to kill her!”

“Exactly how did she die?”

“Well, I just – I closed my eyes and I imagined life without my sister. I pretended that she died before she was born, and her room was Mom’s study, and there wasn’t any of her junk around the house, and – and I did it, I imagined it, really. I could see it exactly in my head. And then I got scared, because I knew, even before I opened my eyes, that she was gone.”

“Gone.” Jan wrote something down in her notebook.

“Yeah. Like she didn’t ever exist.”

“Why couldn’t you just imagine her to come back?”

“I tried, I tried! But I couldn’t focus anymore, I just kept thinking about the fact that I made her not exist, and I was so sad and scared, so I couldn’t get the fact that she was gone out of my head enough to imagine that she wasn’t gone. It said in the book that it’s harder to make something exist than not exist… You don’t even believe me!” The last was said in a burst of outrage.

“What makes you say that?” Jan asked, still calm and patient.

“You think I’m nuts! Everyone thinks I’m nuts. That’s why they took me to a shrink. Angie’s dead and I killed her and I’m the only one who knows she used to be alive!” As soon as the sobs started, they overwhelmed him, making him choke on his words and stutter. “It’s not fair, she was just a little kid, she didn’t deserve that, why can’t I bring her back, why can’t I bring her back—”

“Now just relax, Jason. I’m sure if you just—”

“Nobody believes me! I wish I was dead. C’mon! I don’t exist, I don’t—”

“Jason, nobody can make themselves believe they don’t exist.” There were, in fact, people with a mental illness that made them think they didn’t exist, but they had hardly made themselves believe that, consciously.

“I can’t even kill myself right!” he sobbed.

“So that’s why you took all those aspirin?”

“I was trying to die. Why did they have to save me? Why couldn’t they let me die? I killed Angie, I deserve it!”

“Now let’s go back a little bit. Was there anything you didn’t like about your family, before Angie – disappeared?”

“I don’t like you and I don’t wanna answer your questions. I know you think I’m nuts just like everyone else.”

“What makes you say that?”

Jason glared at Jan through tear-filled eyes. “What, are you a robot or something? You said that already. Are you even alive?”

“Do you think I’m not real?” the therapist asked.

“No, you’re just stupid. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll make that lamp over there go away.”

“The shiny one?”

“No, the glass one.”

“Oh, that’s a family heirloom, Jason. I’ve had it for years. Maybe you should do your trick with the shiny one.”

“You don’t believe me anyway, so why’s it matter to you?”

She sighed. “If it matters to you, Jason, that’s all that matters to me.” And if an emotionally disturbed child tried to smash the glass one to prove that it didn’t exist, that would be destructive and produce a mess, whereas if he tried to smash the brass lamp he’d only manage to destroy the bulb.

“I’m gonna do it with the glass one anyway,” he said, glaring at her. “Then you’ll believe me. If it’s a family heirloom and all.”

“I did say you could do whatever made you feel comfortable, but I’m not okay with you breaking my property.”

“I won’t break it. It’ll just stop existing,” Jason said, and closed his eyes.

The therapist got up and moved the breakable ceramic lamp out of the way just in case the boy jumped up and tried to smash it. But Jason just opened his eyes. “See?” he said. “it’s gone now!”

Looking at the ceramic lamp in her hand, the therapist said, “What’s gone now?”

“The glass lamp you used to have, right on that table!”

The therapist glanced at the table she’d just taken the ceramic lamp off of, and then at the ceramic lamp in her hand. “I’m sorry, Jason, I’ve never had a glass lamp there. This ceramic lamp was a gift from my grandmother. I’ve always had it in my office.”

Jason began to cry again.

[fleckcmscott]

Another Decade

Summary: Arthur discovers Y/N's fortieth is just around the corner. He hopes to get the occasion right.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 5,044

A/N: This request comes from @hhandley80​, who is an absolute sweetheart! Funnily enough, I got the request for this story and Another Year within a couple days of each other. Thank you so much for it! It was great to write.

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open! 

This morning's therapy appointment had boosted Arthur's spirit. Left him refreshed instead of worn. Dr. Ludlow had given him a break from discussing his negative thoughts and various neuroses. Rather, she'd asked him what he wanted to talk about. What was foremost on his mind. And he'd spent close to the entire hour diving into what it was like to live with Y/N.

Having a person who cared about him was fulfilling. Beautiful. Challenging. Struggles inevitably happened but she attempted to help him through them. (A stark difference from when he’d been on his own.) The faith she'd placed in him by inviting him into her home was exciting.

Fears he'd never be worthy of that trust or such a good, intelligent woman did tend to eat at him. Especially when he couldn’t sleep or suspected he was slipping. But he was trying. Doing his best to learn every day, every hour, every minute. To alter his view of himself to include intimate partner alongside mentally ill loner. “I- I thought it would fix me,” he’d said. “It’s hard. But I don’t feel so bad all the time anymore.”

The doctor had complimented his resolve. Said he was dealing with all the changes as well as could be expected. If he followed his treatment plan, she anticipated he'd continue to do so. Appreciating the recognition, Arthur had wondered how to keep her praises close.

And now here he was. Experiencing the ordinariness of sitting in a diner with his girlfriend. Talking about their respective mornings. Sharing a meal. The crinkle fry he grabbed from the blue-plate special in the center of the table was soggy. The corner of his mouth quirked up as he dunked it in ketchup, a possible punchline coming to mind. If he could just figure out the right-

An inviting caress to the back of his hand brought him back to the present. He hadn't meant to tune out Y/N. With an apologetic grin, he pressed back into the booth's plastic cushions and took another drag off his cigarette.

“I was saying I need to head back to work,” she told him. A smile slowly spread across her face, until it nearly blinded him. “And that I can’t believe we’ve been shacked up for almost two months. I know it’s been an adjustment-“

“A good one,” he interrupted gently, interlocking their fingers.

"I’m proud of you.” The pink on her cheeks was faint. “I wouldn’t have taken the leap with anyone else. I can’t seem to get enough of your company, Mr. Fleck.” With that, she signaled for the waitress, retrieved her wallet from her purse, and got out some cash. Rising, she turned to Arthur. “Get the change for me,” she said, heading towards the back.

Her suede billfold was open on the table, her Gotham City ID card in view. He tentatively picked it up to examine the photo. Her hair was uncharacteristically flat, shorter than it was now. The flash had turned her lovely eyes red, and her lips were agape, as though she was in the middle of a sentence. A giggle escaped him. Frumpy. She was frumpy.

Reading her details, his brow quirked at her full name: “Y/N M/N L/N.” There was a nice rhythm to it, one that would also work with “Fleck,” if they got as far as he daydreamed. Then he saw her date of birth and stilled.

Her fortieth was in less than two weeks: 4/6/1942. April sixth. Shit.

He’d learned so many facts about her: the names of her nephews and niece; which college she’d attended; her favorite bands. She’d told him her birthday was in the spring. How the hell had he neglected to ask her the specific date? Awash with embarrassment, a hiccup left him and he covered his mouth.

The waitress returned with a dubious look, a receipt, and coins. As he counted out the tip, he calculated what he had in his own wallet and checking account. He’d scrimped and saved to cover the electric and water bills (though he knew he’d have to pay them in secret to avoid Y/N’s finding a way to repay him). Could he afford a decent gift, too?

Arm in arm, they walked back to Y/N’s workplace. She chatted about that afternoon’s court process, and he puffed away as if he was going to Hoyt’s office for an impromptu scolding. When they reached the steps in front of her building, she tugged at him until he stepped closer. “You’re so stiff.”

Putting on a half-grin, he leaned into her. “Don’t worry about me.” He stole a chaste kiss, one she tried to turn into more before he backed off. “I’ll see you later.”

When he got home, he didn’t bother to change into his thermal shirt and pajama bottoms. Relaxing wasn’t an option. Stretching and pacing the kitchen, he breathed in and out, in and out. He needed to focus instead of letting himself be thrown off. Like a good partner would.

Plans. He had to make plans. And not the vagaries floating around in his head of what boyfriends were supposed to do. Special ones. Personal ones. Ones that demonstrated the depths of his love for her. This was important. The start of a new decade. And her first birthday with him.

Unable to conjure other options, he grabbed the phone from the wall and dialed Y/N’s office. His leg bounced harder with every ring. He hadn’t yet spoken with Patricia, Y/N’s friend and co-worker. But he’d heard she was nice. Any suggestions she could offer were welcome.

Thank goodness she answered before he lost his nerve. “Shaw and Associates. Patricia speaking.”

“Hi,” he pushed out, fiddling with the phone cord. “Um, this is Arthur. Arthur Fleck. Y/N’s boyfriend?”

A smile lingered in her professional lilt. “It’s nice to talk to you, finally. But she isn’t here. I can take a message.”

“No, I know.” If he hesitated too long, he'd reveal his awkwardness. So he went for it. “Do you know what Y/N’s favorite cake is?” That question commenced a conversation that gradually became easier. Each sentence soothed. Consoled the irritation he’d aimed at himself.

Y/N liked hummingbird cake, a mix of pineapple, banana, and cinnamon. It sounded intricate and expensive. There was a bakery that sold it by the slice, according to Patricia. Y/N hadn’t disclosed what gifts she would fancy, but had said she didn’t need any knick-knacks, mugs, or other such trifles. As for activities, she was uncomplicated. She liked going to the movies and restaurants. Conversations and walks. The mundanity of domestic life, especially since becoming involved with him.

That lovely sentiment caused his eyelids to shut, an ember to glow in his heart. But it only confirmed what he already knew. “I want to make her happy,” he breathed. “I’m new at this.”

“We all were once,” she said, brushing his concerns off. “Arthur, she’ll love anything you do. Because you’re the one doing it.”

The kindness she was extending to him felt surreal. Not yet used to it, he tried to believe it wasn't a trick. He thanked her quietly, for her ideas and for listening to him. But as he was about to hang up, she gave him one last piece of advice. “Wear your button-up with the blue flowers. And your yellow vest.”

Blinking, he frowned. “But those are for work.”

Patricia laughed softly. “Yeah, well. She likes them. What was it she said? ‘They accentuate his sexy waist?’”

A burn rushed across his face and he rubbed his forehead. “...Oh.”

Well, that was a request he could handle.

~~~~~

It seemed as though newspaper adverts, television commercials, and even the damned billboards plastered around Gotham had an ax to grind. They all declared the same thing. Women needed to “mold their faces back to youth!” “Guard against aging skin!” Learn they could “look young again!” To be someone other than themselves.

Rolling her eyes, Y/N dropped the magazine she’d been reading in the trash can next to her desk. She’d be crossing into the “Fatal Forties” in a week. While she did use lotion before bed to prevent the formation of wrinkles, and the prospect of gray hair wasn’t one she relished, turning the big 4-0 bothered her less than she’d anticipated. Her looks were minor concerns compared to what she’d gained over the years.

The hardships she’d endured had mostly strengthened her. Allowed her, mercifully, to grow into a person who was comfortable with herself. It was said women were supposed to be set in their ways by now. And in many respects, that was true. She enjoyed her routines. She liked her career. She loved participating in life amidst millions of other people.

But meeting Arthur had changed her path. Started her on an adventure she treasured. A journey into actual partnership, rather than her earlier attempts to please and meet other’s expectations. Attempts she had failed at. Miserably.

He hadn’t cared she was five years his senior. Hadn’t hinted that he’d considered her a “spinster.” Never joked that she was an “old maid.” If she stood in front of the cosmetic counter at the pharmacy while he got his prescriptions, he’d slink up behind her and say, “You’re already pretty.” She’d never expected him to make her feel more desirable now than she’d ever felt in her twenties, stretch marks, moderately saggy breasts, and all.

During the past few days, she’d tried to piece together what he could have planned for her birthday. He hadn’t left any clues, though one night he had hurriedly tucked something under a couch cushion. He’d been a bit out of sorts, though. Biting his nails more than usual. Seeking greater reassurance.

She’d had plenty of good birthdays. There’d been parties and games. Presents. Hugs and well wishes. When she’d taken care of her father it had mostly been forgotten, apart from the cards she’d received from her ex-husband and sister. The passage of time had been marked by worsening dementia. And she had been fine with not caring.

In contrast, Arthur had stated he’d never known what it was like to matter to someone. Not until her. He’d told her he’d given Penny a blouse for her birthday once or twice. That had been years ago, however, before his mother’s reactions to him had gradually reduced to requests to send letters. Before her health had declined when he was a child and he’d had to take over every basic task. Before he’d become too exhausted to try.

Would it be fair to expect him to take much notice?

At the end of a long workday, she’d be satisfied with a quiet evening at home. Cooking dinner together. Drinking wine until she felt warm and fuzzy. Kisses exchanged here and there. Maybe some fooling around before she nodded off on the sofa with her feet in his lap. Such basic joys would be plenty.

~~~~~

The page in Arthur’s journal taken up by Y/N’s special day wasn’t atypical. He’d been writing about her since the grocery store. (“I wonder what her name tastes like. Less bitter than mine, I bet.”) Since they’d shared donuts. (“I shud have given Sara my number.”) Since she’d stared at him, then smiled at him, and he’d felt the whole world change. (“I hope Y/N likes the joke I rote for her. I practised it 100 times! Maybe she’ll let me touch her again. Shit. I’m nervos.”)

With it a mere four days away, there wasn’t much time left for gift hunting. So he pulled on his trusty tan jacket and headed out. He was unsatisfied with what his search had turned up so far. Flowers. Candy. Nylons. It had all been mediocre when she was beyond compare.

On the verge of desperation and distress, he finally managed to stumble upon the right shop. The name above the entrance, Nice Twice, was catchy. And there was a sign: “Personalization available!” Following a quick glance through the streaked shop window, he flicked his cigarette to the ground and opened the wooden door.

As he stepped inside a shopkeeper bell rang. The stench of sandalwood incense and mothballs was thick, causing him to wince. The place was overstuffed, filled with circular clothing racks, shelves of home decor and appliances, and furniture from the sixties. He tread along the faded, orange parquet floor. Squeezed between displays of bell bottoms and coats to reach a large jewelry counter by the cash register.

A man Arthur assumed was the owner popped out from behind a nearby shoe rack. He appeared to be what Penny had disdainfully referred to as a “hippie,” with his beaded headband and light blue jeans. When asked if he’d found anything he liked, Arthur answered, “Not yet.”

His shoulders tilted, drew together as he scanned the contents of the glass cabinet. Being able to get Y/N diamond earrings or a bracelet would have been ideal. He’d heard they were supposed to be symbols of commitment. Show her how important she was to him. But they’d never be affordable, even in a thrift store. There were some lovely brooches but they weren’t her style. She didn’t wear pins, anyway.

About fifteen minutes had passed when, at last, he spotted a suitable piece. The owner gave it to him to inspect. The heart, hanging from a long, silver chain, was a tad smaller than the end of his thumb. Purple, blue, and gold flowers, faded with age, were pressed under the pendant’s rounded, glass front. It was lovely, like her. And picturing her wearing it made his chest tighten.

The necklace was twelve dollars. For two dollars more, the heart’s silver back could be engraved. Arthur could definitely swing that. It took only seconds for him to choose what should be etched into it, having had his imagination sparked by a recent fifties sit-com. It would be ready Monday, the day before her birthday.

While Arthur retrieved his wallet, the owner asked, ”Hey, what’s your sign?”

Forehead furrowed, he tried to decipher the man’s meaning. He was sure he’d heard the question on television and in films. “My sign?” The man clarified and Arthur provided both his and Y/N’s birthdays.

The owner laughed. “Woo wee! That’s a powerful match.” He indicated a collection of astrology scrolls next to the register. “Your lady friend might like one of these.”

Waving dismissively, Arthur shook his head. “I don’t believe in that.” Seemingly determined, the hippie held out a rolled-up scroll. It was about the length of a cigarette, its title printed in a faux-ancient font: “Aries & Scorpio: Love & Romance.” Curiosity piqued, he pressed his lips together. “What does it say?”

“Only good things, man.” This was obviously a well-practiced pitch. And it was working The man retrieved a keyring full of unrolled, laminated scrolls. After flipping through the collection, he handed one to Arthur. He wasn’t the fastest reader, having had difficulties with it since he was a kid. But he scanned the page.

According to “the stars,” palpable chemistry existed between Aries and Scorpio. They were fun, passionate, and explosive in the bedroom. Snorting, he brought the scroll closer. “Your attraction to each other defies logic. Aries has a tough demeanor, but Scorpio brings out the compassion and love hiding underneath. Scorpio has an inner strength Aries finds irresistible.” Hm. What it said about Y/N was true. And she’d told him he was strong (which he didn’t really believe). He smiled, pleased this silly tract paid him such compliments.

He kept going. “As a pair, you are inhalation and exhalation in one. Two sides of the same coin. Aries is the sun to Scorpio’s moon.” Y/N was all those things to him. Even on days he wasn’t sure he wanted to feel better. Even on days it was easier to sink into the familiarity of misery than to strive for the unfamiliarity of feeling good.

It was after reading the final line that he nodded and dug into his pocket for two quarters: “You will be together for decades, even into the next life.”

~~~~~

Though she was standing in an overcrowded subway, squished between a man holding a dog and a woman using her as a vertical bed, Y/N felt giddy. Albeit tired. The day had been brimming with paperwork, phone calls, and running around. But it had started off well, and she was certain its upward trajectory would continue the rest of the night.

When she’d awoken, she’d discovered a pink envelope in Arthur’s place, laying haphazardly on his pillow. She’d boosted herself up on her forearm, ran her fingertips over her handwritten name, and taken out the yellow card.

There was a drawing of a man holding a woman by the waist. Lifting her until her hair touched the cheery, red “Happy Birthday.” The couple appeared thrilled. Taken with each other. And straight out of the forties. It wasn’t quite them, but it did reflect Arthur’s old fashioned romanticism.

No preprinted poem was inside. No famous quotes. Arthur had written a message instead. One which made her ache. “What do you get when you cross chocolat with something that goes thump-thump? A sweetheart. (That’s you.) My life is nicer with you in it. Even Gotham. I’m happy you talked to me. I love you a lot. -Arthur.”

He’d returned to the bedroom. Caught her mid-giggle as she’d wiggled out of her nightgown, hidden between the sheets. He was holding a mug. The same one they’d shared after the first of many lovemaking sessions.

Greedily, she’d ogled his damp hair and slender musculature. Light green eyes soft and serene, he’d sat next to her and pecked her cheek. At the flick of his gaze to her mouth, she’d flung her arms around his shoulders. Stubble burned her skin, her kisses to his dimples urgent.

“Wait,” he’d chuckled, putting the drink on the nightstand. “I made pancakes.” Even as he’d protested, he’d splayed his hand on the small of her back.

“To hell with pancakes,” she’d purred, pulling him under the blankets.

Work had been sentimental, which she’d neither expected nor wanted. Her new job would be starting in a week and a half. The small celebration they’d squeezed in served as both a goodbye and “Over the Hill” party, black balloons and grey streamers included.

Matt had been downcast as he’d shoveled red velvet cake into his mouth. “I’m sorry it turned out this way.”

A lame attempt to lighten the atmosphere had been needed. No one was going to start blubbering on her account. “You could come with me. Follow the conscience I know you have hidden somewhere.” He’d looked askance, turned towards his office. Trying to soften her joke, she’d patted his arm. “Don’t feel too bad. You could still lose the case.”

Settled on the windowsill, she’d gazed out at the streets of the city she’d grown to love. The city she called home, despite having spent only five percent of her existence in it. It was fitting to start this phase of her life here. The only period in which she’d felt whole, both professionally and personally.

A sheen had been in Patricia’s eyes when she’d joined her in the tight space, nudging her with her hip. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you here, accelerating Matt’s hair loss.”

“You’ll have to add it to your list of duties.” Elbowing her gently, Y/N continued. “I’ll only be a couple blocks away. We’ll meet for lunch. And you have my phone number.” Before her own eyes could water, she’d gone to her desk to cut another slice.

Patricia raised her hand. “You’re going to ruin your appetite.”

“Oh? Should I be expecting something?”

Finishing her own piece, Patricia crossed her ankles. “Arthur called for tips while you were in court. He decided I was an expert on you.” Y/N’s brows shooting up prompted a chuckle. “I didn’t give away all your secrets. Just some of your favorite sweets.”

The clench of Y/N’s throat was instant. And shame washed over her for assuming he wouldn’t plan much, if anything at all. He’d been considerate, even during tough times. Like at Christmas, which had been hard for him but turned out well in the end. He’d made it clear that what he coveted most, besides love and validation, was to be treated normally. Normal expectations were a part of that. She’d sought to give him a break when the benefit of the doubt had been what he deserved.

Y/N thought a bit. Surveyed the ornate woodwork in the corners of the room. Then she'd met her friend’s gaze. “Patricia, I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“Because he’s getting you cake?”

“I’m not that easy.” Laughing, Y/N sat on the corner of her desk. “Do you remember when I said I was almost forty and was going to grab what I want? Well, I’m forty and he’s what I want.”

Caution and kindness had softened Patricia’s concerns. “I don’t mean to be indelicate. But you’re his first relationship. Is he ready for that?”

Y/N sucked the frosting off her fork. “Our sixth month is soon. I’ll drop a hint. When he’s ready - if he’s ready - he’ll know I am, too.”

She’d been floating since that realization. Since admitting her devotion to Arthur aloud and thereby making it concrete. Since getting a supportive hug from Patricia. And reassurance from Matt, of all people, that she hadn’t entered a mid-life crisis.

That headiness continued as she fumbled with her keys. Upon entering their apartment, music reached her ears. Music with a faster tempo than the classics Arthur usually played. Hanging up her coat and slipping off her shoes, she recognized it as one of her “Best of Soul and Disco” LPs. She braced herself on the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, her cheeks breaking wide open.

Arthur had moved the television and its stand to the side of the coffee table. A blanket, folded into a square, lay in front of the windows. Two plates and two wine glasses were on it. As she approached, she saw sandwiches on a platter. There was pasta salad and potato salad, both covered in plastic wrap, from the deli around the corner. In the center of it all sat an empty vase.

When he came out of the bedroom, magic wand in hand, he stilled. “Oh. Hi. You’re back already?”

A giggle. “I ran.” Biting her bottom lip, she admired his tousled brown curls, feathery, light, and attractive as hell. His face was unobscured by make-up, allowing her to revel in his handsomeness. The top button of his white shirt was undone. And his yellow vest outlined his lean frame in all the right ways. He wore his usual trousers. “Did you have a gig today?”

“No.” He smoothed a palm down his chest and stomach, and she noticed he’d rolled up his sleeves. “Um, I heard you like it.”

She felt herself blush and nodded eagerly. Thank you, Patricia.

With a flick of his wrist, flowers sprouted from the end of the wand. “I wanted to do this outside. On the fire escape. But it’s too cold.” He knelt on the blanket to put the flowers in the vase.

Y/N cocked her head. The juxtaposition of him wearing his “Carnival Casual” outfit, the cutesy charm of the picnic he’d arranged with the music that was playing was ridiculous. The song went on repeatedly about miracles, need, and “sexy things.” She snorted.

As Arthur removed the cellophane from the salads, his shoulders tensed. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he breathed. “I got too much.”

“No,” she replied, sitting next to him, laying a hand on his thigh. “This is wonderful.” When their eyes met, she found his look at once bashful and flirtatious.

She served the sandwiches and salads while he poured the wine, following her request to fill the glasses to the top. Mostly potato salad ended up on her plate, the mix of mayonnaise, pepper, and egg just right. A majority of the pasta wound up on his - he liked the vinegary flavor. The red wine did not pair with the turkeys on rye he’d prepared, so she saved most of it for dessert.

When Arthur held out an orange roll of paper, she was dabbing her mouth with a cloth napkin. The title made her laugh. She never would have suspected he put stock in the zodiac; she certainly didn’t. Gingerly, she opened the scroll and squinted down at it.

It described her as determined, confident, and extroverted. And called Arthur a curious, emotional introvert. While mostly true, it wasn’t quite accurate. Arthur was only introverted in personal situations, while having the courage to perform as a clown and a stand-up. Those traits could belong to anyone, depending on the situation.

But the next paragraph clued her in as to why he’d bought the horoscope. And given it to her. “You were made for each other. There are times when it’s hard to know how you both managed to ever exist apart. The bond between you is unbreakable. You have much to learn from one another.” A lump formed in her throat when she read the last line, that they’d be together until the next life. She didn’t believe in that, yet longed for it all the same. “Thank you, Arthur.”

The scroll would have been enough. Dinner would have been enough. He would have been enough. But he placed a pink, velvet necklace box on her lap. She blinked at it, hoping he hadn’t spent too much on her. Then she forced that notion from her brain - he was a grown man who could buy what he chose - and cracked it open. Her breath caught.

The heart with pressed flowers was obviously vintage. The size was demure, like her other, few pieces of jewelry. And it was exactly her style: feminine and practical. She was grateful he hadn’t gotten her diamonds or other flashy gems. Her eyes darted to his as she took it out. “This is...” Gently, he turned it over in her palm, and she saw the engraving on the back: A+S.

A+S. Arthur and Y/N. It was a bold move from him. A welcome one.

“I think that’s usually done on trees,” he said. “But there aren’t that many in Gotham.”

Chuckling, she sniffed back her tears and shoved it at him. “Here.” She turned her back towards him. His fingertips dragged along her collarbone as she lifted her hair and he latched the chain. The kiss he placed above the clasp made her shiver. Wanting him to see how the pendant rested right above her cleavage, she unbuttoned the top of her blouse.

“It’s beautiful.” She pulled him in for a kiss. Traced his crow's feet. Let her thumbs wander to the slight puffiness underneath. The wine, along with her earlier confession to Patricia, was making it easier to open up. “You have my whole heart, Arthur,” she sighed into his mouth.

His palm went to her chest as he tilted his head, his other holding the nape of her neck. The tip of his tongue slipped between her lips and warmth enveloped her. She felt his fingers play with the necklace. Heard his ragged inhalation. Knew that pride and pleasure were emboldening him, because she was wearing what he’d gifted.

Eventually, he broke their connection, told her to close her eyes and pecked her nose. She concentrated on his steps to the kitchen. The clatter of him going through the silverware drawer. And then the chill breeze of the glass door being opened.

When she was allowed to peek, she stood and followed him onto the fire escape. A lit cigarette was already between his lips, and he was lighting a candle on a gigantic slice of cake. “You’re supposed to make a wish,” he said, smoke escaping his nostrils.

She snuggled his side, snaked an arm around him as he slung his across her shoulders. After eyeing the flame a moment, she sucked in a deep breath, pursed her lips, and bent closer...

Just in time for a split-second gust of wind to blow out the candle.

Arthur groaned and started to let go of her but she stopped him. “It counts.” She lifted the fork and fed him a bite, grinning at his pleased hum. “You won’t mind me turning grey, will you?”

“No. I won’t be the only one looking old.”

She nuzzled his temple. “You don’t look old. You’re refined.”

“Sure,” he scoffed. They ate silently for a bit, but then he squeezed her tighter. “What did you...” Trepidation lurked behind his question, even after their steamy picnic. “What did you wish for?”

“That we’ll keep loving each other, even through tough times.” She lowered the fork, already full. “That I’ll like my new job.” Letting go of him, she set the plate on the metal stairs, next to his ashtray. “That you’ll be healthy.”

He huffed. “You shouldn’t have wasted any on me.”

“You’re worth all of them.” She kissed his bicep, laid her head on his shoulder. The record playing in the background turned over, switched to a slower song, and she grinned. “Now,” she said, “may I have this dance?”

Delight in his eyes, he bowed. She giggled as he grabbed her around the middle and pulled her flush against his solid frame. He led beautifully, gazing at her as if she was the only woman in the world, guiding her to the beat she was deaf to. He even dared to raise her hand for a modest twirl, and she trusted him enough for it to work.

As they spun slowly, rotating in the lights of their living room and the city, he kissed her hairline. “Happy birthday. I hope you liked it.”

“I loved it.” She captured his thin lips with her own. “Promise you’ll be here for the next twenty.”

“The next forty.” He bumped their noses and lay his cheek on hers. Y/N cuddled deeper into his embrace, feeling more cherished than she had in years.

~~~~~

Hot Chocolate - You Sexy Thing

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[casshasfangs]

don’t ask me where i’ve been

Everyone else on tour seemed to enjoy their days off. They were few and far in-between, but the others still counted down, drew circles on calendars and made plans with their roommates. Not Cass, though. He spent the days by himself, mostly in bed or fiddling with his guitar. The further North they travelled, the more their fans sounded like his Dad, the harder it was for Cass to fight through the depression that always seemed to hang off him like a bad smell. Today, missing him especially, he was waiting for a response to a letter he’d written to Pomonia.

Something had changed in him since Henry died. Maybe it had been longer- Cass wasn't sure. It could have started the night of their first gig. Perhaps it was that night in the Hospital Wing, watching Rhett rock Shosh under the shower, as blood pooled on the floor beneath them. Maybe he had been changing from the very moment he laid in that bed on Hogsmeade, frozen with fear and guilt and anxiety, Pomonia dozing next to him. And he'd met Sonder some time in between- or had it been before? The timeline of when the dazzling boy came spinning into his life was mingled with the traumas he'd endured in the meantime. 

 All Cass knew, was that he couldn't talk to Sonder about Henry. He hadn't known him. Robin had a skewed view of the vampire, and while Shosh had a closer idea than most, she hadn't known him for long. Tami knew Henry. But any positive memories of his ex-best friend were tainted by her betrayal, which almost ran deeper than Pomonia's. 

 Pomonia. 

 He missed her.

 It gnawed at him almost nightly, because he didn't just miss her familiarity. He missed the way she knew him, the comfort and structure she'd provided him, the way he knew exactly what was expected of him. 

He missed her arms, her hands, her lips, her whispered whiskey breath and her scent, her blood, her muted voice and the creases in the corners of her eyes. And nights like this, when he received letters back from owls, magically marked as undeliverable, he wished he could see her. He wished he could curl up in her lap, like he did when he was small. He wished he could stand in front of her and scream at her till his throat was hoarse and bloody. He wished he could cry with her about Henry, and then she would hold him and rock him and she'd whisper something that would make it better. Cass folded the letter and placed it in his pocket.

He heard Piper approaching behind him- she always stopped just short of him. Cass always wondered if she felt the same way he did, around veela descendants. Tami and Cass had always been intense friends, they often remarked that their abilities enhanced around each other, that Tami felt ill or tired when they spent too much time together. Piper was too polite to comment on it.

 He heard her shallow breaths and realised, ashamed, that she was probably affected by his angsting. "I'm just going out for a drink." He murmured lowly, turning to look at her. 

 The concern was written all over her face. It was a normal part of being on the road- both Cass and Shosh were working overtime, he couldn't feed from her as often as he needed, neither of them had the blood sugars to sustain it. He needed to supplement. But Piper wasn't concerned about that. 

 In a rare gesture, Piper took a deep breath, then reached out to place her hand on his shoulder. "I know. But you don't have to go out alone. I could come with you?" Cass just raised his brows, and the blonde sighed in response. She shrugged, letting her hand drop, "Just.. Remember you have people who care about here. It's about more than the band." 

 "Yeah," he did his best to pull himself together, the corner of his lips pulling up on one side. He tried. "I'll be back before rehearsal." Unable to handle the further emotional burden of affecting Piper a moment longer, Cass stepped back and apparated away.

He was genuinely surprised to not have splinched himself on arrival, given how all up in his head he’d been. It would’ve been embarrassing. Cass put his hands in his pockets and kept his head low as he strolled into Caro.

Cass ordered his usual drink, and headed for a booth. This early in the day, Caro was generally quiet. Most people were there to drink or socialise rather than dance the evening away. Cass just wanted the familiarity. If he couldn’t be with Pomonia, he at least wanted to be somewhere she’d been.

He was just about to pull a book from his coat pocket when Penny approached, all dolled up as usual. “Well, I’ll be- the rockstar himself, back at home. I thought you were on tour, young man!” He barely looked up at her, but saw the way her manicured fingers sprawled where her hands were resting sharply on her hips.

Cass sighed, looking up at her. “Do you always have to do this? The lecture thing?”

“I’m Southern, honey,” She invited herself into his booth, clasping her hands together atop the table, “Lecturing is how I show love.”

Cass caught himself before he rolled his eyes, but put his book on the table. He pulled his drink over, having a sip. “We’re still on tour. We just have a day off.” Cass allowed.

“And you couldn’t go to one of the other million social spots up there?” She raised a brow so high, it almost mixed into her bleach-blonde high ponytail.

“I’m trying to track down an old friend. She’s not responding to my letters, and it’s not like I can just up and leave during tour.” He said, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he sucked petulantly on his straw.

“You mean leave, like you are doing right now?” Penny hummed. “Who’s the friend? Maybe I can ask around.”

Although Penny and Bobby were new to the high-society vampire scene, Cass knew things had shifted since his Dad died. His Dad had never been top-dog, but he was well respected, and people were bickering about who played what role now. Bobby was well suited to step up in behalf of international covens, which meant Penny was automatically stepped up too, in the secretive social world of donors.

Cass hesitated- then remembered that news of his abuse hadn’t been made public. “Pomonia,” He said, hoping his voice didn’t falter. “She didn’t come to Dad’s funeral. And all my letters keep coming back. She’s probably mad I took on Shosh as a donor, I just wanted the chance to explain.” 

His voice trailed off in the face of Penny’s reaction- which was stern, at first, a deep rivet in her forehead. Then all of her edges softened, and she reached out to place a gentle hand over his own. “Honey...”

He knew that tone.

No. 

Not allowed.

Cass felt ill, and he pulled back, shaking his head. “Nope. Someone would’ve told me, she-”

“Cass, honey, she’s been gone for months. There was a trial... It was closed, no one knows what happened, but... She didn’t walk out of it.” Her voice was echoing in his head, and it seemed so quiet, so distant.

A booth in Caro in the middle of the day. A conversation with the Minister for Magic in the Headmistress’ office, late at night. No difference.

Cass placed a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing, and then placed the other on his stomach, trying to calm it as his head lolled, processing the information. He knew why there’d be a trial. He knew why she wouldn’t respond. His fault. His fault. His fault.

He blinked, then pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, leaning against the table until his eyes ached. And then he pressed harder- anything to distract from the rolling nausea of his stomach, from the weight of Penny’s hand on his shoulder, from the sound of her reassuring words.

Cass’s knees wobbled as he pushed away from her, stumbling out of the booth and the bar, gripping the walls outside to try and stay upright. There wasn’t enough oxygen- he couldn’t breathe- He was-

Cass was sick then and there, both hands clutching his stomach as if he could squeeze everything out. It splashed against the wall and Cass shook his head, looking about wildly. What did- Who- What did he do now? Where did he go?

Pomonia was dead. It was his fault. His fault. His fault.

Cass’s phone buzzed in his pocket, he barely had the mental energy to read the screen but he pulled it out anyway, blinking drearily at it and then putting it back in his pocket. He hadn’t even been gone for a fucking hour. 

With no better option, Cass sunk to the ground next to the wall, wrinkling his nose at the acrid smell of sick. He put his head between his knees, desperately trying to breathe. His hands came up to his head, gripping his hair and tugging.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. 

He rocked side to side, gently, trying to soothe himself, trying to process. And he stayed like that for a solid hour, curled up outside, alone, next to his own vomit. He stared at the floor, tugging his hair, until he saw a pair of feet stop short of him.

“C’mon, kid. Let’s go home.” He frowned at her voice, shaking his head. He didn’t want to go with Robin. Bitch. “No isn’t an option. C’mon.” 

She leaned down to take his arm, pulling him up- and unfortunately, her vampiric strength won out against his noodly arms. Cass tried pushing her off weakly, but it didn’t work. She pulled a key from her handbag, which Cass knew to be a portkey, but before he could pull away from her and run, she gripped it, and they went spinning away, landing harshly inside their front sitting room with an almighty crash. 

Cass was more prepared for a portkey landing than Robin, and immediately tugged away from her, taking out his wand and pointing it at her. “Fuck you!” He shouted, shaking his head. “You had no right-”

“Put that thing away before you take my eye out.” Robin snapped, dusting herself off and folding her arms. “Now, I don’t know what’s up with you, but you sure as shit can’t go around like that. Go upstairs and take a bath. I’ll get dinner sorted.”

“But-”

“Did I fucking stutter?” 

Cass mashed his teeth together, glaring, and then tore up the stairs, sticking his middle finger up at her as he went.

[find-felicity]

Yet another part of my deh fic

I thought I would never finish this fic but I just wrote a scene for the third time and... I'm seriously considering actually doing it. Maybe on ao3 or wattpad. Would anyone be interested? If so please tell me which one would you prefer.

Here are the other two scenes:

https://find-felicity.tumblr.com/post/641319228376547328/another-part-of-my-deh-fic

https://find-felicity.tumblr.com/post/640961612463915008/a-sneek-peek-of-the-deh-fic-ill-probably-never

About the story: in this au after Connor’s suicide attempt he falls into a coma, but he is also seen as a ghost by Evan (actually, only by Evan). Things happen pretty much the same as they do in the musical. This scene takes place after Connor storms out of the computer lab

DISCLAIMER: attempt of suicide

To sleep for days, weeks even

Connor felt exhausted even though he's been lying on his bed for the past 3 hours. His stomach growled which reminded him that he hasn't eaten anything since breakfast and even that was basically cut in half by the argument he had with his mother.

So, like some toast maybe? Or some milk... I can't even remember.

Thinking about food only made him feel worse, so he slowly got up and headed to the kitchen. His knees shaked comstantly, and he could loose his balance any minute. He had to firmly grab the handrail while going down the stairs and still managed to stumble down the last few steps.

Luckily noone was home. Zoey and Cynthia went shopping together and Larry was working late as usual. The house was really quiet. Uncomfortably quiet.

Connor's arm felt week as he opened the fridge. The first thing he saw was the leftovers from last night neatly packed in new tupperware. One of the containers even had his name on the lid. It was spaghetti which he quite liked, although since Cynthia experimented with keto noodles it was harder to enjoy.

He almost smiled thinking about his mother's spaghetti. Same recipe since he could remember but some ingredients always substituted according to Cynthia's newest ideas about a healthy lifestyle.

Like it's going to make any difference in this house. That's almost pathetic.

Suddenly he could clearly remember why he didn't eat dinner last night.

Pathetic. That's what his father said when he told his parents he's thinking about skipping a year before going to collage. Originally, his reason was to gather some ideas and finally figure out what he's going to do with his life, but...

Larry did not care for that. He could only talk about how he wouldn't give him any money if all he wants to do is spend it then do nothing all day.

Connor couldn't even argue with him. He was too mentally drained to even listen to his lecture or his mother's whining about him wasting his opportunities. He just got up, went to his room and stared at the ceiling while listening to some music. Couldn't really help with feeling any better.

Later Zoey came upstairs too and gently knocked on his door.

"Hey, if you... "

"Leave me the fuck alone! " he shouted almost immidiately.

"I just wanted to say" he could hear the sudden change in her voice as she shouted back at the closed door "that you should probably eat something! But fine, starve to death then! "

That is more and more likely to happen each day. Connor thought as he closed the fridge.

His hunger turned into something more like nausea. There were tons of fruit, yogurt and whatever else his mother could think of while grocery shopping but it was already too late. He filled a cup with water and went back to his room. It was still more than nothing.

He placed the glass on his nightstand and laid down again. The ceiling seemed to slowly rotate above him. His eyelids were heavy and his head felt like it could shatter into a million pieces any minute.

Who could say no to another depression nap?

But somehow he couldn't fall asleep. His thoughts kept wandering back to what his father has said to him.

"All you do is sitting in your room! What do you need time for? To figure out your newest addiction? "

How would he even know about the things I do? Of course Larry's always preoccupied with his very important duties as the head of the house. Almost as busy as his lovely wife!

Connor turned over a little too fast and knocked a pillow on the floor.

Fuck both of them.

He bent down to pick it back up but something under his bed caught his eye. He climbed down and pulled out an empty peanutbutter jar. Well, almost empty. Something was ratteling inside and as he wiped some dust off the lid he could clearly remember what it was.

A few months ago his mother was prescribed sleeping pills. He could even remember the proper name: diazepam. It was a serious drug so at first she refused to actually take any. But as time went by she slowly gave in and the pills disappeared from the little orange prescription bottle.

What a familiar feeling. Connor thought with a bitter smile. That's almost ironic.

Cynthia didn't even notice he had taken some of the sleeping tablets. She instatly hid the bottle but it was easier to find than the candy from last halloween. Plus she became forgetful because of the diazepam.

He shaked the bottle so the pills landed in his palm. He grabbed the glass of water and started swirling the liquid around.

I could sleep for days.

Larry may have guessed that Connor had taken some of the sleeping pills but he certainly couldn't find the jar. Instead he found some weed so they had a huge fight as usual.

Maybe he needs some diazepam too. Fuck, diazepam for the whole family!

Connor felt a sudden rush of anger. With one quick move he shoved all the pills in his mouth and swallowed them with a few big gulps of water. He almost choked but managed to get them down.

Seconds, minutes or maybe hours have passed he couldn't tell. His arms and legs started to shake and he dropped the glass he was clutching in his hand. It shattered into a million pieces as Connor's vision started to blur.

It's really happening. I can't believe it.

He collapsed as the front door opened downstairs. He could barely hear their voices.

"Hi, honey! We're back! I bought you a nice new shirt. It's not black but I hope you'll... Connor? "

"He's not even home. "

"He is. His bag is right here. "

There were a few seconds of silence as Connor's room turned into a dark abiss. He could hear his mother coming upstairs and calling his name but her voice was muffled and more and more desperate.

"Connor? Did you lock your door again? Connor?"

Then he couldn't make out the words anymore. With one big sigh everything disappeared as if someone has blown out a candle. Something was pulling him down and Connor was more than ready to give in.

Finally. I could sleep for weeks.

[maximelebled]

2019 & 2020

Hello everyone! So yeah, this yearly blog post is about three... four months late... it covers two years now.

I did have a lot of things written last year, last time, but the more things have changed, the more I’ve realized that a lot of things I talked about on here... were because I lacked enough of a social life to want to open up on here.

In a less awkwardly-phrased way, what I’m saying is, I was coping.

Not an easy thing to admit to in public by any means, but I reckon it’s the truth. Over the past two years, I’ve made more of an effort to build better & healthier friendships, dial back my social media usage a bit (number 1 coping strategy), not tie all my friendships to games I play, especially Dota (number 2 coping strategy), so that I could be more emotionally healthy overall. 

Pictured: me looking a whole lot like @dril on the outside, although not so much on the inside. (Photo by my lovely partner.)

To some degree, I believe it’s important to be able to talk about yourself a bit more openly in a way that is generally not encouraged nor made easy on other social networks (looking at you, Twitter). I know that 2010-me would be scared to approach 2020-me; and it’s my hope that what I am writing here would not help him with that, but also help him become less of an insecure dweeb faster. 😉

Not that recent accomplishments have stopped me from being any less professionally anxious. Sometimes the impostor syndrome just morphs into... something else.

Anyway, what I’m getting at is, the first reason it took me until this year to finish last year’s post is because, with my shift in perspective, and these realizations about myself, I do want to keep a lot more things private... or rather, it’s that I don’t feel the need to share them anymore? And that made figuring out what to write a fair bit harder.

The other reason I didn’t write sooner is because, in 2018, I wrote my "year in review” post right before I became able to talk about my then-latest cool thing (my work on Valve’s 2018 True Sight documentary). So I then knew I’d have to bring it up in the 2019 post. But then, I was asked to work on the 2019 True Sight documentary, and I know it was going to air in late January 2020, so I was like, “okay, well, whatever, it, I’ll just write this yearly recap after that, so I don’t miss the coach this time”. So I just ended up delaying it again until I was like... “okay, whatever, I’ll just do both 2019 and 2020 in a single post.”

I think I can say I’ve had the privilege of a pretty good 2019, all things considered. And also of a decent 2020, given the circumstances. Overall, 2019 was a year of professional fulfillment; here’s a photo taken of me while I was managing the augmented reality system at The International 2019! (The $35 million dollar Dota 2 tournament that was held, this that year, in Shanghai.)

If I’d shown this to myself 10 years ago it would’ve blown my mind, so I guess things aren’t all that bad...!

I’ve brought up two health topics in these posts before: weight & sleep.

As for the first, the situation is still stable. If it is improving, it is doing so at a snail’s pace. But quite frankly, I haven’t put in enough effort into it overall. Even though I know my diet is way better than it was five or six years ago, I’ve only just really caught up with the “how it should have been the entire time” stage. It is a milestone... but not necessarily an impressive one. Learning to cook better things for myself has been very rewarding and fulfilling, though. It’s definitely what I’d recommend if you need to find a place to start.

As for sleep, throughout 2019, I continued living 25-hour days for the most part. There were a few weeks during which I slowed down the process, but it continued on going. Then, in late December of 2019, motivated by the knowledge that sleep is such a foundational pillar of your health, I figured I really needed to take things seriously, and I managed to go on a three month streak of mostly-stable sleep! (See the data above.)

Part of what helped was willingly stopping to use my desktop computer once it got too late in the day, avoiding Dota at the end of the day as much as possible, and anything exciting for that matter... and, as much as that sounds like the worst possible stereotype, trying to “listen to my body” and recognizing when I was letting stress and anxiety build up inside me, and taking a break or trying to relax.

Also, a pill of melatonin before going to bed; but even though it’s allegedly not a problem to take melatonin, I figured I should try to rely on it as little as possible.

Unfortunately, that “good sleep” streak was abruptly stopped by a flu-like illness... it might have been Covid-19. The symptoms somewhat matched up, but I was lucky: they were very mild. I fully recovered in just over a week. I coughed a bit, but not that much. If it really was that disease, then I got very lucky.

(Pictured: another photo by my lovely SO, somewhere in Auvergne.)

My sleep continued to drift back to its 25-hour rhythm, and I only started resuming these efforts towards the fall... mostly because living during the night felt like a better option with the summer heat (no AC here). I thought about doing that the other way (getting up at 3am instead of going to bed at 7am), and while it’d make more sense temperature-wise, that would have kept me awake when there were practically no people online, and I was trying to have a better social life then, even if had to be purely online due to the coronavirus, so... yeah.

I’ve been working from home since 2012! I also lived alone for a number of years since then. For the most part, it hasn’t been a great thing for my mental health. Having had a taste of what being in an office was like thanks to a couple weeks in the Valve offices, I had the goal of beginning to apply at a few places here and there in March/April. Then the pandemic hit, so those plans are dead in the water. I wanted 2020 to be the year in which I’d finally stop being fully remote, but those plans are now dead in the water.

Now, at the end of the year, I don’t really know if I want to apply at any places. There’s a small handful of studios whose work really resonates with me, creatively speaking, and whose working conditions seem to be alright, at least from what I hear... but, and I swear I’m saying this in the least braggy way possible... there’s very little that beats having been able to work on what I want, when I want, and how much I want.

This kind of freelance status can be pretty terrifying sometimes, but I’ve managed (with some luck, of course) to reach a safe balance, a point at which I’ve effectively got this luxury of being able to only really work on what I want, and never truly overwork myself (at least by the standards of most of the gaming industry). It’s a big privilege and I feel like it’d take a lot to give it up.

Besides the things I mentioned before, one thing I did that drastically improved my mental health was being introduced to a new lovely group of friends by my partner! I started playing Dungeons & Dragons with them, every weekend or so! And in the spirit of a rising tide lifting all boats, I managed to also give back to our lovely DM, by being a sort of “AM” (audio manager)... It’s been great having something to look forward to every week.

Something to look forward to... I’ve heard about the concept of “temporal anchors”. I had heard about how the reason our adult years suddenly pass by in a blur is because we now have more “time” that’s already in our brains, but now I’m more convinced that it’s because we’re going from a very school routine such as the one schools impose upon us, to, well... practically nothing.

I thought most of my years since 2011 have been a blur, but none have whooshed by like 2020 has, and I reckon part of that is because I’ve (obviously) gone out far far less, and most importantly there wasn’t The Big Summer Event That The International Is, the biggest yearly “temporal anchor” at my disposal. The anticipation and release of those energies made summer feel a fair bit longer... and this year, summer was very much a blur for me. In and out like the wind.

I guess besides that, I haven’t really had that much trouble with being locked down. I had years of training for that, after all. Doesn’t feel like I can complain. 😛

(Pictured: trip to Chicago in January of 2019... right when the polar vortex hit!)

Work was good in 2019, and sparser in 2020. Working with Valve again after the 2018 True Sight was a very exciting opportunity. At the time, in February of 2019, I was out with my partner on little holiday trips around my region, and, after night fell, on the way back, we decided to stop in a wide open field, on a tiny countryside path, away from the cities, to try and do some star-gazing, without light pollution getting in the way.

And it’s there and then that I received their message, while looking at the stars with my SO! The timing and location turned that into a very vivid memory...

I then got to spend a couple weeks in their offices in late April / early May. I was able to bring my partner along with me to Washington State, and we did some sightseeing on the weekends.

(Pictured: part of a weekend trip in Washington. This was a dried up lakebed.)

After that, I worked on the Void Spirit trailer in the lead to The International. In August, those couple weeks in Shanghai were intense. Having peeked behind the curtain and seen everything that goes into production really does give me a much deeper appreciation for all the work that goes unseen. 

Then after that, in late 2019, there was my work on the yearly True Sight documentary, for the second time. In 2018, I’d been tasked with making just two animated sequences, and I was very nervous since that was my first time working directly with Valve; my work then was fairly “sober”, for lack of a better term.

(Pictured: view from my hotel room in Shanghai.)

For the 2019 edition, I had double the amount of sequences on my plate, and they were very trusting of me, which was very reassuring. I got to be more technically ambitious, I let my style shine through (you know... if it’s got all these gratuitous light beams, etc.), and it was real fun to work on.

At the premiere in Berlin, I was sitting in the middle of the room (in fact, you could spot me in the pre-show broadcast behind SirActionSlacks; unfortunately I had forgotten to bring textures for my shirt). Being in that spot when my shots started playing, and hearing people laughing and cheering at them... that’s an unforgettable memory. The last time I had experienced something like that was having my first Dota short film played at KeyArena in 2015, the laughter of the crowd echoing all around me... I was shaking in my seat. Just remembering it gets my heart pumping, man. It’s a really unique feeling.

So I’m pretty happy with how that work came out. I came out of it having learned quite a few new tricks too, born out of necessity from my technical ambitions. Stuff I intend to put to use again. I’m really glad that the team I worked with at Valve was so kind and great to work with. After the premiere, I received a few more compliments from them... and I did reply, “careful! You might give me enough confidence to apply!”, to which one of them replied, “you totally should, man.” But I still haven’t because I’m a massive idiot, haha. Well, I still haven’t because I don’t think I’m well-rounded enough yet. And also because, like I alluded to before, I think I’m in a pretty good situation as it is.

It’s not the first encouragements I had received from them, too; there had been a couple people from the Dota team who, at the end of my two week stay in the offices, while I was on my way out, told me I should try applying. But again, I didn’t apply because I’m a massive idiot.

(Pictured: view from the Valve offices.)

To be 200% frank, even though there’s been quite a few people who’ve followed my work throughout the years, comments on Reddit and YouTube, etc. who’ve all said things along the lines of “why aren’t you working for them ?”, well... it’s not something I ever really pursued. I know it’s a lot of people’s dream job, but I never saw it that way. I feel like, if it ever happened to me... sure, that could be cool! But I don’t know if it’s something I really want, or even that I should want?

And if you add “being unsure” to what I consider to be a lack of experience in certain things, well... I really don’t think I’d be a good candidate (yet?), and having seen how busy these people are on the inside, the last thing I want to do is waste their time with a bad application. That would be the most basic form of courtesy I can show to them.

Besides, Covid-19 makes applying to just about any job very hard, if not outright impossible right now. And for a while longer, I suspect.

(Pictured: the Tuilière & Sanadoire rocks.)

I’m still unhappy about the amount of “actual animation” I get to do overall since I like to work on just about every step of the process in my videos, but well. It’s getting better. One thing I am happy with though, is “solving problems”. And new challenges. Seeking the answers to them, and making myself be able to see those problems, alongside entire projects, from a more “holistic” way, that is to say, not missing the forest for the trees.

It’s hard to explain, and even just the use of the term “holistic” sounds like some kind of pompous cop-out... but looking back on how I handled projects 5 years ago vs. now, I see the differences in how I think about problems a lot. And to some extent I do have my time on Valve contracts to thank a LOT in helping me progress there.

Anyway, I’m currently working on a project that I’m very interested & creativefuly fulfilled by. But it has nothing to do with animation nor Dota, for a change! There are definitely at least two other Dota short films I want to make, though. We’ll see how that goes.

Happy new year & take care y’all.