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clandonnachaidh · 3 years ago

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Light Across The Seas That Sever (Ch6)

AO3

“Mind ye’ve got that meeting this afternoon?” Ian reminded him for the thousandth time as they all sat at the breakfast table and Jamie fought the urge not to roll his eyes, already mildly annoyed at the fact that his bowl of porridge wasn’t quite right. He should’ve made it himself without backing down when Jenny had insisted on doing it for him, that way it would’ve been thick enough to plaster a wall with, just how he liked it. But his sister would never surrender the spurtle, working it through the oats and milk until they became creamy and setting a large bowl of sugar on the table, much to Jamie’s distaste. Thick enough to clart a wall and with enough salt to make your eyes water, that was exactly how he’d had it since he was a bairn, their mother taking hers in the same way. Only Jenny and their father had preferred that their breakfast be covered in sugar and the sweetness of the Scottish strawberries that grew wild on Lallybroch estate.

“Aye, I ken fine well enough,” Jamie grunted without turning his eyes towards Ian who was trying to encourage a spoonful into Wee Ian’s mouth. “Whit was the name of the estate again?”

“’Tis the only estate in Tomich but did I no’ tell ye? He’s changed the meeting to the golf club.”

It had been his idea to begin with but now Jamie was uncertain about how their drunken plan was taking shape. After one too many whiskies of a night, he and Ian had been sprawled in front of the fire as they chastised the blend that they were imbibing, arrogantly announcing that the two of them could do much better. Jamie hadn’t thought anything of it as he’d stumbled to his bed and let sleep take him but a few days later he found himself mending a fence post in the back field as Ian continued his musing about Broch Mordha putting its stamp on the world as a new destination for a premier whisky distillery and the two of them, its innovative creators.

Jamie grunted as he rose to his feet and deposited his bowl into the deep sink, letting the tap run to soak the dish and refusing to turn his body to take in the picture perfect family scene that was sat at the kitchen table.

“Mr Dunsany—“

“He’s a Lord, is he no’?”

“Is there a reason yer being a particularly crabbit arse this morning, brother?” Jenny’s voice was dripping with irritation, not wanting her nice family breakfast to be ruined by the interminable grey cloud that had been brewing over Jamie’s head for the past few weeks.

“Jen, leave him be.”

“I will not. He’s been a moanin’ greetin’ face since he came back from that bloody reunion and ’tis hell time he snapped out of it,” she said a little louder to ensure that Jamie heard the emphasis that she placed on the insult as it flew from her mouth.

This caused him to turn on his heel and level his sister with a careful eye.

“I’m sorry, Janet, but sometimes I think ye forget that there is a world outside of Lallybroch. Life can be a damn sight more complicated than poppin’ out weans and tending tae chickens, ye ken.”

If her temper didn’t hit the roof, her eyebrows certainly made a good go of it. Silently, her fingers curled tightly around the spoon, stilling herself against the pull of Wee Ian’s chubby little hand that was fisted in the material of her shirt, demanding attention.

“I ken that fine well, James. But ye canna jus’ come home every time ye see her and sulk like a wee bairn that doesna get what he wants. Grow up a wee bit, aye?”

At the end of her parting shot, Jamie felt the anger licking at the sides of his throat. The rage that he’d been directing towards himself was now begging to be let loose on someone else, someone that would bite back and Christ, Jenny would do just that. It had been this way since he’d come home, the frustration melting into a sullenness that had punctured the idyllic bubble that the family lived in at Lallybroch. In his worst thoughts, he resented both his sister and his best friend and the happiness that they shared. Jamie loved them to their bones, of course he did, but after leaving Oxford with yet another memory of how he’d let Claire slip through his fingers, the last thing he wanted to see was the very evident love between Jenny and Ian and their three children.

And so he found himself, in a suit that was a bit tight across his shoulders but he’d purchased anyway in a department store on the Inverness High Street, shaking hands with Lord William Dunsany in the bar of a golf club that he’d never seen fit to frequent himself. Jamie tried his hardest not to let the glances from the club members get to him as they walked around the lounge with an understated belonging the he’d never feel himself. He made sure that he gave a strong handshake, looking the shorter man straight in the eye and made the informed decision to swap from his usual Scots to his best Received Pronunciation, assuming that Lord Dunsany was one of those people who claimed to be a ’Scotchman’ but was as English as they come with the age old story of inheriting Scottish land as a birthright. Jamie had realised, however, that the man certainly knew his whisky and would make a not-half-bad business partner with himself and Ian if he managed to convince him to part with some cash.

Jamie was fuzzy on the details of how’d they’d come to the agreement but two hours and four whiskies later, he found himself once more shaking hands with Dunsany. The Lord would foot the seed money in exchange for a fairly sizeable but not unfair amount of the business and as a personal favour, Jamie would escort his eldest daughter around Edinburgh the following evening.

“She’s up here with me to get away from some nonsense that’s gone on at home but she’s been cooped up in her hotel for days while her mother tries to organise a townhouse for her. I just want her to get out and see the city. Who better to show her around than a native?”

Late next afternoon, his slight hangover thankfully having subsided after a coffee and a square sausage roll, Jamie stepped off of the train and onto the platform of Waverley Station in the heart of Edinburgh.

The tang of the breweries immediately filled his nostrils and he breathed deeply as the ever present sound of bagpipes floated down from the upper level of the street. While Lallybroch where was his heart lived, and he loved the humour and familiarity of Glasgow, Edinburgh held a special place in his heart. He never got tired of grabbing a coffee and walking the length of George Street in the sun, the castle bursting into view if he turned his eyes to the east.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he made his way towards the hotel that Dunsany had insisted on to putting him up in, the same one as his daughter just to make things simple. Although Jamie had spent many a morning diving into the spectacular breakfasts put on at one of his favourite places in Edinburgh, The Huxley, he had never imagined staying at The Caledonian that loomed over the small establishment just metres from its door.

Jamie didn’t quite know what to do as the doorman who was wearing a bloody top hat opened the door to the hotel for him so he settled on giving the man a polite smile, resisting an absurd urge to give him some type of formal bow. He had been in nice hotels before but nothing like this with its polished marble floor and a huge vases of fresh cut flowers on most surfaces that he could see.

“Mr Fraser, we have you in the Robert Louis Stevenson Suite for two nights. Here is your room key and it also includes the number for the Concierge, should you have any need. We have a table booked in the Peacock Alley bar for you and Miss Dunsany at 6pm this evening and I would be happy to make any dinner reservations you would like to make, within or outwith the hotel. Michael can get the rest of your bags from the car,” a neat blonde woman smiled at him from the reception desk as she inclined her head to the bellboy hovering at a polite distance over Jamie’s right shoulder.

“It’s nae bother, lass, I’ve only got the one bag,” Jamie muttered with a hint of embarrassment as he pulled the bag from the floor and swiped the keycards from the desk, smiling back at her. “Thank ye.”

When he stepped through the door that bore the name of one of Scotland’s most beloved authors, his growing Imposter Syndrome ramped up a few notches. Crossing the floor towards the window, Jamie was greeted by a beautiful view of the castle as it loomed over the city. He didn’t quite know how to act, having never been in such a large and clearly expensive hotel room. In fact, it wasn’t even a room, the woman at the desk had called it a suite.

Flicking through the TV channels for a little while, settling on the new show about Billy Connolly’s upbringing in Scotland, his fingers lazily scratched at the bare patch of skin just above his belt buckle. Something about being in a different city and having some time to himself made him feel lighter than he had in weeks and he gave himself permission to laugh at a particularly lewd joke that spilled from The Big Yin’s mouth on the TV.

Jamie’s phone, lying face up on the mattress beside his left shoulder, startled him as it gave a firm buzz. Sitting up, he opened the latest message from Geneva, telling him that she wanted to go out for dinner somewhere nice tonight. He was under no illusion as to the fact that when someone like Geneva Dunsany used the words ‘somewhere nice’, she was actually saying ‘somewhere expensive’. But thankfully, Jamie knew just the place and sent her a reply saying that he had it in hand before phoning down to the reception and having the helpful woman book a table at a restaurant he knew would be impressive enough but not so posh that he would feel out of his depth by eating there.

Although they’d messaged back and forth that afternoon, he hadn’t bothered to enlarge the tiny picture next to her name at the top of the screen. Toying with his phone, Jamie resolved that he had to know what the lass looked like, not wanting to have to shuffle embarrassingly around the bar trying to figure out who he was there to meet.

Her picture brought to its full size, he looked at her for the first time and tried was pleasantly surprised. She was clearly beautiful. Dark hair that flowed in loose waves over bare shoulders, her skin a beautiful olive brown from a summer tanning on a beach somewhere. She was looking at the camera dead on with a surety that came from a privileged upbringing, her face painted perfectly and a twist of the lips that couldn’t really be called a smile, as if she didn’t want to be seen to be having fun. She looked like every posh girl that Jamie had met in his life, every girl at university who would air kiss their friends on both cheeks while their manicured hands clutched at bags that cost more than his first car.

Suppressing a groan at the thought of spending a weekend with a person who no doubt came from an entirely separate world than the one he’d grown up in, Jamie divested himself of his socks as he plodded, bare feet on plush carpet, through to the bathroom to take a shower and clean himself up ahead of his evening.

Later, he sat at the bar, his fingers playing with the patterns on the cut crystal glass that housed his double whisky, he felt a gentle hand rest on his shoulder.

“James Fraser?”

His stomach dropped into the floor.

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind at what hearing his name fall from the lips of an Englishwoman would do to him. He felt an absurd wave of revulsion swipe through him in an instant and he took a quick drink before turning on his stool to face her, swallowing the bile that had risen up in his throat.

“Och, lass, nobody really calls me James. Ye can call me Mac. ’Tis another one of my family names,” he tried to sound light and not as if the sounds of his name leaving her lips felt like the flesh on his back had been ripped open to the bone.

There was a reluctance in her eyes and he immediately knew that she was uncomfortable so he did his best to send her his most charming smile, gesturing for her to sit and then signalling to the bartender.

“What would ye like tae drink?”

“Martini, if you would, extra dry, extra dirty,” she ordered confidently as the bartender nodded and turned to begin preparing it for her.

With her chin in the air, she asked, “So, my father said you were a business associate?”

“Aye, I suppose I am now. My brother-in-law and myself wish to start our own whisky company. Your father has kindly offered to help.”

“My father isn’t generally in the habit of helping out of kindness.”

“Aye, well, hopefully he trusts that we ken what we’re doing. Or that we’ll figure it out at the very least,” Jamie tried to joke but she gave him nothing. There was something cold in her demeanour that he hoped he wouldn’t have to fight against for the whole evening.

After watching the martini disappear down Geneva’s throat in record time, he offered her an arm as they left the hotel and were hit by the cool air of Edinburgh in the evening. As soon as Jamie took the first step towards Princes Street, Geneva halted.

“We’re walking?”

“’Tis no’ far, only ten minutes or so. We have time before our reservation,” he replied, gently tugging on the arm that she’d looped through his so that she would begin to walk with him. Her feet stayed firmly planted on the concrete.

“These are £500 shoes, I’m not walking anywhere.”

“Lass, Edinburgh is a city tae get lost in. If we get a taxi we’ll just be looking at the sides of buses and traffic lights. Yer father asked me tae show ye the city,” letting her arm slip from his, Jamie took a step forward and gestured towards the castle, atmospherically lit from beneath now that the sun had gone down. He turned back to her with a kind smile and held out his hand. “Let me, aye?”

Reluctantly, she acquiesced and let him lead her away from the hotel. Jamie’s skin tingled at the contact and he realised that he hadn’t touched a woman apart from Jenny since the university reunion with Claire. He flexed his fingers experimentally and felt something swell in the pit of his stomach when Geneva tightened her grip in response.

The two of them made small talk as they walked through Princes Street gardens and up towards the restaurant, Geneva seeming happy enough with the venue that he’d chosen. He’d heard good things about The Witchery before and as they sat down at a table covered in a pristine white cloth, surrounded by painted dark wood on the walls and ceilings, he noticed how pretty Geneva looked in the candlelight. Only a fool would try to argue that she wasn’t beautiful. But there was a coldness to her that hadn’t warmed yet and so he kept on being as charming as he could, hoping that another glass of wine might bring down the steely demeanour that she seemed to hold on to for dear life.

Oxford had been full of girls like Geneva Dunsany. Wealthy, privileged and confident. After four years of university, Jamie had perfected the art of tuning out their inane conversation about which exotic place they’d spent their summer, who’s guestlist they’d been placed on for the weekend and what they were planning on wearing. So he knew how to respond to her constant stream of speech, nodding and agreeing in the right places and sending dazzling smiles across the table when he felt like rolling his eyes. Though somehow, he found that he didn’t actually dislike Geneva Dunsany. Something in her eyes, or maybe it was the way she chose her words, showed Jamie that the poor little rich girl personality was an act. Underneath the mask, she felt the same way that he did—unfathomably sad.

Something inside of him felt sorry for her, recognising the pain that he knew all too well in another. And while he didn’t particularly care for the woman, Jamie decided to be kind to her. He leaned closer across the table and started to respond to her stories with anecdotes of his own. With the help of another two martinis, she began to blossom in his company and the two shared a relatively pleasant evening together.

When they reached the hotel elevator, Jamie had nothing on his mind other than stripping off his constricting shirt and sleeping off the whisky cloud that was hanging somewhere around his temples.

“What’s on the agenda now, then?” Geneva asked as they stood side by side.

“Shower then bed, I think.”

“Sounds good to me,” she all but whispered, Jamie’s head twisting to see the dark look of seduction that was painted on her face. “Mind if I join you?”

He didn’t say no.

It was shocking how easily he slipped into the worst version of himself. There had been a few nights in the past where he’d spent too much time and money in the pub in Broch Mordha and woken up the morning with some woman curled around him at whatever bed and breakfast they’d invited him back to. He only ever slept with women who were in the area for the moment, never anyone who he’d run into again. It was always when he was half gone with drink, his body acting solely on blind need that he succumbed to his baser instincts.

The doors of the elevator opened and Geneva walked in purposefully, turning to look at him with an alluring smile. Jamie walked in beside her and pressed the number for her floor.

They found pleasure in each other’s bodies but it was skin deep at best. A simple matter of scratching an itch that they both clearly had and had resolved to using the other to sate that particular need. There were no delicate touches or gazes held for any real length of time. Jamie set himself to work, making sure that she got hers before followed suit. It was perfunctory. Pleasant. And when they both uttered their subdued sounds of fulfilment, Geneva immediately rolled away from him, shielding herself once more.

“Do ye want me to go?” Jamie’s voice broke through the dark silence of the room.

Her response was barely a whisper, “Please.”

He dressed quickly, roughly, and scrambled around in the dark for his phone that had fallen from his pocket. Geneva was lying as still as a statue but Jamie could hear the odd sniff from her and realised that she had begun to cry. After dithering between his options, his inherent gentlemanliness won out.

“Is there anything I can do?”

There was no response for a few seconds and he took that as his answer, beginning to move towards the door of the room when a single word stopped his hand from turning the doorknob.

“Stay.”

Keeping his eye on her as though she was a frightened animal that might bolt at any provocation, he slowly began to undress. When she moved over slightly to give him room to get under the covers, he did just that and felt a strange sense of kinship as she wrapped her body around his. Jamie held her, stroking her hair until she fell asleep in his arms. The sound of her gentle breathing was the only thing filling the room until his phone suddenly pinged with a notification.

Facebook Congratulate Claire Beauchamp on their engagement!

Before he could stop himself, he opened the app and looked at the posed photograph of the two of them, her left ring finger showing off an almost comically large diamond ring.

After telling our friends and family, we are so happy to announce that we are engaged! We thank everyone so far for their kind words and well wishes. From the future Mr and Mrs Frank Randall.

Every muscle on his body was thrumming with energy. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what the energy was made from. Rage? Fear? Utter desolation? Whatever it was, it was coiling its way around his ribs, holding him in stasis and holding him hostage as he experienced it.

He wasn’t even considered a friend anymore, seeing as he hadn’t been given the privilege of a private message, having to find out through fucking Facebook. She had clearly changed in her time in Boston, the Claire he knew would never have given up her name and become Mrs Frank Randall. Randall-Beauchamp at the very least, for Christs sake.

Tasting the rare metallic nature of blood in his mouth, Jamie realised that he was biting the inside of his cheek. He felt the need to get up and do something, anything to expel the energy that was going to burst out of him if he didn’t channel it into something. But he was stilled by the feel of Geneva’s naked body against his and a rush of guilt tried to swallow him whole.

How dare he question Claire’s life, assume to know her situation all the while he was in bed with another woman. Reminding himself for the hundredth time that Claire had made her choice and it wasn’t him, he swallowed his pride and went to send her a message, even though he knew it wasn’t a smart idea.

He shouldn’t have had that final whisky.

Jamie: Just seen the news. Congratulations to you and yours.

A blatant lie but what was he supposed to say?

To his surprise, her reply was almost immediate.

Claire: Thank you!

Short and to the point. Two words that would shut down any further conversation, a feigned attempt at excitement and gratitude that he prided himself on being able to see through.

He knew that he would have been one of many to send the same sentiment that day but he had kidded himself that his text would receive a more personalised response. Maybe all she thought of him was a copy and paste response as she planted her phone down screen first on the sofa before climbing into the arms of her future husband.

In an attempt to hold the tears at bay, Jamie curled an arm around Geneva’s prone body, bringing up his hands to his arm and pressing his palms into his eyes until he saw stars.

#light across the seas that severed #clan donnachaidh #ao3 #outlander fanfic #jamie fraser #Claire beauchamp #outlander #modern au

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themuseic · 4 years ago

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Only Fools (Chapter 15/15)

Fic Summary: Sent to Boone County, West Virginia on an assignment, you find yourself engulfed your work. How could you possibly find time for anything else? Even if “anything else” includes the tall, kind, and handsome bartender from down the road?

Word Count: 4.9k

Read Chapter 14 here. // Read here on AO3. // Masterlist.

Warnings: Sad Times Again (Sorry), Imposter Syndrome, Implied Alcohol Use.

A/N: Thank you for sticking with me through this story, and as always, for reading. <3

“I have to leave.”

~~~

“Oh darlin’,” Clyde’s eyes softened as he folded you in close. You pressed your face into his neck and breathed him in as you attempted to reign back your quickly beating heart. You couldn’t feel the tear tracks racing down your face, but Clyde could feel them start to wet his skin and he squeezed you closer. You, on the other hand, couldn’t feel anything.

Clyde rubbed your back as he absorbed the news and swallowed thickly. His mind raced, but his mouth couldn’t produce words.

The cacophonous bustle of eager patrons pushing through the door of the Duck Tape broke your soft silence and you pushed yourself off of Clyde’s chest. You sniffed and rubbed your nose with a sharp inhale, unwilling to look toward the group of locals gathering at the end of the bar.

Clyde snuck a look over to the group before he looked back at you, his eyes still soft and comforting.

“Why don’t y’ go wait back in my office,” he whispered, just to you. His thumb swiped back and forth over your hip. “Wait for me until I can get Earl to take over.”

“Then we can go home?” you muttered.

Clyde nodded. “Then we can go home.”

~~~

Clyde’s office was pristine. He was the organized Logan. That was, apart from his books of course, but he had so many he simply could have no rhyme or reason to those. But everything else in his life was a picture of organization, and his office was a testament to that. The documents that detailed the Duck Tape’s business were tucked neatly away in files and even the smallest paperclip was perfectly set in a ceramic bowl on his desk. Everything had a place. Except for, it seemed, you.

You curled up on the creaky leather couch that Clyde kept tucked in the corner for relaxing - though to be honest, the pair of you had found your own use for it - and gazed around the room. It was impossible to not feel out of place amongst his items. You hadn’t felt that overwhelming insecurity even once since you and Clyde had become official. But yet, here you found yourself, your departure impending, along with the looming reminder that your time in Boone County was temporary. It was never going to be your home.

Desperate to stop yourself from thinking yourself in circles, you closed your eyes and did your very best to quiet your mind.

~~~

Barely an hour had passed before the heavy wooden door squeaked as it pushed open slowly. Clyde slid into the room and his eyes zipped straight to you. The minute your gaze connected, you felt tears beginning to well in your eyes again. “Oh darlin’,” he crooned as he reached for you. “Come here.”

You allowed him to pull you off of the couch and into his chest. It was easy to melt into him as he wrapped his awaiting arms around you and squeezed you once. “Can we go home now?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

~~~

As you crossed the threshold of the trailer, you were hit with a sudden rush of emotions. It was a sort of nostalgia that you didn’t feel was within your rights to have but yet, it flooded your body. This cozy abode had become more to you in the last year than you had ever thought possible. Your heart tightened as you gazed at the books stacked neatly next to the couch, where you and Clyde had last left them. You smiled at the blanket that you and Clyde sat underneath as you read or talked, and you even looked at the cramped kitchen with fondness. You were sure burnt bacon was caked into the walls with how often Clyde cooked it, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Clyde plopped himself down onto the couch with a solid huff of breath and opened his arms to you. Your movements were laden with a sort of pervasive sadness as you sat beside him and flung your legs over his lap to settle back into his chest. His button-up was soft underneath the tips of your fingers as you dragged them across the fabric, searching for comfort in between the threads, but only when you slipped them through the gaps of the shirt buttons to caress the skin of his chest did you find it.

You sat like that in silence for hours.

~~~

Late that night, between stolen kisses and lingering touches, that answer became painfully clear, although neither of you wanted to say it out loud. There, tucked up under the covers and in each other's arms, you came to the unspoken agreement.

“I don’t want to go.”

“I know.”

Silence filled the air.

“I have to go.”

“I know, darlin’.”

“I’ll always love you.”

A breath.

“I’ll always love you too.”

~~~

It would have been impossible for any passerby to miss the sight of the bar that night.

The Duck Tape was full to the brim with the people of the town that you had gotten to know in the year you had been there. Clyde had closed the bar to anyone but them for the night. The air was filled with nothing sort of a dull roar as townsfolk and Logans alike bathed in rousing music, cold drink, and loud conversation.

Your farewell party was in full swing.

It was a somber event, but you couldn’t have guessed that by scanning the crowd. No one had been clued into the reason for the gathering yet, just how you wanted it to be. You didn’t need some grandiose send-off. No, you were just happy to see everyone another time before you took off on the road the next day, so that bittersweet knowledge was reserved for you and Clyde to bear. Sure, you would tell them as the night ended, but you were perfectly content to revel in the happiness until that happened.

Mellie sat beside you, chatting away to catch you up on all the town’s latest gossip. One of the many perks of having the town hairdresser as a friend was that you always knew what was happening in any corner of Boone County.

“And I heard that Tristan, down the road,” Mellie mused, “Well I heard that he’s been thinkin’ ‘bout selling his shop and movin’ out to Charlotte.” She shook her head. “Just to be closer to the speedway.”

You managed a smile back at that. “What, you don’t like that? Not a NASCAR fan anymore?” you teased her.

Mellie shook her head. “Nope, I haven’t watched since…. Well for a good while.” She winked at you and giggled.

It was difficult, seeing her so happy and carefree when you knew that you would be leaving the state in less than twelve hours. Your eyes fell to the smooth bar and you forced a laugh at her joke, quickly sipping at your drink to cover your false joy. It didn’t go unnoticed.

“What’s the matter there?” she asked, her brow furrowed and a frown plastered across her face. “You’ve been pretty quiet for such a fun night.”

A smile forced its way to your lips but didn’t quite reach your eyes. The performative joy just didn’t seem like it would make it that high up your face.

“Nothing’s the matter! Guess I’m just a bit tired.” You shrugged and flicked your eyes down the bar to see Clyde passing a beer to one of the Bang brothers. As if he could feel your stare boring holes through his back, he looked at you and smiled. You shot him one in return before you looked back at Mellie, who was bouncing her eyes between you and Clyde in suspicion. “Nothing to worry about.”

Mellie narrowed her eyes at you and opened her mouth to contest your response, but was promptly cut off.

“What are you two chattin’ about?”

Clyde moseyed his way over to where you were both sat at the bar, and you grabbed the distraction gratefully. “Mel was just catching me up on what she’s been hearing around the salon lately. Just some gossip,” you explained between sips of your drink.

Mellie nodded in agreement, successfully distracted from her concerns over your mood. “We’ll, I’ll let the two of y’all swoon over each other in peace,” she teased as stood from her seat at the bar. “I’ll catch up with you in a little bit, alright?” You nodded. “Of course Mellie, have fun!” you assured her, and she squeezed your arm in parting once before slipping into the crowd in search of Joe.

“You alright? I see it in your eyes a bit,” Clyde fussed, his sincere hazel eyes holding you in their gaze. “See that sadness.”

Not loud enough for your next sentence to fall on unintended ears, you replied, “Well of course I’m upset Clyde. I can’t believe I’m leaving tomorrow.” It was surreal to say out loud.

Clyde reached forward to take your hand where it rested on the bar, his veins throbbing just slightly as he squeezed you. You ran your thumb over the back of his hand and looked up at him. He smiled at you as he could best manage, and lifted your hand to his mouth to plant a kiss on your knuckles and provide that silent comfort. His lips were soft against your skin, his goatee rough, and you couldn’t help but laugh lightly at the feeling. Oh, how you would miss it.

“Hey, Clyde, there another keg in th’ back?” a voice suddenly called to him across the length of the bar. Clyde sighed as he looked towards the request and hollered back, “Yep, gimme a sec.” His soft gaze returned to you and he insisted, “Try to enjoy yourself, darlin’. You deserve it.” With a pursed smile you nodded your head in a silent promise. “Good.”

Clyde leaned forward to kiss your forehead before he turned to the awaiting gaggle of men clutching empty cups, and he was greeted with a raucous cheer.

You managed a thin smile at the jubilation that swirled around you and looked down at your drink, stirring it lazily. It wasn’t long before someone new demanded your attention.

You felt a tug on your shirt, accompanied by a very determined shout of “Hey!”

A pair of great big round eyes gazed up at you and you beamed right back. “Hey, Sadie. Are you having fun?” you smiled at her. She nodded back without hesitation. “Yeah! Uncle Clyde makes the most deeeeelicious Shirley Temples.” You laughed as you noticed the signs of her soft drink conquests. Now that you saw them, it was impossible to miss how the corners of her mouth were tinged bright red, the signature hue of the sweet grenadine that gave the soda its color.

You were still giggling when she thrust the twine-bound book she clutched in her grasp up towards your face.

“D’you wanna see my book?” she squealed, her fingers tapping along the side as she shook it. Her eyes had that signature Logan gleam, the one that tipped you off that they had a thought that just had to be shared. Your eyes widened at the prospect, you pulled the barstool to your side back away from the bar, and patted it swiftly. “Get on up here, let me see it!”

Sadie’s feet shuffled with excitement as she clambered up onto the stool top. “Well perfect, I’d hoped you’d say that,” she crowed. The leather top of the seat hissed as she plopped down on top of it and spread the brown, flecked pages of the book flat against the bar. “See, I’ve gotten into photography,” Sadie glanced up at you with palpable self-assurance, “as you know, and so I made the whole book by myself.”

You clicked your teeth. “No way!”

“Uuuh, yes way!” she gasped. “I took all the pictures, bound all the pages, and authored this all by myself.” Sadie snapped her mouth shut with conviction. “I bet I could win awards for this book.”

“I don’t think you’re wrong about that, not one bit!” You smiled and patted the cover of the book lightly. “But show me what you’ve done.”

“Oh yeah!” Sadie cracked open the book.

You were greeted with a barrage of photographs. Things you recognized and some you didn’t. There were pictures of the Purple Lady, sat prim and proper in the adjustable chair of Mellie’s salon. A small snapshot of wildflowers on the side of the road. Pictures of every single Logan you could think of.

Her bubbling voice pulled your attention to the next page as she flipped. “This one is from the fall, when my daddy and I raked up all the leaves just so we could jump back in ‘em,” Sadie giggled, her face split by her big, crooked smile.

Your eyes creased with your grin. “That looks like a fun time Sadie!”

As she flipped through the pages and babbled away, you were surprised by the pang of nostalgia that began to ache in your chest again. The same feeling that had plagued you for the past week. The one that should have been out of reach for you.

The same rush of questions that you had tried so hard to answer since you had discovered you had to leave Boone County looped through your head for the thousandth time. How could you already be nostalgic for a place you had known for less than a year? Was that fair? You felt like an imposter, inserting yourself into a life you hadn’t earned, and all because you had fallen for a man who lived among them. You felt fake.

But in all honesty, it didn’t really matter. Regardless of how long you had been in Boone County or in Clyde’s arms, you still felt the sting of saltwater at the corners of your eyes.

Sadie leafed through the booklet and showed you all different snapshots of the county. It was a special sort of walk down memory lane, through the eyes of a four-foot-nine girl.

Slowly, the images became dusted with white. It was an ephemeral scene, the one that captures the solid memories and the essence of the season in one.

“Ohhh,” Sadie drawled. “I just love winter don’t you?” You nodded as you thought back to memories of the winter festival.

Your heart clenched as your gaze caught sight of the picture Sadie had pasted in the center of the next page, surrounded by stickers of cartoon snowflakes and sleds. You looked down at the shiny, flash illuminated faces of you and Clyde. You had a wide grin plastered across your face, your nose was tipped in whipped cream, and Clyde was frozen, caught by the camera just as a laugh bubbled to his lips. His arm was slung around you like a protective shawl, and your head tilted towards his chest as though it chased his comfort.

It was almost magical, how quickly you were transported back to that moment, happy and blissfully unaware of what the future would hold.

“I really like this picture,” Sadie babbled, pointing at your smiling face. You bobbed your head in agreement and swallowed the lump in your throat. “It’s a pretty nice photo,” you sniffed in agreement. “Thank you for taking it.”

A gruff voice broke through your conversation. “Whatcha got there lil’ Sadie?”

You looked up to see Clyde stopped in front of you, his hands busy as they wiped down a glass and his head cocked as he tried to gaze at the book laid in front of his niece.

Sadie slid the book around so that he could get a view of the page. “It’s you two! From the winter festival!” she exclaimed.

Clyde’s face froze as he stared at the scene before him. You cheered on your lip as you scanned his face for any sign of reaction.

“It’s beautiful,” he choked out. When his deep eyes met yours, you swallowed thickly again. It was impossible to break eye contact with Clyde as he stared you down. The amber seas of his eyes were easy to get lost in, and you stared at him, unable and unwilling to break that line of sight. He gazed back at you with an equally loving and intense stare.

The party was far too intimate to allow anyone a moment of peace and quiet, and that was proven true in a split second.

“Alright,” Jimmy announced his presence with the same subtlety ad a foghorn. He smashed his hands against the bar, pulling you and Clyde out of your bittersweet stare. “What in god’s name is going on with the two of you?” He huffed a breath through his upper lip as he clutched at the edge of the bar top. “You two hooligans invited us here for a party and now what? Y’ mope through the whole thing?”

In unison, almost as if it was planned, you and Clyde sighed through your noses. He cocked his eyebrow at you. “Think it’s time to tell ‘em?” Clyde inquired.

You bit your cheek and sighed lightly. “It’s as good a time as any,” you replied and shifted to look at Jimmy. He looked at you from under his brow expectantly and gestured his hands as if to hurry along the explanation he awaited.

“I’m leaving. Tomorrow. I just wanted to see everyone again before I did.”

“And you didn’t tell us?”

Mellie appeared out of thin air behind her brother, her mouth gaped in offense that you had kept that secret hidden away. You grimaced at her sharp inflection. “I’m really sorry Mel. I didn’t want to be a downer.” A nervous laugh escaped you as you tried to reckon with the freshly broken news and shrug it off.

“Well, you better talk now,” Jimmy demanded, his eyes laced with concern. “What happens next? What’s your plan?”

You gestured your hands widely in surrender. “There’s nothing to do. I have to leave, I can’t lose this job.”

Mellie harrumphed as she shook her head. “What about the two of you?”

“Clyde and I already talked it through. We had a good run while it lasted.” Your face twisted as you tried to hold your emotions at bay. “But it’s time for me to go.”

Clyde nodded behind you, staring just below his sibling’s eye line as he avoided their intense glares.

“Well, that just won’t do.” Jimmy wouldn’t let the topic go, nor it seemed, let you come to terms with the fact that it was quickly approaching.

You sighed. “Jimmy, there’s nothing to do. I leave tomorrow.”

Clyde interjected, seeming determined to halt the conversation lest either of you burst into tears that didn’t need to be shed. “It’s done, Jim.”

“Me ‘n Jimmy can look over the bar.”

Earl’s voice cut through the bar and all of your heads snapped to him. He looked over to Jimmy with a smile that screamed satisfaction, and the eldest Logan nodded right back at him. “Well Earl, that’s a mighty fine idea,” Jimmy mused aloud before he looked back at you. “So then Clyde can go with you.”

“Guys, I don’t know when I’ll be done with the next assignment-,” you started, but Jimmy cut you off with a hand and a definitive voice. “No, that wasn’t a suggestion, it was a statement.”

Clyde shook his head. “That one tall order to ask of you. I know Earl’s always fine bein’ here, but what about you? What about the hardware store?”

“I don’t have to take the seasonal job at Lowe’s again this season, I’m flexible.” Jimmy’s hand clapped against his brother’s broad shoulder. “Anyway Clyde, you haven’t had a break in how long?”

Clyde’s eyebrows pinched together as he pondered his brother’s statement. “Don’t think I ever have.”

“That settles it. You could use a break, and your darlin’ here could use some company on the road.”

Clyde chewed on his lip for a moment, pondering the offer his older brother had laid before him. You could see the gears turning in his head and your heart clenched. That one offer, that one saving grace from his brother could change everything.

“Sweetheart,” Clyde started hesitantly. “Would you mind a lil’ change of plans?” he asked, choosing each word carefully as he mulled the plan over in his own mind.

Your eyes widened at him. “Clyde, do you mean that? Would you… I mean would you want to?” You could barely form a single coherent thought, let alone process this sacrifice on your behalf.

Clyde laughed and shook his head. “You know I’d want nothing less.”

It was impossible to believe the new set of rules before you. Sure, you still had to leave Boone County, but you didn’t have to leave Clyde. You didn’t have to set out by yourself. It seemed impossible that you didn’t swallow a bug with how far your mouth hung open as you tried to process the thought of it all.

“What’s goin’ through that little head of yours?” Earl called over to you, pulling a laugh from Jimmy. You snapped from your bliss and gawked at the pair of them, each with goofy smiles plastered across their faces. “Jimmy, Earl, I could kiss you both right now.”

“Hey, watch it,” Clyde growled as he reached forward and pinched your arm lightly. “You best be saving those sweet kisses for me.” You giggled and leaned forward to grab Clyde’s collar and pull him to you. He laughed as he allowed himself to fall forward, and he planted a fat, wet kiss on the corner of your mouth.

You chuckled and pushed his face back with your free palm. “Are you sure about this? Coming with me, I mean?” Your hands vibrated with pure excitement.

Clyde smiled wide at that. “More sure about this than I’ve ever been about anything darlin’.”

You beamed and yanked his face forward to kiss him deeply. Hoots and cheers erupted around you as you smiled against his lips, and you heard Clyde’s perfect chuckle as he pushed back into you. The roaring in your ears as you and Clyde got lost in the feeling of each other drowned out the sounds of the Logan’s celebration. Their cheers faded into the background slowly, until it felt like it was just the two of you in the bar, consumed in the bliss of one another. It was perfect.

~~~

Trees zipped by you as you raced down the West Virginia highway, Clyde at the wheel and you prepped and ready to navigate. Music filled the air as it filtered out of the speakers that dotted the dashboard, and you hummed along to the tune as you gazed out of the windows.

The Logans had come to the trailer early that morning to see you off. Mellie had quickly helped her brother pack a suitcase full of everything he might need on your cross-country trip, and Jimmy whipped up a breakfast for the whole lot of you to share before you set off.

Each of them had left you with a hug, a kiss on the cheek, well wishes, and the promise that they would see you sooner than you’d know, but you’d received two going away presents as well.

The first was from Sylvia. She had passed you a red canvas backpack with a shiny white cross plastered across it. It was stuffed full of first aid supplies “for when you’re out on the trails again,” she had said with a wink. “Can never be too safe.” You had thanked her, knowing you would inevitably come to need it, and she responded with a tight, warm hug.

The second was from little Sadie. You hadn’t wanted to accept them at first, reminding her that she needed them for her portfolio but she, in true Logan fashion, wouldn’t take no for an answer. She had pushed them into your hand and scurried away before you could protest, screaming “Bye, drive safe!” the whole way.

You thumbed the corner of the photographs, flipping in between them as you looked at you and Clyde’s smiling faces. They were both from the festival, from that cherry red booth that Sadie had photographed the two of you in. One had a rough patch of material on the back of it, where Sadie had peeled it from her book. You smiled at her generosity, that she would sacrifice a page of her book just for you to have a keepsake on the road.

Clyde slowed down ever so slightly as the buildings of the town began to dot the sides of the highway, and you smiled at the business you had come to know and love.

“Nice ‘lil goodbye to the town, huh darlin’?” Clyde pondered as he peered forward out of the windshield.

You turned towards him to smile and agree when you were suddenly hit square in the chest with just the perfect idea.

“Clyde!!” you exclaimed, your arms flying out in front of you.

“What, what!” his head whipped to face you, a look of horror plastered across his face. Clyde’s head whipped back and forth between the road and you as you stumbled and blubbered over your words. “Can you… over?” you thrust your arm in front of his face and pointed to the building coming up on the driver’s side of the road.

“Diner!”

Clyde shot a quizzical look at you and you responded by nodding your head. Without a second thought, Clyde turned across the highway and skidded into the asphalt parking lot. You didn’t hesitate to throw open the door of the car and toss your body out once he was just barely parked.

You rushed through the glass door of the diner, grabbed a tack from the small dish by the front, and clambered onto the squeaky vinyl seats of the booth near the back, the one you and Clyde had your first date in. The photograph of you and Clyde in the very same booth was still clutched tightly in your hand. You hollered a quick hello to Muriel behind the counter and she responded with a quick laugh and wave. The excitement that radiated from you was palpable eagerness as you bounced up and down on the vinyl cushions.

The gallery wall before you was packed full of smiling faces and you scanned it quickly, looking for just the perfect spot.

“Ah hah!” you exclaimed as you spied a clear area in between a collage of photographs. Your tongue stuck out of the side of your mouth as you held up the photograph and tried to line it up as level and as straight as possible.

The thumbtack made a small thunk as it pushed through the paint coating the wall, and you stepped back on the bench to admire your work, your chest heaving from the sheet excitement of it all.

The tinkle of the bell made you turn back towards the door.

Clyde walked in behind you, grumbling something about how you “never goddamn slow down” before he stopped to stare at you.

He looked at you quizzically for just a second before he saw what you had done. He whistled low as he sauntered up behind you and hugged you at the waist. “Lookin’ pretty good up there huh?”

You beamed down at him where his head rested against your hip and ruffled his hair. “Did you think we could leave without adding ourselves up on the wall?”

“Guess you’re right. Looks good with my family up there too.”

“You think your momma would mind?”

Clyde scoffed and tugged you down to kiss you. You laughed against his lips as he smiled and broke from you to look at you from under his long lashes. “Darlin’, I know she’d love seein’ you up there.”

~~~

You were back on the road right away, and although you were loath to leave, you were also happy to be on the open roads again. You gazed lovingly at Clyde as he drove your car through the West Virginia mountains. It was a daydream - the windows down, music lilting through the speakers, your mountain man beside you. The fresh mountain air streamed over your hand where you dangled it out of the window and you felt the sun as it warmed your body.

It felt weird, the bittersweet twang at your heart as you drove away from Boone County. You still couldn’t believe how much it had come to mean to you in the time you had been there.

But most of all you couldn’t believe what the man sitting beside you meant to you. You turned over in your seat to gaze at Clyde your eyes full of a love you could barely capture in words. As if he could feel you staring at him, he flicked his eyes to you with a raised eyebrow.

“You alright there darlin’?”

You hummed as you settled back in the seat and propped your feet on the dashboard. “More than alright Clyde,” you responded. “I feel perfectly at home.”

And that was the full truth.

You tapped your toes together on the dashboard as you rolled the taste of that statement around your mouth. “I feel perfectly at home.” It had been years since you had an address to properly call home, but you knew that didn’t matter.

As long as you had Clyde by your side, you were home.

~~~

Taglist: @mind-p0llution @thedivinemissm @clydesducktape @finn-ray-nal-beads @ladygrey03 @desiraypark @1800-fight-me @hopeamarsu @kkysolo @clumsycopy @mylifeisactuallyamess @daydreamsofren @mariesackler (Comment or message me to be added or removed!)

~~~

A/N: Holy fuck. It’s done. I genuinely don’t even know where to begin to thank people but I guess I have to start somewhere.

@mind-p0llution - For so much. Without you, I wouldn’t have started writing, let alone posting. Thank you for encouraging me, boosting my confidence, and encouraging me every step of the way. Thank you for beta’ing chapters and for just being the wonderful human you are. This story wouldn’t have seen the light of day had it not been for you and I am eternally grateful.

@clumsycopy - For creating such gorgeous art for this story and being so kind to it at every turn. AND inspiring me to keep adding to it! You are such a gem.

@kkysolo - For being you. You have kept me writing this story just by supporting it so much and have helped me through so many writers blocks and story issues. Thank you for helping make the story what it is.

@mylifeisactuallyamess @the-sacredtexts @daydreamsofren - For helping when I don’t know how to use punctuation and when I write sentences that sound funny! And again, for being the supportive angels you are.

@clydesducktape @hopeamarsu and treecreeper86 (AO3) - You have been so incredibly kind about this story and I am just? So humbled by it and your more than generous comments. Thank you for just brightening my day all the time.

And to anyone who has given this story a chance. Thank you so much for reading it, interacting with it, and supporting it in any way. It’s been nothing short of an absolute joy to put this story out there, and I am still in shock that it’s over. If you have left a comment in on the past few chapters I am so sorry that I haven’t gotten to address them yet, but I am so, so grateful for it, and I will be answering those over the weekend. I am so thankful for all of you, and I really really hope you enjoyed. <3 Love you. And thank you.

#only fools #my writing #clyde logan x reader #clyde logan x you #logan lucky fanfic #cw: implied alcohol

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concealeddarkness13 · 4 years ago

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WHG 15 Post-Games Imposter Syndrome Part 21

This is the night after part 20! Tagging: @sparkles-and-hens, @knmartinshouldbewriting, @maple-writes (also thanks for Indigo!), @pen-of-roses, @thoughts-of-nora, and @ratracechronicler!

After the sun set, I couldn’t sit in that room anymore. And Indigo had to have some kind of record of what happened with Shine. Or some kind of record about my crew at all. Didn’t she have to?

Well, I’d go find out. I snuck out as usual (really, those cameras weren’t worth shit), and got to Indigo’s office building. No one would be there at this time.

I snuck in through the ventilation shaft, just in case, and I found a file room. I thumbed through the files, looking for anything that could be relevant, but I couldn’t find anything, not after a few hours. And there was some annoying music playing. Which meant someone was here. It would be better to take a break and check on that so there wouldn’t be any surprises.

And of course, it was the bastard scientist. I cursed under my breath and tried to duck out of sight, but she saw me too fast. She dropped whatever papers she was holding and whistled for something and signed at whatever it was. Shine had taught me enough individual words for me to know she said, “block”. She pointed at the door, and a really big bird with colorful feathers and large claws on its feet and top of the wing ridge dropped from the ceiling to block the door. I had to stop myself from grinning. The bird was beautiful!

Wait, no. I was supposed to be glaring at Indigo. She didn’t get up, but she looked tired. “Here to cause more problems?”

I crossed my arms. “I could ask you the same question.”

She leaned back in her chair, sighing up at the ceiling before looking back at me. “Really? This is my lab. Is it so strange I would be here?”

“You never stay this late. That’s why I specifically picked this time. Do you really think I want to see your face right now?” Especially after what she said the last time I saw her. Shit. Don’t think about that.

“There’s a very short list of people who genuinely want to see me so no, no I don’t think you want to see my face.” She huffed and gathered her papers to put in a drawer. “Especially after what you did to it last time.”

I smiled a little at the memory of punching her face, but it was paired with a worse memory, so shit. “Did you find the video I sent you amusing?”

She sighed and glanced over at the bird by the door. “No, not really. Impressive you made it but you’re causing a lot of trouble for me right now.”

“Good. So, what horror are you working on now?” I pointedly looked at the drawer she had put her papers in.

Her face fell, and she gestured at the bird. Shit. Did I have to hate the bird now? “Her? She’s being destroyed tomorrow.” Oh, never mind. I could just hate Indigo more. “She was meant for peacekeepers as aerial support but they said she didn’t perform properly.” She signed, “ok” to the bird, and she fluttered over to Indigo’s table, taking a berry from Indigo. “It’s bullshit. They wanted something semi-autonomous and didn’t like when it displayed autonomy and bit someone who handled her roughly.”

Oh. Now my feelings were even more confused. Great. I had to go inside. Just to check out the bird. Maybe Mina was a good name? I signed at her, “come”, and Mina flew over. I held out my arm, so she landed there. She was gentle, not allowing her claws to break my skin.

I smiled over at her before I turned back to Indigo. “That sounds familiar.” I took a deep breath. “You’re not trying to convince me of anything right now, so you don’t have to tell me bullshit anymore: where is Churi holding my crew?” She could at least tell me that.

Indigo watched Mina a little bit longer before she looked back at me. “I told you the truth. They got out and I don’t know where they are now.” She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a bottle of wine and a cup. “I don’t have any need to lie to you. I’d tell you if I knew.” She poured the wine in the cup and set the bottle on the table. “There might be a glass in the cupboard there if you want some.”

I gently let my arm down to give Mina enough time to fly away, back to the table. I walked over to the indicated cupboard, snagged a glass, and poured myself some wine. It shouldn’t be poisoned. The Capitol wouldn’t want me to die yet. And anyway, she was lying. I downed the first glass in one gulp and poured a second one (Aunt Reeves had let me have alcohol under direct supervision, so I knew how much I could handle). “I call bullshit on that because what about—about Shine?” My voice cracked, and tears formed in my eyes. Shit. Not again. “That was their decoy phone. So, you had to have known where they were to have that.”

Indigo drank her glass slowly, watching Mina walk on the table, preening. She finally turned back to me. “They were alone. The whereabouts of the others are still unknown.”

My fist tightened around the glass, and my voice wavered. “Why did you have to kill them? You—you told me you could use them. And that would have been hell, but at least they would have been alive. At least I would have been able to do something.” A sob escaped my lips.

“I’m sorry, Triel,” Indigo mumbled. She wasn’t looking at me. “Others got to them first and by the time I got there the best I could do was make it quick.”

Shit. I could just imagine it. Shine, lying in a pool of their own blood. Indigo with a knife. Anger bled into my voice. “Did you know that the Capitol has a person who can magically heal wounds, even though it makes them hurt so much worse? I do, because that’s what they’ve used to keep my magic in check.” I slammed the empty glass down. “So, I call bullshit on that.”

“What do you want me to say?” Indigo snapped back, and that just made me angrier. “Would you rather I took Churi’s approach and beat them to death? Or cut them up over and over for whatever wizard to patch them up to do it again?”

“If they were still alive, I could save them.” Could I really? I was useless. Well, at least I could do something. I signed, “come” for Mina again, and she landed on my arm. I glared at Indigo. “And if you fucking touch any of my friends again, you’ll get worse than just a bruised face. You piece of shit. I’m taking Mina before you can destroy another life.”

“Her name is Ivy.” Indigo glared, but she didn’t try to stop me. She leaned back and spoke quieter. “She’s an omnivore, and she likes berries.” She pulled out a pouch of berries and threw it toward me.

Well, at least we could have this mutual understanding. I caught the bag and nodded, still making sure to sound angry. “I’m taking Ivy before you can destroy another life.”

Indigo slouched in her chair and sighed as I left. I didn’t even go back to the file room. Really, why would Indigo lie to me about my crew? Maybe Churi was lying instead. But what did it matter? I probably wouldn’t be able to see them again anyway.

Ivy stuck with me as I crawled back out of the building, and she circled my head as I walked back to where they were holding me. When I got back in the room, I signed at her, “hide”, and she avoided the cameras. I helped make a nest for her in the closet, where she could hide, and I handed her a few berries. At least I had been able to save her.

#writeblr hunger games #writeblr

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amxwolf · 3 years ago

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Here is why conventional healthful-thinking is not working on Millennials.

Have you ever had that terrifying dream where you are stuck in a dark forest or sketchy alley, frantically running for your life from some kind of feral monster or mad man? Most of us can personally recall at least once being roused from sleep in a cold sweat because their brain had spent the last few hours perfecting the latent image of a made-to-order nightmare. While that experience is certainly not exclusive to Millennials (rather quite the opposite), the waking reaction or at least how it is processed later by this roughly categorized group of mislabeled people is unique to say the least.

For years now, people in marketing have been fervently dissecting and attempting to recreate what has been loosely categorized as "Millennial Humor". And in all of their efforts to connect with this flock of black sheep, the grand majority of them seem to be missing a key factor in the psychology at work here. For all the unwarrantable bilge that modern advertising haphazardly cobbles together, only a small percentage of the nonsense is seasoned perfectly with the secret ingredient. What is this singular spice? Well, while indulgent to profess and speculative, from someone "sitting in millennial class”, it's obvious: A touch of salt.

Never will I sit here and cry to the general public about how unhappy I am that the modern advertising industry is just not scratching my itch for the wares it’s peddling, but I think it's important for us now to look at how this systemic lack of understanding is reaching beyond the world of subliminal profiteering. Society has other significant quality-of-life effecting systems that are also missing the mark when trying to aim and reach out to help this specific group of people. Puns aside, "a touch of salt" as I quipped, is flavoring the lives of a lot of people in their mid to late 20's and early 40's. And the most frustrating and difficult to reconcile attempts that I personally have made to better myself, have been those that were guided by people who just cannot seem to put their brain into that salty head space.

For example, trying to focus on and internalize a well-organized medical presentation about the encompassing negative effects of stress or insomnia and its seemly simple solution of just "changing your thinking", is about as easily digestible as a two-decade-year-old fruitcake for someone who is imprisoned daily by the symptoms of chronic stress. While I may sit there and give listening (ironically) "the old college try", the sound quickly turns to fuzzy white noise the deeper the lecture dives into positive thinking.

You see, Millennials are not generally fluent in positive thinking. More and more of them seem to be speaking a very distinctive dialect of realism, which incorporates a robustly cultivated sense of sarcasm and a somewhat grim shade of hopelessness. A lot of millennials grew up with a laughably poetic twist on "Growing Up" and "Being Successful", which in turn has colored their day-to-day interactions and created this defeatism-culture. Millennials will openly joke about their death as a needed release, their eulogy as a retirement card, or emotionally decompile themselves over something simple like saying "you too" in a situation that doesn't warrant it.

A good percentage of Millennials were old enough to understand the destructive consequences of the most recent housing market disaster on a very personal level; At an impressionable age, watching their own parents, who may have worked excruciatingly hard at the expense of any number of personal or family goals, lose just about everything resonated in a way that cannot be unheard. Then add the borderline criminal and unscrupulous "sheep-shearing" that became common place when the generation was herded off to college, trade school, or other form of career-building education. Not to mention the fact that upon completing said programs, a proverbial "step-in-the-right direction", a substantial number of these "hopeless wanderers" were faced with yet another barbed-wire hurdle when the job market in countless fields were oversaturated with potential employees. Many positions had not been vacated as they normally would have been with the age of retirement being stretched further and further down the road due to increased cost of living and financial demands; the finish line or lap marker was just not getting any closer. To add insult to injury, Millennials, sometimes unbelievably hardworking, are frequently being listed as perpetuators of the clashing reality we have today. This being what the modern media is calling "The Great Resignation"; a dubious combination of a labor shortage amidst an unemployment spike fueled by uncompetitive wages left unchecked, the government's inability to reel in the situation, and a general devaluing of laborers overall.

Oh. And also, we were killing the diamond industry at the same time. Or was it simultaneously the marriage and divorce industry? Wait! I think it was cinema? Or no....maybe it was fabric softener. For a complete dissertation of all the things Millennials brutally murdered over the last two decades, perhaps I'll include a link below if for no other reason to drive my point home.

You have this group of people who are conditioned to endlessly swimming upstream, against the current, with nothing but chastising and bitterness to listen to. So, when it comes to something universal like learning to "sleep better" or "problem solving", the indifferent but somehow time-honored approach of saying "it's as easy as just taking control" is over time if not immediately rejected as dissonant information.

These people don't feel like they have control; some of them feel like they never had any to begin with.

Why is this a problem?

Our society is not developing a taste for "salt" at a pace in which it can prepare social-sustenance for its population. We're not getting any younger, and neither are the generations in front of us.

Millennials are already, by some definitions the mass-population of workers, voters, and other titles that we've yet to embrace. And our lack of interest is not because we do not have a passion for positive change (even on a global scale). Millennials have voiced over time that they feel they are the silent majority amidst a group of people who will not give them breathing room and don't respect the validity of their opinions and ambitions. And it is by no means restricted to one region or country on this planet. This is a global phenomenon.

I could spin a vast yarn about the political ramifications of continuing to exclude the Millennials from the metaphoric Counsel of Elders, but I'm more concerned about the neglect that is spreading elsewhere. We need our leaders in the medical and social fields to really respect and dig deep into how to incorporate "Millennial Thinking" into their treatment and development plans. A large amount of the global population is going to need carefully tailored treatment for things as old as depression, bi-polar tendencies, or schizophrenia as well as newly discovered mental encumbrances like imposter-syndrome.

While “positive-thinking” may have been easily cultivated in the past, we may need to start from a more negative approach and build from there to educate and treat a group of down-on-their-luck millions. Pumping drugs into a populace is not going to permanently patch the leak either, so there truly is precedence for a rehashing of how we should prioritize mental health in modern society.

Stop spending so much time and energy assigning blame to modern technologies and social norms. Are these going away? No? In that case, those things are much like our other daily stresses that are unavoidable. Yes, you can change your nightly routine to de-stress the same way that you can change a job or a daily commute, but there needs to be a fundamental shift in accountability divvied to circumstances out of a person's control rather than scolding them for not being able to manage it.

Do I have all the answers? No.

But this was less about offering a solid a solution and more about opening a dialogue. A starting point.

So yeah. I've had that dream of being chased through the woods by a life-leeching alien. It felt very similar to being sucked dry of my pitiful wages for an education that was at the time, barely panning out. Even now, as a 32-year-old, slightly more successful version of the starving student I've become, I still feel as though my rat race will end when my heart gives out; and all I can hope for is enough money when I drop to cover the ambulance ride to the over-crowded emergency room and a large pit to rot in. But I just hope that the generation behind me has the benefit of a system that understands how to create and sustain “Millennial Inspired” social structures that will allow them to flourish in what little we can leave behind for them.

Also, could you pass the salt?

#rant #millenials #heavy thoughts #random thoughts #seriously though modern mental medicine is a joke

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beingdaniellarebecca · 5 years ago

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How to Make Imposter Syndrome a Thing of the Past

Imposter syndrome: A fancy savy turm for feelings of severe inadequacy and self-doubt regarding one’s skills and achievements. You may have heard of it?

Recognizing Imposter Syndrome

My own experiences with imposter syndrome can be traced far back. One memory stands out really clearly in my mind. I am 15, clad in black sweaters and eyeliner, lying in my bed, listening to My Chemical Romance. I feel depressed and hopeless, and here is the thought causing those feelings: Woe is me, l will never be able to be the frontwoman of a famous emo band because neither of my parents were drug addicts.

I’m super serious. I legitimately thought that because my life did not look like Gerard Way’s, I would never be able to create music the way that he did.

Years have passed, my music taste has evolved and rotated, and this imposter syndrome I speak of has lessened. Actually, these past few months, it’s lessened so much, that I can look back and fully recognize the state of imposter syndrome I was once in. At the time, it felt so real, like all my fears were true and there was no other option but to believe them. Like a fish who doesn’t know what water is because he’s never known anything else.

Exposing Imposter Syndrome as a Jumble of Untrue Thoughts

In retrospect, I can now put a name to that cloud of confusion that surrounded me, the fear that I'm not good enough, that I don't know enough, the paralyzing self-doubt that I was doing everything all wrong. The absolute conviction that I do not have what it takes.

In my opinion, this is really the essence of imposter syndrome. This conviction that we are lacking something that other’s have, like they are all ‘real’ artists/musicians/entrepreneurs, and I am only an imposter. Be it a specific education, more money, a different nationality, we think we can’t be like them cause we aren’t them.

These days, when imposter syndrome comes for a visit, I politely direct it towards the nearest exit, reminding it to take a mint on it’s way out. You see, I’ve figured out how to see through imposter syndrome's cloudy veil. I've found out how to unravel all the little knots it has tied up around me.

I have a friend who draws and paints. Often when we talk, my friend and I, she brings up all her insecurities and self-doubts regarding her art Instagram account. She wants to someday have lots of followers, and make money off of her art, and share it with the world. But she sees other artists’ accounts, the kinds with 15k followers, and she compares herself to them.

"I don't have a consistent style like them."

"I'm not interesting like them."

"I don't have the confidence that they do."

(Enter imposter syndrome.)

Let me tell you something about my friend. Her art is really good. She posts consistently, just like all those other people do. When I open up her account and look at it from an outsider's point of view, it looks like a blooming art account, with all the right stuff happening in all the right places. High quality art. Consistent posting. I look at her account and see no difference between hers and that of one of those famous people she mentioned, content-wise. She’s doing everything right.

So I tell her that. I say, “Dude, from where I’m standing, your account looks just like all those other accounts. I know you, so I know about all your overthinking and indecisiveness, all of your insecurities and self-doubts. But if I was looking at your account and I didn’t know you, I would see a flawless account and assume a flawless creator. So aren’t we doing that to all those successful artists that we don’t know personally? They probably are thinking exactly what you’re thinking. That they aren’t good enough, that they aren’t consistent enough…you just can’t see it from their account. Someone below you is probably looking at your account thinking ‘I’ll never be where she is.’”

BAM.

Do you get my point? Did I make it clear enough?

If not, let me clarify that for you: Imposter syndrome is a trick of the mind, misinforming us and coming to mythical conclusions based on the little we know of other people.

Here's another example. My mom started doing Facebook lives lately, to promote her mind-body chronic pain coaching service. One time, literally in the same house as her, but in a different room, I went on Facebook and tuned in to her call for a few minutes.

From my computer, it looked like any other Facebook live. It could've been Joe Dispenza talking. (Super famous mind-body guru. Look him up.) Except it wasn’t, it was my mom, and there weren’t as many people watching. But again, content-wise? Same quality.

What I knew about my mom, that all of her viewers didn’t, was that she had a glass of wine before she went live, to calm her nerves, and that as soon as it was over, she was anxiously overthinking all the things she said, cursing herself for whatever unnoticeable mistakes she made. I don’t know Joe Dispenza personally. But I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he goes through a similar ordeal, unknown to his viewers. Or that he did, at some point in his early beginnings as a New Age sensation.

We see what others do from the outside, and we think it was all smooth sailing for them. That they were born with a 300k fanbase and a soaring talent for whatever it is. We see their posts, their videos, their finished projects, and for the most part, we don't see their thoughts, feelings, fears, self-doubts....and we believe that we are different than them. We think they have it all together. We think that because of that, we can never succeed because we don’t have it all together. But neither do they! Or at least, they didn’t in the beginning! And that is perfectly fine and natural. It’s just part of being a creator. Everyone experiences it. (Maybe a few people don’t. I’m not sure where they come from or what they’re doing here.)

Now I’ve shown you the untruth fueling this notorious imposter syndrome. Now I’ll tell you what is true.

Feeling the Fear and Doing it anyway

What is true is that you definitely will not succeed if you don't try. The difference between those who are out there creating content, music, films, art, and those who aren't, is that the first group feels the fear and does it anyway. While the second feels the fear...and maybe gives it a little too much space.

I’m all for giving your fear a little space. See it, allow it, accept it, acknowledge it. And then do the thing anyway.

Realizing that there is nothing significant that separates me from the people out there succeeding has helped me lower the volume on my imposter syndrome. And now I have a blog, where I write articles that I don’t feel so confident about, but I keep working at. I know now that most people started exactly where I did, and if I keep at it, I have a chance of getting to where they are. Because the only difference between them and me is time and experience. Skill is aquired. (If you think talent is something you’re born with and have no control over, than read Daniel Coyle’s The Talent Code. Basically, it’s not, but that’s for a whole different article.)

I hope that I’ve helped you open your eyes a little bit more to the reality that you have everything you need to get started. Or maybe you already knew, and you just needed a little reminder. Go out and follow your dream. Go do the thing. Feel your fear, call it by its true name- a false thought- and do it anyway.

#self help #fear #imposter syndrome #self love #self improvement #growth #inspiration #psychology #thoughts

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justkimberley · 5 years ago

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HSMTMTS Thoughts Episode 1

Episode 2 Episode 3 Episode 4 Episode 5

Ms. Jenn watching HSM in her car is a mood

Ricky seems so excited to “start over” (oof)

She sounded neutral, that’s good right”

Ok, here’s the thing though… announcing that you love someone FOR THE FIRST TIME should be a private thing, not posted for the world to see (in my opinion).

Oof, Ricky’s face, that baby is not sure how to deal with love

“oh,”

So here’s the thing, at this point the audience doesn’t know this yet, but as I am rewatching this, I know what’s going on and Ricky at this point has no frame of reference where “love” works. He thinks that his parents are still in love (or at least he hopes), but his mom has been going away for long periods of time, he knows that their marriage isn’t doing too hot, and he is in the middle of it. Of course he couldn’t say it.

“It was a BREAK it wasn’t a break UP.” �� I’m sorry Ricky, but it’s a break UP now.”

*strong independent Nini face**sad and confused Ricky face*

Ok so like, I love Courtney and she gets better as the season goes on but the “I’m dismantling the patriarchy this year, and I’m not afraid to start with you,” was just,,, I don’t know I guess it just reminds me of the people that I went to high school/worked with that were all talk and buzzwords and no actual sustenance

The “interviews” where Nini’s like: “everything is great” and Ricky is like; “everything is terrible, love is dead” is hilarious and I love it

I love Big Red

Ugh… Miss Jenn is too much, (she might be my least favourite character I’m sorry) “triggered as a millenial” line also gross, thanks

Carlos - BABEY

Nini has some serious imposter syndrome

Carlos is NOT a HSM historian. You can’t have only seen the first movie all the way through and not seen the other ones.

BROADWAY

Mr. Mazzara, the epitome of my least favourite type of teacher

“We don’t call colleagues sweetie,” you know what? Point to you Mr. Mazzara, that is a thing we shouldn’t do. Very patronizing.

I feel like Mr. Mazarra would be more likable if he didn’t have a mustache? Weird thought but okay

“Looking this fabulous while also fighting for intersectional feminism IS my job” again, buzzwords and no sustenance

V hudge - uhhhh??? No one says that.

All the talented senior girls graduated last year” that is probably the most realistic line in the series

Yay finally good Courtney, actually showing us a little bit about who she is

EJ noticed Nini two years ago, why did he not talk to her until the summer?

I know what he does later is not good, but he does really like her and he cares about her, so at least that counts for something

Natalie! I forgot about her, I wish she had a bigger part in the rest of the show

Nini’s grandma and her moms!

Nini’s imposter syndrome returns

Ricky’s dad! He’s trying so hard to give Ricky’s mom space, and he’s stressed and obviously Ricky is aware, but at least his dad is trying to be reassuring “it’s gonna be fine bud”

Also why does nobody talk about how what Ricky’s mom is doing is kind of really shitty? Like she left her child for weeks at a time, without explaining what was going on?

“Shouldn’t he be fighting to save this?” *goes to fight to save his relationship*

“I’m actually bummed that we don’t have any competition here” - also a very realistic line but the cockiness needs to go (I’m guessing it might be a major point in his redemption. He’s definitely used to getting what he wants all the time, so it would be good to see him start to accept that that’s just not how life works)

Gina! - Sofia Wylie’s dancing, so good

Also, who is the guy with the grey/white hair? He’s one of my favourites.

Also how do they think that Gina should be Gabriella? She’s definitely more of a Sharpay, and if they want to go with a boy for Sharpay (we love Seb) then she should at least be Ryan (why not genderbend the both of them?). She should be someone who is super out there and has lots of musical numbers so she can dance and show off her talent and personality, Gabriella just isn’t that kind of character.

Also miss Jenn’s type casting is really not my thing (you look like a Taylor, you’re a Chad, etc. Should they not just choose who they want to audition for and then be put where they actually fit?)

“I dabble…” (Ashlyn, we love you) also why would Miss Darbus have a power ballad?

“This is my nightmare” *getcha head in the game on repeat *

That Armie Hammer comment is creepy, Miss Jenn

Once again, Gina is too much of a powershow for Gabriella. She’s not showing the vulnerability

Also a look into Gina’s home life that I forgot about. “If you’re not the best don’t do anything at all,” Yikes, total stage mom living vicariously through her daughter? Maybe?

That british accent thing is very strange and also never addressed again (so far) whyy? Why did they do it?? Does anyone in real life actually do this?

“That is why I love you” - *wide eyed flashback* also EJ, its been like one month, slow down tiger

“That’s a really big thing to post online” my thoughts too, Ricky

Okay so here’s my thoughts about Ricky calling the break. His mom has been away for a long time (because of the whole divorce thing) so in his mind, being far away from each other means that the love thing will kind of be messed up and also like his mom texts him right before and definitely reminds him.

It also gives us sight into what Ricky thinks will happen with his parents. He thinks as soon as his mom comes home for good that it will all be fine with his parents, and that’s not what happens (as we know from episode 4). This is also mirrored in Ricky and Nini’s relationship.

Also long distance for teenagers? (grade 10s going into grade 11 at that point) like that isn’t something they’ve ever been told could work

I’m not saying that Nini’s reaction isn’t valid, I’m just trying to explain what I think is going on with Ricky

Although Nini is the only person Ricky goes to for advice, so shouldn’t she kind of be aware of these issues? Although I guess Ricky’s not even very aware of what’s going on at this point either

“Troy would have arrived on time” incorrect - many people have mentioned this but like, Troy was always late. It’s a major plot point in all of the movies.

EJ’s “You got this babe,” is what caused Miss Jen to spill on the light thing and then made the lights go out → metaphor? EJ is actually stifling Nini by being so “supportive” (by accident)

“I’m not thrown,” queen! Literally 1. Boyfriend tells her he loves her causing slightly traumatic flashback 2. Ex boyfriend runs in to auditions for something he’s said he hates and 3. Lights get messed. We stan. Not thrown, what a legend. (and then proceeds to sing and face her dream fears)

Ricky! With the flashlight first, because he believes in her, EJ with his light because he needs to one up Ricky.\

RED! Coming to support his friend.

Temp -tress girl → then immediately improvises lines just to tell Nini that he loves her

“Was this in the movie?” Miss Jenn and Carlos → fake fans

“Cause that’s like not even a word your parents say to each other anymore” → he’s trying to explain his actions (or lack thereof). Also ow, that is a hard thing to hear.

I like Ricky’s version better than Nini’s oops

Also Nini is charmed by it, even though she doesn’t want to be → cue jealous EJ

Everyone subtly impressed, and also are like “awww”

“Don’t not love you” so quietly, this boy has emotional intimacy problems and he needs to talk to a therapist or something cause his parents are really messing him up with their divorce, or “legal separation” I guess. I don’t really know what the difference is.

Ricky’s face when Nini tells him he broke her heart → immediate regret

“I… don’t… not… love you,” oof

Nini and Ashlyn’s faces, my babies are so excited they got their parts!

Gina, shocked

“She thinks I’m a ChAd?”

Ricky looks so impressed with himself and he’s also like *play ball, let’s go boys*, Nini’s like *uh oh*, and EJ’s like *maybe I’ll slip him a rotten egg too*(oop ep. 4 spoilers)

#hsmtmts #hsmtmts spoilers #episode 1 #kimberleysthoughts #mypost #feel free to come yell into the void with me about this show #(the void is the name of my askbox lol)#kimberleyreacts

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tsukiyaki · 5 years ago

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2020 LC: Session 2

Meeting dates: 2.26 & 3.13

Originally, I was expecting to miss this cohort meeting and the next one. But thanks to the coronavirus, my scheduled trips were either postponed or cancelled. Bummed as I may have been about the trips, I’m really thankful that I don’t have to miss any of these sessions.

Session 2 was a very different experience from Session 1. In short, it wrecked me emotionally in a very bad way, but that in itself set me on the right track to do some deeper soul searching and character building going forward.

My experience

At least half the cohort didn’t make it to this session. A didn’t make it out either, so his partner, J, guided us alone. We covered the 5 Voices (a simplified and more scalable model of the MBTI) and determined our leadership voice orders. Those of us called sherpas (who you can think of as guides-in-training under A and J) were asked to help our group members identify theirs.

I had to step out in the middle to give a work presentation and unfortunately missed the content on 2 of the voices. I felt extremely tense the whole time as I sensed the moods of certain participants worsen at different points. I myself was fighting a growing sense of imposter syndrome for being a sherpa, especially after getting into just a bit of conflict with someone I was trying to help understand her voice order. This sense hit its peak when J told me after the session that A had said a lot of great things about me that I did not feel deserving of, and the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “He lied.”

My first concern was that A would be mad at me for unintentionally attacking his character like this. And then a familiar wave of shame crashed over me as I realized I felt like an utter disappointment and a fraud because A wouldn’t lie, which suggested to me that I had failed him by not being able to live up to the person he thought I was. True to my tendencies as a primary Nurturer voice, it never occurred to me that perhaps my perception of myself was way off, and not his. As this is a revelation that has only just hit me, I can’t say I’ve made any progress seeing what he sees in me yet, but I will certainly be bringing this up in my next 1:1.

I’ve definitely recognized this self-sabotaging tendency in me before, but I’m not sure I’ve ever believed that I can and should do something about it. I find it ironic that as someone who has spent most of my life trying to prove myself superior to others for a sense of security and self worth, one of the hardest things for me to do is believe that most of the time when I sell myself short, I’m the one who can’t see the truth, not everybody else who I think I’ve just somehow deceived into thinking better of me than I deserve. Growing up, the things I learned to value and seek in order to survive in the world have really undermined and disconnected me from my foundational leadership voice. Yet it’s crazy how even after all these years, now that I’m finally finding the guts to look beneath the layers of nurture and choice, I still find a Nurturer through and through. I’m really glad that it’s not too late to relearn how to be me.

Application

Since the last session, I’ve shared the support challenge matrix with 6 people. I asked 3 of my coworkers to plot me on the matrix (using scales of 1-10 for support and challenge) and provide actionable feedback on how I can be more of a liberator to them:

Lesia: 8 support, 6-7 challenge. Said that she really appreciates being given more context behind why I make the decisions I make when working with her and would prefer me err on the side of over-communicating. This was fascinating, as I tend to be the complete opposite and hate it when people tell me more than I ask to know. Clearing that up between us helped us both understand how to work better with the other person. She was also really interested in hearing more about what I learn through this cohort, which was really exciting for me to hear!

Dustin: At work, 6 support, 5 challenge. As a friend, 3-4 points higher each. Will get back to me on what higher support and challenge look like for him.

Ian: As a friend, 7 support, 7-8 challenge. Said that he’d appreciate it if I checked in on him more proactively. Quite profoundly pointed out that he believes the higher support I bring to him, the more fruitful the challenge I already naturally bring will be.

My homework for this session is to take 2 leadership insights for Nurturers and apply them. After writing this post, I’ve landed on these:

People chose you to lead because they believe in you. Act knowing that you belong.

When people challenge your views and opinions they are trying to help. It’s not a personal attack.

Next steps?

By 3/3: Ask A to help me figure out what I’m actually supposed to do to apply these attitude-based insights and what it looks like to have successfully applied them.

By 3/6: Share my experience with the cohort on Marco Polo.

By 3/8: Finish the homework A gave me for February without beating myself up for not finishing it on time or getting defensive about why I didn’t do so.

#dominoes

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cloudbeam · 7 years ago

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I'm curently going through my neurology course at uni and it's so hard for me. I was really excited about it but now i just feel defeated. No matter how much i study it's never enough because our assistant has crazy high expectations. I feel so stupid even though everyone else is struggling too. I'm becoming less motivated and more anxious everyday. And to top that my grandpa broke her hand today and she'll be operated on tomorrow or the day after

i’m in a similar position–the college i go to is very rigorous and only 2-5 people graduate with a 4.0 every year. so i’m used to getting grades way below what i got in high school at this point! but thats really hard to get used to, and i still struggle with imposter syndrome and just generally feeling shitty about the grades I’m receiving, even if I’m proud of the work I’ve done.

here is what helps me stick with it:

1. communicating with professors as much as possible. email them about any questions you have, and don’t worry about bothering them–if they don’t care to answer you, they just won’t. but ask them what you can do to improve! they will remember how much effort and how proactive you were when it comes to grades, and getting over the fear of criticism is necessary if you want to improve (and just generally in life).

2. take advantage of all the tutoring resources available to you. seriously. contact those people who put up flyers offering tutoring in exchange for coffee/meals, if what your school provides is insufficient. expanding my academic support network has been crucial for my success in college.

3. do you have an illness or disability that affects your academic life? if so, contact disability services, and see what accommodations (note-taking, consideration regarding absences, etc.) they can offer you.

4. set an established study schedule, and always start your study time by tackling what’s hardest. the more you put off the hard stuff, the more daunting it will seem.

5. but include time for yourself in your schedule too. I’m the kind of person that will skip showering or sleeping for days if it means i’ll receive a good grade, but it’s an unsustainable way of going through life. and it will definitely contribute to your anxiety and worsen your focus etc.

6. start working on assignments early! like, the same day you receive them–that way, if you have questions its not too late (nor are you too embarrassed) to ask your prof for assistance. plus if you do end up asking for help, your prof will see that you weren’t blowing off that assignment or leaving it to the last minute.

7. perhaps most importantly, be honest with yourself: where can you improve? when you’ve identified what is holding you back, cut out those things (partying, watching too much tv., whatever) ruthlessly. these things aren’t inherently bad, nor should college be all about academics, but if they do not serve you, it’s time to go.

8. if you’ve honestly reflected and decided that there really isn’t anything you can do, it’s time to do the hardest work of all: accept yourself, and be proud of your hard work, no matter what the grade says. if you’ve communicated, reached out, and studied well, no one can ever say you didn’t try your hardest. but be kind to yourself! that matters so much more than school does, no matter what program you’re in.

i hope this helps some! and i’m sure, with the level of dedication you’ve expressed in your message, you’ll go on to do great things with that degree–but don’t lose yourself in the process. i’ll be thinking of you and your grandmother, and wishing you all the best.

#advice #ask

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tillymint7 · 5 years ago

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Joana de Oliveira Guerreiro 💞

Yesterday was such a bright positive day, Joanas lecturer was one of my favourites yet. She is such a lovely person so honest and true to who she is. I found her lecture so interesting and her life experience and energy so bright and diverse for someone so young.

Joana lost her way through the advice of her parents. Art was her lifes passion even as a very young child. I was just like Joana obsessed with art, but unfortunately not encouraged to persue. Joana was actually forbidden from taking a Fine Art Degree. I find this so sad, but Joana said that she is glad now that she didn’t study Fine Art because she feels it could of created boundaries in her practice (maybe at another university she would of, but definitely not here at John Moore’s! We are free as birds) plus her life experiences and knowledge of such a wide range of subjects really adds to her process and artworks. This is also something I agree with, it definitely helps your artwork to have life experiences behind you.

Joana is a painter living and working in Liverpool. She is originally from Lisbon in Portugal. As Joana grew up in Portugal Portugal was very disconnected from the outside world. There was no arts council and very few art based jobs. So she feels her parents had a very valid reason for not encouraging her to become an artist, for Joana her obsession for art never wavered.

Much like myself Joana keep her thrust for art alive by taking photos, she used disposable cameras because they were cheap and light but also because she loved the elimate of imperfection chance and surprise involved when using disposables. I myself use my phone because it’s always at hand, but maybe a disposable is something I should try myself sometime to see what outcomes I end up with. 🤔 Joana also like to photographs of thing other people would normal take photos of and has a interest in things that people would otherwise ignore or not notice.

Joana’s says with her paintings she is literally starting from where she left off as a child. This is something that really speaks to me as a mature Fine Art Student. This idea that the lid of our creativity has been held on for so long that when it finally pops off you just can’t stop creating and making. Its definitely a mirror image of what Iv been through this last year and a half. Now the lids off I don’t ever want to put it back on, but just like Joana I do suffer from imposter syndrome. I also feel like Iv arrived late to a practice, but the beautiful thing about art is that it is never too late there is never a right age to become an artist, it is about becoming an artist when you ready.

Joana has very little money when she finally decided to persue her art career. After time studying in London and returning to Lisbon once more Joana finally decided to become an artist she would have to settle in Liverpool. She said it’s much cheaper and the art scene is so vibrant and supportive that it’s much easier to get exposure here than it is in Lisbon, plus it is easy to get to London.

After living in London for many years I definitely feel a more comfortable connection to the art scene in Liverpool than I would of to the art scene in London. To me it seems more elitist in London? I could be wrong but it’s just how I feel. I do love London very much and it will always has a place in my heart, but as an artist starting out Liverpool seems much more welcoming. Liverpool is such a fabulous mixed bag of art and culture.

Joana told us she had a studio right from the being of her course in England. She said in the winter it was so cold in there that she used to wear a ski suite to stay warm. She spend up to 12 hours a day painting. The studio she has now is right on the Docks she only takes breaks to eat and walk her dog. She has even said that John Moore’s Fine Art Students are welcome to message her if we would like to come down and visit her at her studio to see how she works and what she gets up to or even to work along side her in her space.

Her paintings have such an innocents about them. Joana uses discarded industrial paints she finds in skips and landfills sites. She initially did this because she had a lack of money for materials but also to recycle. Joana is very environmentally conscious so she is planning on finding a way of making her own paint. The colours of her paintings are often dictated by the paint she can find. Each painting is autobiographical including social and political issues as well looking at gender rolls with a touch of humour running through them.

Joanna now wants to move towards animation, art films and ceramics. Her ceramics work looks back at her Portuguese background. She has become fascinated with a traditional figurine of a devil that is traditional handed down through Portuguese families. Joanna is trying to recreate these figurines in her current project she says it’s very much a work in progress.

Joana wants to also get her work out in the community she believes art should be for everyone , not just the elite. This is another thing that I completely agree with with regards to my own practice, as an artist I want to appeal to all backgrounds and generations to allow the community to be part of my work. I think coming from a health care background and caring for people it’s something I feel very passionate about. This idea of sharing and giving back in someway is very important to me and seems very important to Joana too. Joana had a long career working for NATO working on war missions protecting women and children from the atrocities of war and trying to help them carry on with their everyday lives.

We had the chance to join her for a workshop about narrative. I managed to make the end of the workshop after one of my inductions. It was fabulous we had to take a few pieces of paper with words on and create one piece using these words saying how we would display the work ourselves.

Below is the image and representation I came up with after getting the words Migraine, Oak Tree and Ibiza. 😜

I’m definitely looking forward to visiting Joana in her studio and also seeing some of her works around the city. What a truly lovely human being she is. Felt very blessed to have met her.

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tipsycad147 · 5 years ago

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Alexis J. Cunningfolk

It’ll be nine years next month that I’ve been running this little business of mine. Nine years of making remedies, teaching classes, writing blog posts, finding my voice (currently singing in the key of soft dyke / salty hag), and making lots of mistakes along the way. I love the freedom of owning my own business but I’ve made it unnecessarily difficult for myself at times, too. I’m hoping that this post helps folk stop or avoid altogether these same mistakes. Or maybe this is just a big public post-it note to myself to continue to work on not making these mistakes, because I am certainly still making a few of the mistakes listed below.

While the following post does have someone who runs their own business as an herbalist in mind, it can apply to a wide array of those in self-employed in all sorts of businesses. To be clear for the folks who haven’t been paying attention in the far back, I am not in any way trained as a business coach but I do have a tea-stained certificate in Making Mistakes as a Solopreneur (it arrived three months late and torn in two!).

So here is what I’ve learned about making your life more difficult as an herbalist (or healer or friendly neighbourhood witch).

Do unnecessarily (and often repetitive) work.

Whatever you can automate, do. I started my business during the whole “handmade gets itself online” movement and I loved all the purposeful details that went in to creating products. If you ordered from my shop when I was still selling tea and herbal remedies, for example, you would have received a tea-dyed receipt with your order hand written on it. I was particularly proud of this detail - something I didn’t see other folks doing in their packaging.

Precious as that was, it was an absurd thing to be doing when I was receiving as many orders as I did during the height of my remedy-making business. Because I was not only hand-writing receipts, I also hand-stamped and decorated all of the shipment boxes, handwrote addresses (again on that tea stained paper), and hand-wrapped all my remedies in colourful paper and washi tape. And that was just the effort spent after making the remedies in the first place (which were largely under-priced to begin with). But I was absolutely convinced that things like these hand-written receipts were what made folks like my business. And maybe that was true to a point - I got frequent feedback that receiving one of my packages was like getting a delivery from a store in Diagon Alley - but it burnt me out. I needed to choose to do one, maybe two of those things, and automate the rest.

Whatever I can automate these days, I do. And guess what? It’s not stripped the soul from my business but in fact given me more space to feel spiritually connected and renewed in my work. Ways to automate your work as a herbalist include:

If you have a newsletter, at a minimum set-up automated emails for when someone joins your list. This is a great way to warmly welcome someone into your community and can act like a map and compass to your work and what thing on your website someone might look at next.

Use the auto-generated receipts and shipping labels provided by whatever platform you sell your goods on.

Use canned responses in replying to customers when appropriate. Gmail allows you to save a series of canned responses that you can generate into an email - I do this a lot and then customise the email from there.

Create handouts for your clients and students that covers basic information that you find yourself sharing again and again. I have print-outs on making tea, taking herbal hand, foot, and body baths, using essences, and more.

Those are just a few broad suggestions - I’m sure you can find many more for your own particular practice. But, please, automate and let it open you up to the path of delegation, cooperation, and the psychic group witch mind dismantling the kyriarchy. Or whatever.

Commit to your relentless belief that you are an imposter.

I wish someone had told me about imposter syndrome before I started my business. I was still running high on my own special morning blend of imposter syndrome when I started studying herbalism and it coloured my early learning experiences. If you’ve heard about imposter syndrome but don’t quite know what it means or if it applies to you here are some resources:

Nine Ways to Fight Imposter Syndrome

Dealing With Impostor Syndrome When You’re Treated as an Impostor

5 Different Types of Imposter Syndrome (and 5 Ways to Battle Each One)

Look, you’re not serving yourself or your community by feeding the imposter monster. It’s fed enough by society at large and overpowering systems that we can’t easily change as individuals. Want a magickal plant-centred suggestion? Give your feelings of being an imposter to a plant and see what they give you back.

Be overly complex in your communications - including client care instructions.

I mean, I love to extrapolate far beyond what is necessary (hi, have you read any of my blog posts?) but just because you providing more doesn’t mean that it’s better. Folks are going to follow-through on your recommendations if you keep it simple and easy to incorporate into their lives.

Learn to edit down your emails, your newsletters, your product and class descriptions to a point where you’re still communicating the essentials and you and those you serve will be better for it. This goes for how you talk about your work face-to-face with folks. You want to hand folks the equivalent of a verbal business card and not a college length thesis.

It’s not to say that there is never time for lengthy communications, but overall, shorter is better. And remember when I mentioned those educational handouts in the first part of our journey down mistake lane? Make those concise, too. You want folks to actually read what you give them so that they’ll feel more empowered to follow-through with their care.

Undercharge and still feel bad about what your rates.

I’ve written about money and accessibility already on this blog (part 1 | part 2), but struggling to charge what you and your services are worth are a big one. Then throw in the complexity of cultural identities and narratives around money and what you should and should not charge for (i.e. healing and magickal services) and it can feel even more complex. Since I’ll be continuing to write about money, worth, and feelings, here’s my short response to the voice in your head that’s constantly shaming you about your prices : The body that carries that voice needs to eat, needs a safe place to sleep, needs access to transportation, needs to be able to do the things which makes them feel pleasurable and whole. Honour that voice for trying to protect you and keep you safe, and then give it something shiny to look at while you get on with running a business and living a life beyond its fear.

Set boundaries - and watch yourself roll right over them.

Appointments are only an hour but here I am two hours in and just now starting to wrap up.

I don’t do discounts but I’m afraid of losing business with this person so I better give them a big discount.

I shouldn’t be answering emails on 3 AM on a Saturday, but if I don’t respond right away I’ll lose business.

There’s too much suffering in the world for me to take regular time off!

Treat your boundaries like the edges of your most sacred space. Imagine your boundaries as the grove, the temple, the mountain, the church or sanctuary where your spirit is remembered in all its wholeness. When you begin to treat your boundaries as sacred and powerful in their sacredness and that your boundaries make you better as a healer, I can guarantee that you’ll be able to run your business better. And then, when the time comes to change a boundary, you’ll be doing it from a place of feeling empowered instead of backed into a corner.

Hold yourself to ridiculous standards of creativity and making.

Hey don’t do this! Take time off! Value what you’ve created! Creating something and then presenting it to the world can be absolutely terrifying - don’t welcome in any more fear than necessary to the process.

Eat some lunch. Take a breath. All of this is absurd and necessary and in both situations fear is a lousy companion.

Don’t listen to your own advice.

Please do the opposite of this.

I could insert a whole flowy bit here about trusting your intuition and turning the knowledge you’ve gained from experience into wisdom, but here’s the short cut. Do what you advise other folks to do all the time. I know for many herbalists, myself included, it includes things like, drink water, get more sleep, go outside, allow yourself to zone out, seek pleasure, ask for help, so on and so forth… Imagine if you took your own advice as sincerely as you dealt it out.

Have some mistakes you want to share? Comment below and let us commiserate together. Let’s keep growing through and laughing at our mistakes - seeing them as the calling cards of the trickster gods that they are.

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allaroundmelbourne · 6 years ago

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How Elizabeth Broderick is taking soft-power feminism to the world

Normal text sizeLarger text sizeVery large text size Elizabeth Broderick, women's rights campaigner, UN rapporteur, 2016 Australian of the Year and in the words of one of her more indignant detractors "incompetent vagina", is making her way to the speaker's podium. She glides more than she walks, weaving through the tables of the Members' Dining Room at NSW Parliament, elegant in a tasteful black jacket, checked trousers and low heels. The audience is largely comprised of female lawyers, here to commemorate the 100th anniversary of women being permitted, by our mutton-chopped male forebears, to practise law in NSW and to run for state parliament. Broderick is a former lawyer, too, and these are well and truly her people, in some cases literally her daughter and her niece, both law students, are seated at a table in the front. She places her rectangular-shaped spectacles on her nose and begins her speech. "While the Women's Legal Status Act was passed into law in 1918, voting on this by the men in the NSW Legislative Council was far from unanimous," she says. " The Hon Dr Nash MLC remarked, 'There are many things not within the province of a woman I look upon the whole thing as a joke but we will pass the bill and have the experiment.'" The audience is the result of the experiment, and they love this. The women laugh loudly at the joke, although probably not in the spirit intended by Dr Nash. "And so, the NSW Parliament did." Broderick continues, sweeping through history to show how far we've come from the days of Dr Nash, recounting personal recollections of her time as a young mother at a big law firm (where she pushed for flexible work long before it was fashionable), and sounding a warning about the global backlash against women's rights she sees in her role as United Nations Special Rapporteur on discrimination against women and girls. "There are forces determined to bring men and women back to traditional gender roles, to adopt a regressive stance in the name of tradition," she says. Advertisement Remember when female public figures were counselled to deepen their voices to augment their authority? Broderick never got that memo her voice is soft and she lisps. She peppers her speech, both formal and informal, with feminine tics: she speaks of "joys" and "collaborations", she calls the people she works with "beautiful", whether they are CEOs or factory workers, and she maintains a refreshingly adolescent use of the idiom "Hello!?" and even the occasional, excitable "Holy shit!" in relation to her new role at the UN. But her softness in style should not be misinterpreted. Broderick, or Liz, as she is known to the lawyers, prime ministers, community activists, rape victims, military personnel and recalcitrant misogynists with whom she has softly negotiated during her 35-year career, is on a mission. She wants, she tells me when we meet weeks after the dinner at parliament, "a world where men and women are paid equally, where domestic work is shared, where there is no violence or harassment where all human beings are valued and treated equally". "I am the keeper of thousands of stories, and I think that as I've aged I've grown less tolerant of unequal treatment," she says. Since finishing up as Australia's Sex Discrimination Commissioner in 2015, and fulfilling her 2016 Australian of the Year duties, Broderick, 58, has established her own consultancy specialising in diversity, gender equality and cultural change. More recently, this woman who has been such a strong agent of change in Australia has taken her brand of collaborative, empathic feminism global: in 2017 she was appointed by the UN as an Independent Expert (Special Rapporteur) for the Working Group on Discrimination against Women and Girls, and in 2018 she launched her Male Champions of Change initiative globally. Her travel schedule of the past few months tells the story: in October she was in New York for a meeting with her fellow UN Special Rapporteurs, then she hopped over to Pakistan to convene the first meeting of her Male Champions of Change in that country. After a holiday to Namibia with her dad, sisters and their kids, she came home to work on the report her consultancy is doing for the NSW Police, which has few women at its senior levels. She convened a meeting of the Male Champions of Change in sport, to get them cracking on pay equality for female athletes, and was made a fellow of the Australian Academy of Technology, Science and Engineering. She celebrated Christmas with her family and headed off on a road trip to Broken Hill with her twin sister and their husbands (they do a different Australian road trip every year), then left for Davos, Switzerland, to convene a group of Male Champions of Change in the global tech industry. From there, she flew back to New York for another meeting with her fellow rapporteurs. The UN role, in particular, is a big deal, and because Broderick lives what she preaches, naturally she came down with a bad case of imposter syndrome when applying for it. "I thought, 'Look, there's no chance I would possibly get this role. I'm not qualified enough.'" When she was shortlisted for interview, "that was exciting, but I never thought for a minute I would get the actual role". She was interviewed by a panel of men ("You've got to love that, for women's rights," she says drily) but performed poorly in her estimation. "I said to my husband, 'Well that's it, we can forget about that.'" Advertisement When she was eventually selected for the pro-bono role, there was jubilation, but as Broderick boarded the plane to Geneva for her induction in late 2017, she struggled again. "'Oh my god, what have I done?' 'Am I going to have the skills necessary to do the job well?' 'I don't know what the Istanbul Convention says or what this or that convention says,'" she thought. But then Broderick reminded herself of her other, non-legal expertise. None of the other rapporteurs had worked closely with the military, as she had, when she led the 2011 review into the treatment of women in the Australian Defence Force. Few had worked so closely with the private sector. None had created an initiative like Male Champions of Change, which brought male business leaders together to address gender inequality in corporate Australia. I ask Broderick if she thinks UN Secretary-General Antnio Guterres gives himself stern lectures about leaning in. "Probably not," she laughs. "Do you think any of them do? No, probably not." Hard experience aside, Broderick believes her main skills are her so-called "soft" ones. Her ability to listen sympathetically and without judgement. Her knack for bringing together people with wild differences. Her skill for getting people to find common ground. "I can agree with one small bit of what you're saying somewhere, and if I can do that I can open up a chink," she says, "because if I demolish your view right off the bat, I demolish the life experiences that have shaped you to hold that view." Empathy, compromise, listening: such unshowy, traditionally feminine skills are rare, and even unfashionable, in contemporary public discourse, which seems increasingly shouty, confrontational and divisive. "I try to explore why you hold your view." One view she hears "over and over again" is that we are promoting incompetent women over meritorious men. "I hear that put in really problematic ways," she says like by the guy who emailed her when she was Sex Discrimination Commissioner to tell her she was "an incompetent vagina". You should put that on your business card, I say. Then Broderick swears, ever so sweetly. "Most of them, I do find funny the inside of me is saying, not, 'What the f?', but something like, 'Shoot me now'." She laughs. "I do try to bring us to a deeply human conversation right off the bat." Broderick may be soft in style and discreet in manner. She may wear well-cut suits and live in a leafy Sydney suburb. But in her quiet-but-daring mission to emphasise what we share, rather than what we disagree on, she may just be the greatest counter-cultural warrior Australia has right now.

"It's just something I have always gravitated towards that deep desire to do something at the heart of shared humanity."Credit:Tim Bauer. Hair and make-up by Giorgia Skye using Charlotte Tilbury. Some weeks after her NSW Parliament House speech, I meet Broderick in the well-appointed downtown Sydney offices of her consultancy. She immediately asks after me: I'm recovering from a child-borne virus and Broderick can talk croup as easily as she can human rights (she has two adult children, Tom, 22 and Lucy, 21). She references a few pieces I have recently written (I learn later she is meticulous in her research), and we fall easily into a chat about my daughter. With Broderick, family infuses every conversation, and she seems generally interested in yours, and in you. Advertisement It strikes me that this is a kind of soft-power superpower. Her own family is close, literally her father, her sisters and their families live within a few blocks of her and husband, Hunter Southwick, in Sydney's north-west. Her identical twin sister, Jane Latimer, a Sydney University professor specialising in musculoskeletal health, does some work at her consultancy. It's early summer, and a blockbuster news week in terms of gender politics. Actress Yael Stone has just given thoughtful interviews to The New York Times and on ABC TV's 7.30 saying actor Geoffrey Rush behaved inappropriately towards her when they worked together on a play. Federal Nationals MP Andrew Broad has resigned following a "sugar daddy" scandal. Federal Liberal MP Julia Banks has recently quit and moved to the crossbench, and the conversation about sexist bullying in politics continues. I ask Broderick what she thinks about Australia's political culture. "I look at it and say it's a culture I wouldn't want my daughter to be part of," she says. "I don't think it's good enough. I don't think the culture should be a political issue, either. It should be a human issue. It is a workplace where we need men and women to thrive equally. How do we get to that place in an institution which is founded on an adversarial system? I don't know. There are no easy answers. How do we bring respect and dignity back into our political process? Even asking the question would be a good first step." Of the Liberal Party, which has low numbers of female MPs, she says, matter-of-factly: "They need a target." Broderick's passion for gender equality does not lie in past injustices done to her. She has led what seems to be a lucky life, one of three daughters to devoted parents who ran a small medical practice together in Caringbah in Sydney's south. Her father was a nuclear medicine physician; her mother (who passed away in 2003, aged 69), a physiotherapist and "real activist". Broderick's father was "a man before his time", she says, and "very much involved in the running of the house and the caring of the kids". Now 88, he hosted the family's recent Namibia trip. Broderick shows me photos on her phone, smiling broadly. "Gender stereotypes imprison men as much as women," she says. "That's to society's detriment."

Elizabeth Broderick with her husband, Hunter Southwick, and children, Tom and Lucy.Credit:Courtesy of Elizabeth Broderick From the age of about four, Broderick and Jane helped out in the family business, ferrying X-rays and cups of tea. Later, when Broderick and her sisters (Broderick also has a younger sister, Carolyn Broderick, who is the chief medical officer for Tennis Australia) learnt to drive, they were tasked with picking up patients at hospital and bringing them to the surgery. This early experience formed Broderick in two ways: first, it acclimatised her to the world of work, and the integration of work with family. This made it natural for her to lead the way in bringing work/life balance into her legal career in a way that was unthinkable in corporate circles at the time. Second, it honed her empathy: the patients in the surgery were often waiting for a big diagnostic result cancer, or some other disease. "It's probably the one skill I have, is to sit with people who are going through traumatic events, or sit with human suffering, just be with them," she says. "It's just something I have always gravitated towards. So maybe it's that side of it, rather than having a direct experience early on in my life of discrimination that deep desire to do something at the heart of shared humanity." Advertisement Broderick went on to study IT/law at the University of NSW, and it was here that she experienced gender imbalance firsthand. She remembers turning up to one class where she was the only woman. "Assembler programming and digital logic," she recounts. "I realised on day one that if I was to have a chance to pass this course, I needed to help the boys do their essays and they would help me write my programming." After university Broderick followed the graduate trail to London, where she met Southwick, a fellow Aussie, at a Mental As Anything concert. An accountant-turned-financial services consultant with flexible hours, Southwick is the family cook, and Broderick is upfront in saying she could not have had her career without a husband who took an equal role in caring for their kids and running the household. They celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary this year. On her return to Australia, she started as a lawyer at Blake Dawson Waldron (now Ashurst) in the Sydney CBD. She decided to specialise in technology law, which, in the early 1990s, was an emerging practice area and not well regarded by the "real lawyers" of the litigation and commercial departments. By 1991 she was the head of Blake's Legal Technology Group which wasn't as grand as it sounds, she says, as she was the only lawyer in it. Over the next few years, she grew the practice to a staff of eight lawyers. She was made partner in 1994, after being knocked back on her first nomination. In 1996, three of her team members visited over the course of a few weeks to tell her they were pregnant. She hadn't announced it yet, but so was Broderick, with her first child. That meant half the team, including its leader, would be on maternity leave at the same time. Broderick responded by creating a stealth policy of flexible work. The mothers would work part-time, phoning into the office regularly. "We did it under the radar. If the wheels were falling off at work, we could bring the baby in and remedy the situation," she says. "We were absolutely committed to making it work. We wanted to show that it was possible. We didn't ask for permission. We decided we would ask for forgiveness if the wheels fell off." In a stroke of genius, she also hired a former nanny as secretary to the group, who helped out when the babies were in the office. "She was just beautiful, wonderful," says Broderick. When Broderick returned to work after three months' maternity leave, she was the first partner to do so part-time revolutionary in those days. She had her daughter Lucy 18 months later, and took four months' leave, then worked three days a week until both kids were in high school. "I didn't want to just go back to work in the way I had prior to giving birth," she says. "It needed to be different and if it was going to be different, we needed to come up with the solution." Broderick believes the next frontier is getting men more involved in childcare: she believes men should be given four weeks, not two, under the paid parental leave scheme, and that it should be on a "use it or lose it" basis. "Over time, we should move to the equal sharing of care between men and women," Broderick says. "Children do better if dads are involved right from the beginning in their baby's care. But we also need to make sure people who don't have children are given the same opportunities, because you may need flexibility for a whole bunch of reasons." While at Blakes, Broderick began a mentoring program for female university and school students from less-advantaged backgrounds, and initiated female partners' dinners a few times a year. She also ran lunchtime forums for staff on issues like postnatal depression, fertility and career. In the 1990s, discussion of such matters in a big corporate firm was not considered a career-enhancing strategy, says Jane Southward, managing editor of Company Director magazine, who has known Broderick for 15 years. "A lot of men would come to these sessions," Southward says. "Liz had this ability to be really warm and open with men and women about issues that weren't being talked about that openly in the workplace at that time." Southward says that while many women of Broderick's generation instinctually kept quiet about their family life, for fear of harming their professional reputation, "Liz was like, 'Well this is me. Work, life, it's got be merged.'" She credits Broderick with teaching her to speak positively about work in front of her children, instead of beating herself up about missing school assembly because of a meeting, or vice versa. "Her ability to be open about failings or challenges makes it more likely that you'll open up yourself," says Southward. "It's that personal style that makes it unsurprising she is a national and international success." Advertisement

With her twin sister Jane Latimer.Credit:James Brickwood In 2007, John Howard appointed Broderick Sex Discrimination Commissioner. Her term was renewed twice, once by the Rudd government, once by the Abbott government, so she ended up serving until 2015. "She wasn't a political pick," says Pip Dargan, deputy director of the Asia Pacific Forum of National Human Rights Organisations, who came to know Broderick as commissioner. "Nobody really knew Liz. She was a partner in a law firm. She wasn't hanging out with the Libs or Labor." During her term, Broderick initiated her Male Champions strategy, led a review into gendered discrimination in the defence force following the notorious 2011 Skype incident at the Australian Defence Force Academy, where a cadet secretly filmed a sexual encounter and broadcast it to his mates, and joined with ACTU leader Sharan Burrow, and Australian Industry Group leader Heather Ridout, to build consensus for a national paid parental leave scheme (introduced in 2011 by the Labor government). Dargan, who counts Broderick as a friend, was particularly impressed when she convinced then-Army chief David Morrison to address the annual UN Commission on the Status of Women, in 2012. "Chiefs of army don't go to UN stuff for women. It was like a rock star event in that world." When she commenced the role, Broderick embarked on a "listening tour" which involved meeting a group of Indigenous women in Western Australia's Fitzroy Valley. They included June Oscar, now the first Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Social Justice Commissioner. "Picture the Kimberley in north Western Australia Windjana Gorge, Tunnel Creek, red soil, bright blue sky some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen," Broderick says. "But in the early 2000s, it was an area ravaged by alcohol and violence, including domestic and sexual violence." The women were on a campaign to get alcohol restrictions in the area, and in 2009 they travelled with Broderick to the UN to tell their story of rebuilding their community to the world. "June opened her presentation by speaking in the Bunuba language, her native language, saying, 'This is the first time that the peoples of the world will have ever heard the language of my people', and went on to tell the story of the women of Fitzroy Crossing," Broderick recounts. "It was one of the magical moments of my career. I still remember it was snowing when we arrived in New York in March 2009; it was the first time the women had seen snow." Says June Oscar: "I admire Liz greatly and her commitment is genuine. She was very open to being educated and informed by us as Indigenous women. She established a relationship with us so she could become a champion for Indigenous women in remote Australia. She used her influence and her networks to draw attention to our issues." Oscar says her relationship with Broderick is "life-long".

Elizabeth Broderick with some of Australias top corporate leaders at a Male Champions of Change event in Sydney in 2013.Credit:Louie Douvis Redressing the global suffering of women and girls: it's quite a big job. Broderick and her fellow UN Special Rapporteurs four other female experts of diverse backgrounds from Croatia, Costa Rica, Nepal and Ethiopia report to the Human Rights Council in Geneva on discrimination against more than half the world's population. A shopping list of the abuses they've reported on so far includes the rape and assault of women in refugee camps, kidnapping of schoolgirls by Boko Haram, inhumane prison conditions for women in Chad (where they're often imprisoned while awaiting a court decision), the jailing in Catholic El Salvador of women who have miscarried (they're accused of aborting their babies), African women who die from the lack of basic obstetric care, and laws seeking to introduce a total ban on abortion in Poland. Then there are the horrors of Islamic State: rape, murder, sexual subjugation. In March, Broderick begins global consultations for her first big UN report, on women's rights at work, then in April she'll embark on her first country visit, to Greece, which is experiencing an influx of asylum seekers fleeing conflict in the Middle East. She'll spend two weeks on the ground visiting government officials, women's rights advocates and asylum-seekers, focusing on the vulnerability of female refugees to assault, and their lack of access to reproductive health services.

With Hillary Clinton at a Womens Empowerment Principles Leadership Group event in 2015.Credit:Courtesy of Elizabeth Broderick Part of the rapporteurs' work is to write "Official Communications" to heads of state, letting them know the UN is aware of human rights violations. Recently, Broderick had to write one to the government of Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, asking questions about the arrest and detention in 2018 of Saudi university student and women's rights activist Noha Al-Balawi. "The guy on the hook for the murder of the journalist, Jamal Khashoggi?" I ask. "Yeah, that one," she says. Would someone like him read, let alone take note of, such a letter? "I kind of had this, 'Why am I even bothering?' Like, hello?' " Broderick concedes with a laugh, before getting serious. "Then I thought, 'I have to reframe how I think about impact, because if I am expecting to take a particular action and have an immediate and direct response, that's actually an illusion at the level at which I am now working, a global systems level.'" So Broderick came up with a more positive way to perceive the work. "There may be a moment in the history of that nation when that leader wants to move the nation forward, and they will link onto something," she says. "It may be this letter they will use to do that. Our letter will matter." How much does an activist engage with the systems of power she is trying to tear down? It is a question Broderick had already confronted, when she created the Male Champions of Change initiative as Sex Discrimination Commissioner. The program was, and is, controversial, some arguing that it elevates men as heroes for doing what they should have done years ago, namely, appointing women to boards and executive positions. Nareen Young, a professor of Indigenous policy at the University of Technology Sydney, was CEO of the Diversity Council Australia during Broderick's tenure as Sex Discrimination Commissioner. She is complimentary of Broderick but sceptical of the Male Champions strategy. "I'm not sure it's anything more than window dressing, and elevating men for the sake of it, in a discussion that should be led by women," she says. "I was [also] very concerned as a long-term activist around women and work issues, that [Broderick's] focus as Sex Discrimination Commissioner seemed to be women on boards. That applies to a minute number of women in the workforce. I was very surprised there wasn't more push-back around her focus on the top end of town." Broderick is aware of the criticism and rejects it: politely, of course. "I hear what Nareen says," she says. "I think she has a valid point. Male Champions of Change is focused on the top end of town, but it's focused there for a reason, because it's about shifting power, and opening up space to share it equally with women. It is just one strategy." Giam Swiegers was one of the first men Broderick nervously cold-called on her hunt for Male Champions (there are now more than 200 of them, from corporate Australia through to the military, sport and public service, and it's now a not-for-profit organisation with its own CEO and board). At the time, in 2011, Swiegers was CEO of Deloitte Australia (he now heads Aurecon). Their conversation, he recounts, "was all of 30 seconds. She is very persuasive." Swiegers signed up, which means paying membership fees and attending meetings four times a year, taking the "panel pledge" of not speaking on all-male panels or calling it out if you found yourself on one, and making your company's gender-equality data transparent. Swiegers encountered internal criticism from his female employees. "A lot of our women said, 'This is so arrogant, men wanting to fix women.' But we were never seeking the silver bullet. We realised that what we were doing was very hard. The hardest part was trying to work out why it wasn't working." Broderick says the Male Champions would lament how quickly their percentages would drop off when senior women resigned, and would go into "group therapy mode" about it. "I'm convinced that, if one day this problem of reaching true gender equality is solved, there is no person in Australia who has played a more important role than Liz," says Swiegers.

Elizabeth Broderick in Papua New Guinea last September, during the launch of an initiative to tackle family and sexual violence. Credit:Courtesy of Elizabeth Broderick It's easy to forget that, just a decade ago, the F-word was not popular in high-level business circles. David Thodey, former CEO of Telstra, was another early member. "I can still remember a time when I thought I should not continue, as our gender leadership metrics were not changing quickly enough and we were not meeting our targets," he recounts. Broderick persuaded him to stay, arguing that it was "important for male leaders to show tenacity and be leaders, despite the challenges". Last November the program launched in Pakistan, with 10 CEOs and a female advisory panel with "some of those amazing Pakistani feminists", the latter "to see that it's all about action, not talking". Leaders in India and the Philippines have also expressed interest, and in January Broderick jetted to Davos in Switzerland to chair a Male Champions meeting of global tech CEOs, including Federico Marchetti from YOOX Net-a-Porter Group, Jonathan Newhouse from Cond Nast and Lord Tony Hall from the BBC. The men made the panel pledge, committed to lifting the number of female leaders in the tech sector, and published in the Financial Times a full-page "open letter to every male leader in the tech sector" to join them. "We will work in any nation where there is a strong patriarchy," says Broderick. "Well, hello?!" she says. "That would have to be every nation in the world."

Elizabeth Broderick at the UN speaking on behalf of the Working Group on Discrimination against Women and Girls.Credit:Courtesy of Elizabeth Broderick Broderick is excited by #MeToo and the global flowering of feminism that brought it forth. When I mention it, she leaps delightedly on her notes; she has just this morning written down a quotation from Tarana Burke, the African-American grassroots activist who began the movement. She reads it to me reverentially. But she sees clouds on the horizon, too. "How safe is it for women to attach their names to it?" she asks. "When [Burke] conceived it, it was about transformation of the system that allowed sexual violence to occur but where #MeToo has come to is the individuals." In focusing on the "white, wealthy Harvey Weinsteins", we risk ignoring hospitality and domestic workers, she says, or women in residential university colleges, like the ones at Sydney University Broderick reported on, as a private consultant, in 2018 (some have criticised this report as a whitewash which didn't include enough testimony from assault victims. Broderick says she could not include detailed victims' stories without identifying them). Broderick believes men are trapped by traditional roles. "I was part of a generation of girls who was told, 'You can do anything,' but I don't think a corresponding message was given to boys about having a strong role in caring. Most men have been forced to choose." Many men have nevertheless been "imperfect allies" to women, she says, and need to examine their own past behaviour. "They need to listen to the stories of women and talk to them about what action they can take." She worries that men's fear of mis-stepping in the current climate will lead to a shutting-down of the "informal sponsorship of women" that can be so crucial to careers. "When I look back on my own career, it was decent, beautiful men who informally sponsored me. They showed me the rules of the game. That's what helped me build my career. It wasn't the only thing but it helped me. And if that's shut down, women are more excluded from power than they were before." We discuss the experiences of Catherine Marriott, who accused former Nationals MP Barnaby Joyce of sexual harassment, and Eryn Jane Norvill, who made a confidential complaint of inappropriate conduct against actor Geoffrey Rush, and Ashleigh Raper, the ABC journalist who said former NSW Opposition leader Luke Foley touched her inappropriately at a function. "None chose to tell their story," Broderick says. "When I speak to less high-profile women and ask them to speak up, they say, 'Liz, not only would I be the victim of the incident, I would be the victim of not bringing it to the attention of management.'"

Elizabeth Broderick in her home.Credit:Tim Bauer. Hair and make-up by Giorgia Skye using Charlotte Tilbury. Broderick does ponder how real change can happen within the unwieldy global bureaucracy of the UN. A friend recently remarked to her that "it must feel a bit like stirring wet cement with your eyelashes" and she says "there are days when that's absolutely the case". But her natural optimism always wins out. "There will be push-back, times when it seems no one is listening, when it seems no one cares, times when I start to lose hope. And that can seem overwhelming. But I also believe this is my work to do. I know Australia has much to offer. We come with new ideas, new energy and an absolute determination. That's the change I want to be part of." To read more from Good Weekend magazine, visit our page at The Sydney Morning Herald, The Age and Brisbane Times. Jacqueline is a senior journalist, columnist and former Canberra press gallery sketch writer for The Sydney Morning Herald. https://www.theage.com.au/national/how-elizabeth-broderick-is-taking-soft-power-feminism-to-the-world-20190204-p50vko.html?ref=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_source=rss_feed

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funkzpiel · 8 years ago

Text

And The Tag Read Simply: ‘Pretty’ - Ch5

Words of comfort and affirmation bubbled to his tongue – He’s caught, we have him. Don’t worry. He’s at MACUSA, he’ll never hurt you again. But one look, and Newt realized that the context of Graves’ question was not ‘please say he’s not here.’ It was ‘please say he’s coming home soon.’

“He’s… away,” Newt said lamely, eyes flickering to glance at Graves now that the man felt confident enough to speak with him. Graves was leaning far enough forward now that his shoulders were visible, pale and naked. Newt felt his cheeks begin to burn at the implication, and even more so when he caught sight of the thick leather collar that hung snuggly around Graves’ throat – Grindelwald’s symbol hanging delicately next to a small gold tag that read simply: ‘Pretty’.

FANTASTIC BEASTS KINK MEME FILL Grindelwald is captured, they track down Graves, but instead of finding a locked up and tortured Graves they find Graves naked and in a collar, napping on a soft bed without a hint of recognition in his eyes. Turns out Grindelwald messed with Graves’ mind, removed all his memories and made him believe that he’s Grindelwald’s pet.

Includes: Gellert Grindelwald x Graves, Newt x Graves, Non-Con, Rape, Stockholm Syndrome, Pet Play, Forced Pet Play, Collars, Non-Con Body Modification, Animal Ears, Animal Behaviors/Qualities, Mind!Fuck, Memory Loss/Alteration, Master/Pet, Dubious Consent, Angst, Literally Graves Believes He’s A Dog, I AM TRASH

CHAPTER 5

Newt watched Graves sleep from his work table, eyes distant as he took in the image of the frail man so still and peaceful – long lashes stark against pale cheeks. Newt had heard stories of the man Percival Graves had been, but Newt only knew two sides of the man first hand: the imposter and the victim. Not for the first time, he wondered what Graves had lost. What Grindelwald had stolen. Tina obviously held a great deal of respect for the man. Madam Picquery, too.

Newt imagined him, body healthy and pristine as Grindelwald portrayed him – broad and strong and imposing – with warm eyes and able hands. Just in his actions, clever is his work, and gentle with his people. But a part of him also knew the unfortunate truth. A man with friends is not a man easily replaced. A good boss, yes. A respected man, of course. But a friendly man… no. He must have been a distant man. A firm line set in the ground between home and work. A man dedicated to the letter of the law, to the very last detail of his job, to the welfare of his employees and their success, to the safety of the public – and nothing more. He had no family to miss him. No loved ones. His life was no doubt a lonely life, only made easier by the sheer weight of his work to distract him.

And this was how fate repaid his dedication.

He had to convince Graves that, no, your bed isn’t missing – you’re allowed to sleep on the actual bed, not some uncomfortable cushion on the floor. He had to ease his worries with soft words that, no, Grindelwald would not be mad at him, and yes, I’ll be to bed soon, and no, I promise I’m not leaving.

It was only then that Graves settled. The man, once so confident and powerful now sleeping in the baggy clothes of a scrawny man’s wardrobe, hair tousled and cheek still smudged with dirt because Newt hadn’t the energy to bathe him – too afraid the man would misread the situation and try to thank him again.

“Oh Tina,” Newt whispered, eyes falling to the report he had been writing. There was a dark blotch of ink at the end of an unfinished sentence; dark from hesitation. “I don’t know how much help I am in this…”

The letter read: I fear that Grindelwald has…

Newt bit his lip and clenched his quill a little harder, willing himself to finish what he started. But even now, he did not know the right way to phrase it.

I fear that Grindelwald has inflicted far more damage than we originally perceived, he finally wrote and proceeded to detail the events of the day, down to the moment of Graves’ possession.

And then he cast his gaze back unto the man in question, heart squeezing when he realized the man was snoring very lightly. In the dim light of the little shed, Grindelwald’s tags twinkled innocently against Graves’ pale flesh. Newt wished he could just remove them.

“Please come back,” Newt whispered.

It was then, as he was watching the man, that a small hand suddenly appeared on the other side of Graves’ body. Newt stiffened, worried for a moment that he was seeing things, when finally it clicked – the Niffler. Newt stood as quickly and quietly as he could, eyes narrowed as he watched a chubby little body suddenly follow that tiny hand, the beady eyes of the Niffler staring him down even as it slowly reached for the tags at Graves’ throat.

“No,” Newt said, and quickly cast a spell to call the little beast to him. Newt watched as the Niffler scrabbled its tiny little hands in Graves’ direction before it finally gave up and allowed the spell to continue to draw it through the air and into Newt’s awaiting grasp.

The Magizoologist scruffed him promptly and held him up so they were nose to nose.

“You can’t touch those,” Newt said, and the Niffler just crossed it’s flabby little arms and looked away. “No, please, please understand – you could really hurt him. He… He needs those tags. Please, just this once, don’t fight me.”

Newt wasn’t sure if it was the sheer pleading of his whispered voice or if the little creature was merely in a giving mood, but the Niffler slowly turned to look him in the eye before actually looking somewhat mollified. It sagged a little in his grasp before nodding.

Newt almost wanted to double check, but he was too blown away by the creature’s sudden change in nature to feel his normal sense of doubt in the little thing. So instead, he cautiously set it down, ready to cast the spell again, and watched. The moment the Niffler’s feet met the work table, it sat down in a heavy ball and merely watched Graves sleep. It cast its gaze from Newt to Graves and back again before suddenly scurrying down the work table’s leg and onto the floor. For a brief moment, Newt worried he had made a mistake, but the Niffler merely peered at Graves one last time before hurrying out of the shed as if on important business.

Newt blinked.

“That was odd,” he whispered, then returned his gaze back to his report – lost for words on how to tactfully tell Picquery that he had very good reason to believe Graves had been raped repeatedly. He sighed and rested his forehead on the paper, unheeding of the ink, and closed his eyes for just a moment.

Merlin, he was tired.

They repurposed the execution chamber to serve as one giant Pensieve. In its swirling depths, every memory that their Legilimens managed to lay bare played within it in striking detail – larger than life, louder than reality, and more overwhelming than Tina had been ready for. It was like this that she watched Grindelwald recall how he had cornered Graves after his walk home from a long stakeout turned case bust and Mercy Lewis, Tina could remember that night. She had been the last person from their department to say goodbye to him that night. Was her face the last he saw before... Before Grindelwald...

Just like that, the time with which Graves had been gone was dated. Months. Six months. Six months. Tina felt her breath seize in her chest. She could remember how tired he had looked when she found him in his office that night to let him know she was heading home. She had thought to ask if he was okay. She had thought to insist that he, too, should go home. But he had his paperwork to finish, and she knew him to be a man that wouldn’t go home until every last page was done. It didn’t matter how tired he was, if she pointed it out, he would just say that was what coffee was for.

So she didn’t point it out. Tired as she was, she let him be.

The last words her Graves had said to her played aloud in her head like a painful echo.

“Goldstein,” he had said, drawing her back to his office door.

“Yes, sir?” She asked, afraid he might ask he to fill out some form herself before she left.

Instead, his lips curled into the barest of smiles – something that was practically an all out grin in the books of those who knew him – and said, “Good work tonight, Tina. We’re lucky to have you.”

Her heart ached coldly in her chest, ever tightening as she watched the memory of Graves – tall and proud, and yet limping ever so slightly – walking just ahead of Grindelwald on the street; unaware of his stalker. She wanted to call out to him. To warn him. But all she could do was watch as the dark wizard purposefully apparated himself from behind Graves to the end of a dark alley on his left. The noise drew Graves in, his mouth set into a firm, displeased line at having caught someone displaying magic so openly. And when Grindelwald lit the end of his wand with a brilliant light, it was obvious that Graves had resigned himself to having to take the man back to the office despite his exhaustion.

“Someone will see you,” Graves said firmly from the end of the alley, squinting, trying to peer past the bright light of Grindelwald’s penetrating lumos but unable to see his face because of it.

“Let them,” Grindelwald purred.

Graves stiffened and drew his own wand. With a quick look left and right, he took several steps deeper into the dark of the alley to try and mask their altercation as best as he could. Late as it was, he had little to worry for. Maybe if someone had been there, Tina thought. Maybe if…

“If you don’t desist, I’ll be forced to relieve you of your wand and take you in for the night,” he said grimly, and Tina could suddenly see how Graves was trying his hardest to mask his limp, his exhaustion. Grindelwald smiled behind the glare of his spell.

“I’m afraid not, my dear director,” Grindelwald said. “In fact, tonight is the last night you will use your gifts to shackle your fellow witch or wizard.”

Graves stilled, his body suddenly stiff with dawning recognition. Tina thought he was going to call the man out as a Grindelwald follower, but instead Graves attacked without preamble. With a quick flick and a dodge to the right, Graves launched a harsh kinetic wall of energy at Grindelwald while simultaneously stepping out of the way of Grindelwald’s own spell. The concrete where Graves had been standing exploded, and in the building next to them, a light turned on. Graves looked at it and cursed before shoving off the wall he had stepped to and launching another attack.

Brick burst behind Grindelwald, but the man wasn’t fazed. Instead, he merely continued to advance on Graves, driving the director toward the street, making him panic – knowing how the Auror worried over prying eyes. Somewhere above, blinds rustled. Graves grit his teeth and finally held his ground, unwilling to let the dark wizard take their fight to the open.

“Your fear of our exposure will be your downfall, director,” Grindelwald said through a grin, and it was then that Graves could finally see his face, the concealing glare of Grindelwald’s lumos long since gone. Graves’ hand tightened on his wand.

“Grindelwald,” he said, voice gentled by shock.

“Director Graves,” Grindelwald greeted in return, his smile that of a cat’s.

Tina could see a hundred thoughts filtered through Graves’ eyes. Headlines from the papers, reports from the Ministry, operations from the support team MACUSA had offered. Graves frowned and set his feet, obviously no longer concerned with the world around them.

Grindelwald hummed his approval.

“Finally,” he said, his own wand raised and ready. “Yes. Show me what you can do without the shackles of our society holding you down. I want to see it for myself.”

Tina had seen Graves duel before. In practice and in the field. He was a clean, efficient spellcaster. He didn’t gloat, he didn’t underestimate, and he didn’t take chances. He cast his spells with the intention of ending any altercation immediately. The less time the enemy had the ability to cast a spell, the less likely one of his people got hurt. So his spells were fast, brutal things. Heavy hitters that slammed through tissue and concussed – and that was on a normal day.

But this… Tina had never seen Graves attack like this. Sharp, fast spells cast so pointedly, so intently, they practically cut the air like knives. She could hear the way they whistled through the air, and every strike that missed tore up pavement and brick alike. One shot in particular that Grindelwald only just managed to divert ended up turning the nearby fire escape into a hodgepodge of contorted, screaming metal. But Graves never waited to see if his work connected. One spell followed another followed another, and all the while, Graves advanced.

He was like a different man, his eyes alight with a dreadful determination that turned Tina’s veins to ice. This was the man who had fought in the war, the man they told stories about. She had thought she knew him. She had thought she knew his drive and his skill and his rigor. She was wrong.

Grindelwald was thrilled. In his manic eyes, she saw nothing but pleasure and excitement as he diverted one spell after another, guiding them away from his body with quick jabs but not having much more time than that to do anything else.

“You’re wasted at MACUSA, my dear,” Grindelwald howled over the cries of Graves’ spells.

“I’m precisely where I need to be,” Graves said, following one particularly harsh blow with a swipe of his free hand, using Grindelwald’s distraction of deflecting his spell to hit him with a dumpster and pin him to the wall.

Even caught as he was, Grindelwald laughed as though they were two friends having a merry old time rather than enemies aiming for the throat. Graves clenched his jaw, wand trained on Grindelwald as his other hand kept up the pressure on the dumpster – metal slowly warping to curl around Grindelwald’s frame.

“And where is that, pray tell?” Grindelwald asked, smiling so widely his gums showed.

“Here. Between you and the rest of society,” Graves said resolutely, but as their fight ebbed, so did his energy. Tina could see it in the softening of his shoulders and the tremble of his wand. So could Grindelwald.

“Long night, my dear?” Grindelwald asked.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Graves began, encouraging the metal to curl around Grindelwald that much quicker.

“I’m quite tired of silence, I’m afraid,” he said, something dark glimmering in his eyes.

Behind Graves, a shadow appeared. Then another and another. Men – Grindelwald’s followers.

“Crucio.”

The spell hit Graves in the back, pointblank between his shoulders, and felled him with a cry torn from the bottom of his chest. Tina watched as he shuddered on the ground, body seizing as Grindelwald easily detangled himself from Graves’ bindings.

“He’s as good with wandless enchantments as they say,” Grindelwald said, clearly excited as he swept the dirt from his coat and straightened himself out. Once put back together, his eyes fell on Graves and he grinned. “Let the good fellow go, won’t you?”

The spell dropped, but the men behind Graves advanced, forming a wall behind the man – blocking him from the road. Somewhere, Graves could hear the telltale beginning of sirens. He groaned and rolled from his side to his knees and tried to rise, ignoring the way his clothing dripped from the puddle he had landed in.

When he tried to get to his feet, one of the three wizards behind him raised a leg to kick him down, only to find a trash can lid suddenly flying through the air to greet him. It connected with his face with a wet crash that sent him tumbling backward, immediately unconscious and nose clearly broken. The wizard nearest Graves took two steps back. The other snarled and raised a wand, only to be disarmed.

Graves’ eyes shot up, shocked, when the wand flew to Grindelwald’s hand – the flunky’s magic stayed by the hand of a madman.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Grindelwald said, fiddling with the wand before tucking it away in his own coat. “I didn’t say to attack him, now did I, Peter?”

“But sir, he—!”

When Grindelwald raised his gaze from Graves, its humor was gone – replaced by something that made Tina shiver. “I have no use of the deaf or stupid.”

Peter shut up and took a step back. Grindelwald smiled, his farce mask returned.

“Good boy,” he said, then moved to address Graves. “As I was saying—“

Graves swept his hand just as he rose to his feet to sprint past the two goons, and instead of launching another trashcan lid at Grindelwald, he launched both of his flunkies at him instead. Tina watched, heart thundering, hoping – hoping – as Graves made a break for it. With a loud crash and an angry batch of yelling, the two men collided into Grindelwald, sending the dark wizard to the ground. And for a moment, Tina thought he was going to make it.

Graves stumbled into the road, obviously about to apparate, when a spell came arcing out of the alleyway and nailed him in the shoulder. It knocked him off balance, spinning him to once again face the alley he had come from, disorienting him. He clutched at his shoulder and panted, preparing himself to apparate – gathering energy – eyes all the while on the three men clambering to their feet.

“C’mon, Percival,” he whispered, blood oozing from his nose from exhaustion, and reached for the last dregs of his magic when a loud noise disrupted his attention. A horn.

That was when the car struck him, slamming him harshly into the hood before bouncing him into the road. Tina gasped and beside her, she heard one of the other staff members watching the memory vomit.

There was screaming. A woman in the passenger’s seat was crying, wailing. The man who was driving cut the car in reverse and drove away frantically, and suddenly, Tina hated them. She wanted to reverse the memory and look at them, find them, make them pay for not staying. If they had only stayed, then maybe…

They would have died, she realized, her anger flooding out of her in an exhaustive sheet. Grindelwald would have killed them. There was no saving Mr. Graves from this. There was no changing the past.

Instead, she watched as Graves slowly opened his eyes and moaned wetly. His wand had been knocked from his hand, but even now, Graves reached for it. Even now, Graves fought. Tina’s eyes burned, and slowly the image before her became blurry through her tears as her boss tried to pull himself across the short stretch of pavement between his crumpled body and his wand. When it was obvious that his legs – Merlin’s balls, his right leg wasn’t supposed to look that way – wouldn’t get him there, he extended a hand to call it to himself. The wand wiggled fiercely for a moment, then fell still. Graves’ eyes fluttered. More blood oozed from his nose.

He tried again to pull his body forward when his gaze caught sight of Grindelwald approaching. The Auror didn’t make it far. He merely wheezed as Grindelwald knelt down in the road and retrieved the wand, holding it up in the light to admire it. He turned it this way and that, as though familiarizing himself with some great weapon, all the while ignoring Graves on the ground.

“Truly a wand of some distinction,” Grindelwald said approvingly, weighing it in his hand before pocketing it as well. “Steadfast and powerful. And in such a pretty package, too. Quite like you.”

Graves tried to keep his gaze on Grindelwald, but his head lolled dangerously until finally, he could do not much else but glare at the man’s shoes. He watched as the dark wizard knelt before him, and moaned raggedly when a long finger grabbed him under the chin and lifted his gaze.

“Poor Mr. Graves, hit and left to die like some mangy old dog. Your underlings didn’t see the hit you took at that raid earlier, did they? Or is it that they just didn’t care to make sure you got home, hmm?” Grindelwald asked, eyes searching. “Nobody cares for you, not truly. If they did, they’d know that you need more care than what they give you. They think you so strong. They’d let you work yourself to death, my dear. They wouldn’t even notice if you were gone. Why do you fight for them?”

“Somebody has to protect them from men like you,” Graves said, his words garbled and faint, but there all the same.

Grindelwald’s hand moved from his chin to cup his jaw, and Graves shuddered when he realized the man was watching him with fascination and no small amount of pity. As though he were some poor creature caught in a net, ripe for saving - or slaughter.

“But my dear Mr. Graves,” he said, swiping a thumb along a quickly purpling bruise. “Who is going to protect you?”

Graves eyes fluttered as Grindelwald grabbed the Auror by the shoulder and disapparated the both of them away – just as sirens blared around the corner. Lights flashed, illuminating nothing but a barren road and the blood Graves left behind.

The memory softened, softened, then faded altogether and Tina shuddered. When she raised her gaze, the team of Legilimens they had brought in to fuel the execution chamber turned Pensieve were kneeling on each of their respective floating platforms above the black mass, exhausted, and at their center sat Grindelwald – bound to his chair, grinning from ear to ear.

She desperately wanted to say something, anything, to tear that smug look from his face. She couldn’t find the words.

“Your right hand man was quite something, Seraphina,” Grindelwald said, not even winded from the forced pulling of his memories from multiple witches and wizards. In the dim lights of the execution chamber, one eye glowed unnaturally – like a pearl in the dark. It made Tina’s stomach twist with dread. “I can see why you chose him to head up your security. He would have made it, if not for that car. Funny how fate works out. In another world, he’d be beside you. In this one, he’s mine.”

“Do not flatter yourself, Gellert,” she said, using his first name in kind with a wry brow that said, ‘fucking try me’. “Mr. Graves is beginning to heal quite excellently under the watchful eye of our expert. He’ll be beside me once more in no time.”

That only made Grindelwald’s grin widen.

“Lying now, are we?” He asked. “Oh, things must be so much worse than they appear. How wonderful.”

With a sharp movement that had Tina stumbling for her own wand, Picquery drew hers from her coat.

“Madam President?” Tina asked, eyes wide, heart thundering, but all Picquery did was conjure a chair with a precise flick of her wand. With the grace of a great cat, she lowered herself into it and said, “Again.”

A set of shocked and weary eyes fell upon her from the platforms, the team of Legilimens exhausted. But one by one, they stood – wands extended – and began the process once more. But Grindelwald did not care. He only had eyes for Picquery.

“Will we die, just a little?” He asked, repeating his words from the train station before the light of the Legilimens spells fell upon him, rolling his eyes into his head, making him seize in his bindings. Below, the next memory began to appear.

“Madam Picquery,” an Auror said, coming to stand beside her for a moment. “I can report to you, if you have something else—“

“He attacked one of our own, Smithfield,” she said, not even bothering to look at the man. “I will watch this. Every moment. Every second. I will know his pain, and when this is done, so will Grindelwald.”

“Madam President,” Smithfield said softly, obviously recognizing the dismissal, and backed away to his former spot.

“We’re ready, Madam President,” one of the Legilimens said, voice strained.

“Show me.”

Tina brushed away the cool, wet tracks on her cheek with a thumb and prepared for the next memory.

Newt hadn’t even realized he had been dozing at his work station until his leg began to fall sleep, alighting his calf and toes with pins and needles. He mumbled sleepily, confused when his leg was far heavier than it had any right to be, and looked down to see a dark mop of hair on his thigh. It was Graves. He was seated on the floor beside his chair, his cheek pressed to Newt’s thigh.

Newt blinked, then everything that had happened over the past two days came flooding back to him.

“Mr. Graves?” He mumbled and gently drew his fingers through the man’s hair to wake him. “What’re you doing on the floor?”

With a soft groan and a long yawn, Graves looked up to him and said, “You didn’t come to bed.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes crawling to the report Newt had been writing for President Picquery outlining Graves'… progress. He frowned ever so slightly, the expression only soothing out at the sound of Graves’ soft whine of recognition. With a wave of his wand, he transformed the report into a mouse and sent it off – eyes heavy as he watched it scurry up the ladder of his suitcase. “I’m coming.”

Newt rose from the chair, and when it became obvious that Graves would not settle on the bed without him, he made fast work of his nightly routine before finally laying down. But when Graves did nothing more but stand at the edge of his bed and whimper, obviously wanting something but conflicted, Newt reached out for him and grabbed his hand. Too exhausted to explain, Newt simply guided Graves down onto the bed, pulling only gently, giving Graves the option to pull away. He didn’t.

Instead, he pressed the long, lithe line of his body into Newt’s side. He was shorter than Newt, and that worked well with the size of Newt’s bed. He fit quite comfortably into the dip of Newt’s side, and they were down for no more than a handful of moments before Graves simply tucked his nose into Newt’s collarbone and fell asleep.

The warm weight of Graves’ body lured Newt into sleep easily. The icy, unnatural feel of his tags however – unable to warm, even pressed between them – woke him often through the night.

a/n - got a suggestion on what you want to see? Send me a note. I can’t guarantee I’ll include it, but I love suggestions.

#Fantastic Beasts Kink Meme #Fill #original percival graves #Percival graves #gellert grindelwald #gellert grindelwald x percival graves #grindelgraves #newt scamander #newt x graves #gramander #originally on ao3 #Graves Fic

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joshuabradleyn · 6 years ago

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The Importance of Self-Acceptance on Body Image

The Importance of Self-Acceptance.

“We can’t hate ourselves into a version of ourselves we can love.” ― Lori Deschene

In order to unconditionally love your body, you’ll need to acknowledge and accept your whole inner self. Literally all of it, including the parts that you currently consider completely fucking unacceptable.

It’s a tall order, I know.

Accepting isn’t the same as loving, though. Accepting just means you acknowledge the reality and existence of everything about who you are with open arms and compassion, and without resistance.

It’s worth noting here that accepting something about yourself isn’t the same thing as giving up on self-improvement, or resigning to never changing it. Again, it’s just acknowledging that this part of yourself exists, and more importantly, that this part of yourself doesn’t make you any less worthy of love, connection, or belonging.

Most people fall into the trap of thinking that the only appropriate way to meet a perceived “flaw” is with rejection, resentment, resistance, and judgement. The hope is that by not accepting the truth of who they are, they will “motivate” themselves to change. Sadly, the exact opposite tends to be true.

Changing something about yourself is actually extremely difficult when you reject and condemn it. Likewise, it’s pretty damn easy when you’ve truly accepted it, and recognize that it’s existence doesn’t make you any less worthy of connection.

Let’s use weight loss as an example.

Let’s say you hate the weight you’re at right now, you consider it completely unacceptable, and you’re fully convinced it makes you less worthy of love, respect, care, and belonging. Despising what you see in the mirror every day, you join a gym in a burst of hate-fueled motivation. Desperate to lose the weight quickly, you show up every day, pushing your body past its limits, and cutting way back on calories. After about two weeks your body is exhausted, you’re starving all the time and have massive cravings, and when you step on the scale you haven’t lost as much as you feel like you “should” have, given how miserable you are.

So what happens? You dive face-first into a late night binge at Taco Bell, and wake up the next morning feeling so utterly defeated and worthless that you never go back to the gym again. “Why bother?” you think, furious with yourself for being too weak to succeed yet again.

Now let’s look at what happens if you accept your weight. You might think “this is the weight I am at right now, and it’s perfectly acceptable and understandable, and it doesn’t make me any less worthy of love, respect, acceptance, kindness, and belonging.” Along with that thought, you might notice that your moods, energy, and mental clarity have been a bit low, and that you get winded easily. Noticing this, and also accepting your current weight, you think “I am worthy of having better care, more energy, and a more active life.” You join a gym but decide to take it slow. You showing up twice a week to the gym for months, staying within a conservative level of effort until you’ve built a solid exercise habit, on top of making a few very subtle changes to your diet, like focusing on getting more vegetables and cutting out soda.

What happens? Over time you see results: better sleep, more positive moods, more energy, increased strength and endurance. Motivated by these results, you continue showing up and feeling good. Over the long term the composition of your body naturally changes, perhaps losing some fat and gaining some muscle. You enjoy these changes to your shape or size, but you also recognize that in and of themselves, they don’t make you any better, happier, or more worthy of love, acceptance, or belonging.

Do you see how much easier it is to make positive changes from a place of acceptance, rather than rejection? It may seem counter-intuitive, but resisting, resenting, shaming, and judging yourself for who you are in this moment is never going to lead to positive change.

So let’s talk about self-acceptance.

Our society teaches us generally what it means to be a good/normal person, and we are often shamed or punished for the ways in which we diverge from that definition.

While the specifics of what it means to be “good/normal” is different across cultures, races, religions, and genders, from an early age, we are constantly comparing what we notice inside of ourselves to the cultural definition of “good/normal.” When we find things inside ourselves that go against the messages we’ve received about what is “good/normal,” we tend to categorize it as “bad” and “unacceptable.” To avoid punishment or shame, we try to hide those things, banish them from our psyches, bury them deep down, or even deny their very existence in the hopes that they will eventually go away.

They don’t, of course.

The key to the parts of ourselves that we reject and deny is that we unconsciously (or consciously) believe they pose a threat– most often that threat is to connection itself. It feels like if anyone ever found out about that part of us, they would hate us, abandon us, reject us, or punish us.

Let’s take the example of a man, who is brought up with the message that a good/normal man is masculine, stoic, self-sacrificing, and silent. This man might find within himself bits of sensitivity, weakness, fear, emotions, and insecurity, and decide that in order to keep his status and connections safe, he must push all of those bits of himself down into oblivion, and deny their existence forever. Those parts of himself might become so loathsome to him, so dangerous and disgusting, that he finds himself resenting anyone else, male or female, who displays these traits, and find himself drawn to hyper-masculinity in the form of violence, porn, and an obsessive need to look big, strong, and powerful.

A woman on the other hand might get the message that in order to be “good” she must be small, delicate, passive, feminine, and selfless. Afraid of all the non-small, non-passive parts of her that she discovers inside, she becomes terrified that her very existence poses a threat to connection and belonging. She takes all of her aggression and “selfishness” (aka her strong sense of self and boundaries) and stuff them down out of reach, along with her needs, desires, intuition, anger, sexuality, and voice. She skates down the middle, careful to be enough of something, but never too much. Confident, but not too confident. Funny, but not too funny. Successful, but not too successful.

It’s not only cultural messages which teach us to reject parts of ourselves, either.

Many of us have specific memories of being shamed for something about our personalities, behavior, or bodies which we tagged forever as “unacceptable.” Maybe your sister always called you dumb, or your dad used to comment on your unladylike manners or your mom worried about your weight. Whatever it was, these moments land in our brains as red flags for disconnection, letting us know that something about who we are is dangerous and we must stay on high alert to fight it off.

Self-acceptance isn’t easy. But it is absolutely a requirement for healing body image and walking around with an unconditional sense of self-worth.

If you still carry shame for any part of who you are– whether it’s about the kind of sex you fantasize about, or how much you want out of life, or how hungry you are for intimacy or attention, or how unkind you can be in your own mind– you will always need an outlet for that self-rejection.

Your body will always be a convenient location for your self-hatred, offering a tidy distraction and protection from the truth of your own hatred.

Think of it like this: all the parts of yourself that you reject get locked away in a corner of the deep dark basement of your psyche and treated like garbage with no food, no light, no human contact for years.

You, (the You who lives on the 5th floor of your psyche, with sun streaming through your windows enjoying the view and getting on with your life) rarely think about the basement. You’re far too busy with work and family and relationships and hobbies and routines and life.

So you carry on, happy-ish, thinking you did the right thing by locking those parts of yourself in the basement.

But two terrible things happen.

The first is that you are desperately lonely, and always feel like something is missing. People who meet you and don’t like you make you feel worse, because you’re paranoid that they suspect, or can tell, about the parts of yourself you have banished to the basement, and you live in fear that they know and already hate you.

People who meet you and like you make you feel guilty, because you know you’re pulling the wool over their eyes, and that they would despise you if they ever knew the truth of who you really are.

You meet people all day, unable to fully connect with any of them, no matter how they treat you, because you are constantly distracted by guarding your secrets, and are never able to be fully authentic anyway, because you have far too much to hide and protect.

The second is that sometimes you are there happily working on the fifth floor and you think everything is fine, when you suddenly hear screaming coming from the basement: blood-curdling, primal raging enemy-screams.

One might call these moments shame spirals, “imposter syndrome,” anxiety/depression, self-loathing, beating yourself up, or bad body image days. They arise when you remember that these severed parts of yourself (fueled with rage and hatred for having been chained up in the dark for so long) exist, which means that you are inherently a monster.

Plus, occasionally, one or more of your basement captives will break loose and take over the whole building with extraordinary violence in vengeance for the war you have waged against them, leading to exquisite levels of self-sabotage and out-of-control bad decision-making.

Self-acceptance is about recognizing that we all have these parts of ourselves, that they’re normal and natural, and that (if you don’t wage war on them first) they’re not dangerous.

We all have flaws. We all have the capacity for unkindness, gross habits, and weird shit that we like and want and do and are. These parts of ourselves do not make us lessworthy of love, connection, or belonging.

Self-acceptance is about letting those parts of ourselves out of the basement, raising the white flag of peace, and gently integrating them into our sense of self.

What happens when you do this is that you restore yourself to psychic wholeness, and stop being afraid all the time. When you stop hiding and protecting your secrets, you can connect with people more fully– so the feelings of loneliness and isolation cease, and those moments of “I am worthless garbage” ease up.

Don’t get me wrong. Self-acceptance takes courage, patience, compassion, and tons of self-examination. But it’s worth it, because on the other side of self-acceptance you actually have access to unconditional body love, confidence, wholeness, aliveness, and a deep feeling of unshakeable, unconditional self-worth.

The post The Importance of Self-Acceptance on Body Image appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

https://ift.tt/2UNzf3o

#The Importance of Self-Acceptance on Body Image

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johnclapperne · 6 years ago

Text

The Importance of Self-Acceptance on Body Image

The Importance of Self-Acceptance.

“We can’t hate ourselves into a version of ourselves we can love.” ― Lori Deschene

It’s a tall order, I know.

Accepting isn’t the same as loving, though. Accepting just means you acknowledge the reality and existence of everything about who you are with open arms and compassion, and without resistance.

Let’s use weight loss as an example.

So let’s talk about self-acceptance.

Our society teaches us generally what it means to be a good/normal person, and we are often shamed or punished for the ways in which we diverge from that definition.

They don’t, of course.

It’s not only cultural messages which teach us to reject parts of ourselves, either.

Self-acceptance isn’t easy. But it is absolutely a requirement for healing body image and walking around with an unconditional sense of self-worth.

Your body will always be a convenient location for your self-hatred, offering a tidy distraction and protection from the truth of your own hatred.

So you carry on, happy-ish, thinking you did the right thing by locking those parts of yourself in the basement.

But two terrible things happen.

People who meet you and like you make you feel guilty, because you know you’re pulling the wool over their eyes, and that they would despise you if they ever knew the truth of who you really are.

Self-acceptance is about recognizing that we all have these parts of ourselves, that they’re normal and natural, and that (if you don’t wage war on them first) they’re not dangerous.

Self-acceptance is about letting those parts of ourselves out of the basement, raising the white flag of peace, and gently integrating them into our sense of self.

The post The Importance of Self-Acceptance on Body Image appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

https://ift.tt/2UNzf3o

#The Importance of Self-Acceptance on Body Image

0 notes