#like I am completely numb to this horrific new trauma that I have just experienced despite how new and raw it is

[luxuriant-starlight]

damn. having c-ptsd is fucked up huh

[daringyounggrayson]

(Not) Enough

Summary: After the training simulation goes wrong, Bruce takes his kid home. A Failsafe aftermath fic. AO3

He’s just sitting there, intentionally keeping his distance from the others and staring off into space. He’s unusually still. Quiet. His forehead glistens with sweat, his breathing still faster than normal. “Robin,” Bruce calls, hoping it will be enough to catch the boy’s attention. Dick’s head whirls towards him, eyes surely wide behind the sunglasses. He’s startling too easily. “Time to go.”

Dick nods and wipes his palms on his jeans before shakily sliding off of the table. Bruce puts a hand on his back without hesitation to help guide him towards the zeta tubes. He parked the Batmobile in Gotham near the zeta entrance, not wanting to make the drive to Happy Harbor for what was already planned to be a long day. He’s even more grateful for that decision now.

Bruce goes through first, not wanting Dick to be alone. The computer recognizes him and he steps forward, only to be met with a Gotham alley. It’s evening now, the sun already beginning to set, just barely peeking out. It felt later in the Cave, still does.

Dick materializes behind him as Bruce calls the Batmobile. He hops in when it pulls up—Dick following his lead unprompted—and waits for Dick to get settled before driving off. When Bruce glances at him through his peripheral, he’s fidgeting and biting at his lip, (hopefully) accidentally drawing blood. He needs to say something.

He clears his throat, and Dick practically jumps. “What happened today never should have happened. I apologize for our error.” Too mechanical. He holds back a sigh. “Dick, I am so sorry you went through that.”

“I,” Dick stammers, but the beginning of his sentence never goes anywhere.

“Dick,” Bruce says again, switching the Batmobile to autopilot so he can give Dick his full attention. He grabs the boy’s hand, preventing it from twisting the skin on his opposite arm. “I’m not taking this . . . situation lightly. What happened in there was horrific, what you experienced,” Bruce trails off. His son just experienced his friends’ deaths, his own death even. Something he thought—felt, believed—to be completely real. The mere idea makes him feel sick, and he can only imagine its toll on Dick. He’s thirteen. His baby. “The League’s carelessness was unacceptable, and I can assure you that precautions will be taken in the future. But more importantly, its effects on you need to be managed.”

“Managed?” Dick repeats, voice uncharacteristically empty as if he had heard the word for the first time and was just testing it out himself.

“Yes. Before we left, the League talked about setting up a few counseling sessions for each of you,” Bruce explains. “I think it’s a good idea.”

Dick doesn’t say anything, but he does nod slowly. Whether that’s an agreement to talk about his experience or an agreement that of course Bruce thought it would be a good idea, he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to know.

“But we won’t force you into it. Not until you’re ready,” Bruce assures, receiving another slow nod in return. “And I’m . . . here, if you ever want—need—to talk.”

“Yeah.” His voice still sounds so wrong, distant almost. Bruce lets go of Dick’s hand which immediately goes back to its previous job of twisting the boy’s skin. Bruce clenches his jaw and focuses on the road ahead of him as he takes over the Batmobile’s controls once more.

Not a minute later, Dick finally says something: “Bruce?”

“Yes, chum?” He’s all calm tones, soft voices.

“I’m going to puke.”

Bruce swerves the car to the side of the road and parks it, helping Dick out and away from the car. He pukes in the city’s bushes on and off for two minutes. It leaves him shaking and covered in a new layer of sweat and what Bruce finally recognizes as being on the verge of a panic attack. He wonders how long ago the thought spirals started, or whether this was induced by a flashback, or maybe it’s a delayed reaction to the exercise. Possibility after possibility pops into his head, but he pushes them back to focus on Dick and what he needs.

He bends down on his knees and holds Dick’s face in his hands. “Grounding exercise.” Dick doesn’t have panic attacks often, but they tend to be a side effect of fear toxin, so he’s familiar enough with them. Grounding exercises tend to work efficiently on Dick, something that has more sporadic benefits on Bruce himself. “Tell me five things you see right here, right now.”

“Can’t breathe,” Dick gasps. He thinks it’s funny in an odd sort of way; people having panic attacks often say they can’t breathe, and yet they’re breathing so much so fast. Too much, too fast.

“Yes, you can. Focus. Five things you can see. Tell me.”

“I-I see bu-bushes,” Dick says, eyes moving from side to side to look around. “I see-see you.”

“Good, keep going. Three more.”

“I see my-my vo-mit,” Dick stumbles over his words a little as his attention shifts.

Bruce pushes his head away from the bushes. “Two more, buddy.”

“I see the sidewalk, and-and I see my sneakers.”

“Good.” His breathing’s still fast, eyes jutting around, and his body is vibrating with how fast he’s shaking. The shaking is one of the things Bruce hates the most. “Now four things you can feel.”

“I feel my face going numb,” Dick gasps out. Damn it.

“Try not to name symptoms of the panic attack,” Bruce reminds him.

“I feel your ha-hands on my face, I feel my jacket, I feel my shades,” Dick lists off quickly, almost as if he’s being timed. “Um, I—”

“That was four,” Bruce tells him. “Three things you can hear.”

Dick closes his eyes, breathing slowing a little. “I hear the swings and I hear my voice.” Dick’s body jerks once, something Bruce hopes to be the shaking’s final hurrah. “And I-I hear traffic.”

“Almost done. Two things you can smell.”

Dick’s breathing is almost back to normal, and Bruce feels relief for the first time since Dick woke up. “I smell my sweat.”

“Dick,” Bruce warns.

“And-and I smell garbage,” he half smirks.

“Last one: one thing you can taste,” Bruce tells him, smiling himself. The shaking seems to be tapering off, almost gone completely.

“I taste my bl—” Dick stops himself from saying what Bruce guesses was going to be “blood.��� “Something salty.”

“Good kid,” Bruce smiles, wiping away tear tracks. “Better?”

Dick nods. “A little.”

“Should we go home? Or do you need a minute?”

“I wanna go home,” Dick says, and he sounds so painfully desperate.

Bruce takes his kid home.

When they get home, Alfred is there waiting. He had sent him a message detailing the general situation what must have been an hour ago, shortly after the League themselves realized something was wrong. He sent him another update when they got to the Batmobile, too, but even so, the old butler must be wracked with worry by now.

And to combat that worry, it smells like he had been cooking. Soup and fresh bread, Bruce suspects as he and Dick finally enter the house.

Bruce’s hands are still on Dick’s shoulders, guiding him out of the study. He’s still a little unsteady as he recovers from the panic attack, so Bruce keeps his hands on the boy to prevent him from falling almost as much as he does it to keep him grounded. And if it helps Bruce too, well, that’s just an added bonus.

“Ah, Master Dick, Master Bruce, I’m so relieved to see you,” Alfred says with relief as he intercepts them in the hall, still in the middle of wiping his hands on a towel as he does. “I’ve made bread and soup if anyone’s hungry.”

“That sounds great Alfred,” Bruce says. “Think you can manage some food, kiddo?”

Dick pales and shakes his head. “Not hungry.”

“That’s quite all right, lad,” Alfred is quick to say. “I’ll come check on you in an hour or so. Perhaps then, hmm?”

“Sure,” Dick mumbles.

Bruce squeezes Dick’s shoulder; he doesn’t jump, just turns his head to look at Bruce. “I think a shower and a nap would be a good idea.”

Dick has this look of fear in his eyes.

“Sleeping won’t make you go back there, Dick,” Bruce says, guessing where Dick’s fear is coming from. “There aren’t any psychics that could link up with you accidentally; it’s impossible.”

“I know.”

Bruce suspects that was the wrong the to say. Or maybe not wrong, just not right. “If you can’t sleep, at least try lying down. It will still help your body relax, and I’m sure you must be exhausted after everything.”

“Yeah,” Dick murmurs. “Yeah, maybe.”

Alfred looks at Bruce; he has a lot of explaining to do.

“I’m going to,” Dick cuts himself off and swallows. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Bruce let’s go of Dick’s shoulders. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Right,” Dick says quietly to confirm that he had heard Bruce, and walks past them and in the direction of his bedroom.

Bruce wants to follow, make sure that he’s all right and to be close by if he’s not. But Alfred needs an explanation, and Bruce needs Alfred.

oOo

He eats soup and tells Alfred about the day’s initial plan—a train-for-failure exercise taking place in an artificial psychic reality—and how it went horribly, horribly wrong. He tells him that Dick fell into a coma, he tells him that he was terrified he wouldn’t wake up. But then he did, and he’s relieved, but still so worried about what his actions have led to and the damage they’ve caused. Alfred offers words of comfort, potential solutions, an agreement that therapy will be beneficial—and they help, they do, but today it’s not enough.

When he's finished, he goes upstairs to check on Dick. He’s out of the shower and sitting on his bed wearing sweats, hair still wet and dripping onto his shirt.

“Can I come in?”

Dick startles and sits up straighter. “Y-yeah, sure. Course.”

Bruce sits on the bed next to him. “Shower help?”

“A little. Good to get that stuff off me, you know?”

“Hn,” Bruce agrees. He isn’t sure if Dick means the sweat or the physical feeling his psychological state assigned to his body to match his internal feelings of trauma. Probably both.

Dick rests his head on Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce wraps his arm around Dick like a protective shield. “I can’t get it out of my head,” he whispers, a haunting undertone to his voice. “They just keep dying.”

Bruce squeezes him tighter. “That’s not an unexpected response.” Bruce closes his eyes. “But it’s over now Dick. It wasn’t real.”

“I know. But it felt real, and it kind of still does.” Then Dick admits, “I keep going to text them, just to make sure they’re really alive.”

“They are Dick.”

“I keep checking my pulse,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as if he were admitting his darkest secret.

Bruce rests his chin on the wet hair, heart aching. “I’m so sorry, Dicky. But you’re here, here with me, and nothing is going to happen to you. I promise.”

“How long do you think this training thingy will take?” Dick had asked as they drove through Gotham in broad daylight. He had wanted to go to the movies with some school friends that night, he just needed a general time frame to give them.

“It won’t be long,” he had almost laughed at Dick’s eagerness for a movie. “I promise.”

Dick reaches his hand up to grab at Bruce’s shirt, pulling him back to this moment and reminding him of a similar position they were in when Dick’s family died. Even though no one has actually died this time and Dick is now consciously aware that his friends are alive—that he is alive—he’s still in mourning. He’s been through a traumatic experience that resulted in death, a death that Dick felt and believed full-heartedly. This won’t be an easy recovery, no matter how hard Bruce wills it to be.

Dick’s body shivers, and then hot tears soak through Bruce’s shirt and onto his chest. “It was all my fault,” Dick chokes out as a crying fit takes over his body. “I’m sorry, I-I—”

“Whoa,” Bruce says and shushes him, pulling him into his lap to rock him back and forth. “None of this is your fault, understand? The simulation was designed to get worse the further it went on. But none of it was real; you are not responsible for anything that happened in there.”

“But we-we thought it was real. I made calls that I would’ve made if it was real. And I-I got them killed, I killed them.” The words are a little difficult to make out through Dick’s sobs, and his little body is shaking so hard. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Dicky,” Bruce says through a lump in his throat. “Baby, no. Shh, shh, you need to calm down. Deep breaths, okay? Deep breaths.”

Dick tries like the good soldier he is, but he won’t stop saying “I’m sorry.” Bruce isn’t sure what specifically he’s apologizing for because he doesn’t have all of the details about what transpired yet. He does know that if he wants to fix this, he needs to find out.

But until then, Bruce holds his kid and runs his hand through his hair and rocks him back and forth. He grounds him, he tries to make him see that he’s not in some fucked up simulation that his careless so-called adopted father intentionally put him in. He reminds him that he’s safe and alive and home with him.

Today, he doesn’t think it’s enough.

[jeremystrele]

Stylist Shonel Bryant On Battling Breast Cancer, Supporting Your Girls, And Silver Linings

Stylist Shonel Bryant On Battling Breast Cancer, Supporting Your Girls, And Silver Linings

Family

by Sally Tabart

Luke and Shonel at home in Yandoit, Victoria. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Shonel’s impeccable styling skills really shine in her home! Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Shonel with her gorgeous kids Smith (7) and Vogue (6). Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Luke and Smith hanging out. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

A quiet corner of Shonel’s beautiful home. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Shonel with Vogue! Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Luke and Vogue with the family dog. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Luke, Smith, Vogue and Shonel. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Shonel’s talent as a stylist is evidenced in her home! Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Luke with the kids. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

A nice moment between Vogue and Shonel. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Bunk bed kids! Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Vogue feeding the chickens. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Shonel and Vogue checking on the chicks. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

The family live in beautiful natural surrounds. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Vogue Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Shonel Bryant’s successful events styling business, Nomad Styling, came to a grinding halt in 2019 when she was diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer. Her  kids Smith (7) and Vogue (6) were just six and four years old at the time, and while her gut was telling her to shelter them from it entirely, the family used it as an opportunity to be honest about their feelings, and they pulled through it together. But just over six months after finishing her treatment and getting the all clear, the cancer returned. It was – to put it lightly – the worst.

But despite the many challenges to her mental and physical health, Shonel has fought hard to find her silver lining. She’s done it through carving out her own community through her popular platform Support Your Girls – a place where she and other people experiencing cancer have been able to find others that just get it, especially when they struggle to feel understood in their day-today lives. She also self-produced (along with Robot Army Productions) an incredible nine-part docu-series, Life On Standby, where she recorded some of the most intimate parts of her journey in the hopes that others would feel seen and heard. She is determined to be the success story she couldn’t find when she was looking for it.

Connection and understanding is so important to Shonel. Here, she tells us how she found it.

I read on your website that you lost your mother to stomach cancer. I am so sorry. You mention that that experience changed your life in the best possible way – what do you mean by that?

Losing my mother to stomach cancer was one of the hardest things I’ve gone through and continue to experience. I allowed myself to work through the stages of grief and came out the other side of it with an altered perspective on life, a beautiful one. My mum was a natural teacher, it has felt as though she’s continued teaching me through the afterlife. That truly feels like a gift. 

While I still experience grief today, though in a different way, I am forever grateful for the lessons her death has taught me. It really confirmed something that mum used to often say to me: ‘Out of everything bad comes something good’. She really has taught me to find the silver lining. But I’ve taught myself that I need to slow down and feel it all before it begins to fully surface.

What year were you diagnosed with Triple Negative Breast Cancer? And where are you at now in your journey?

I was diagnosed in October 2019. I was 36 and my children were six and four at the time. I had six months of neoadjuvant chemotherapy, which was a challenging time as asking for help is not a natural strength of mine. After great results, I was able to just have a lumpectomy rather than a mastectomy. After radiation on the site I was ‘in the clear’. While that time wasn’t as smooth sailing as I expected emotionally, I was happy and began attempting to get on with my new life.

It was a mere seven months after my treatment ended that I had a routine mammogram/ultrasound where they found I was one of 2% of people where the cancer had spread into a lymph node that was in a very unexpected place. The cancer was back! Due to COVID, we hadn’t even been able to go away and celebrate being ‘cancer free’ yet.

The aggressive nature of this rare type of cancer means that if it comes back, it happens fast and grows very rapidly. Since then, I have had another surgery, more radiation and am now on chemotherapy tablets for six months. I have another four months to go.

How did you tell your kids, and how did they respond?

Despite instinctively wanting to shelter them from it entirely, one thing I was very clear on (while so much of my reality at the time was a blur) was that I did NOT want to instil fear in the children. Cancer to them was merely a word that had no emotional weight. We were quite direct with the kids but focused on the facts.

There were some really fabulous books that helped them visually understand. I also took lots of video footage and photos so I could show them the machines and the hospitals as well. We ensured they knew they could ask us if there was anything more they wanted to know, and we kept that door open while updating them with progress along the way.

We exposed them to our emotions and struggles at times where we could have hidden them. Instead, we used these as opportunities to open up a dialogue around the importance of feeling our emotions and that it’s okay to feel scared or sad. 

There were times I cried and they comforted me; they literally took me into their arms like I was the child and told me to ‘Feel it all’ (as I do with them). Even recalling that gets me emotional; these are moments that stick with you for life.

And what about Luke? How did he process it?

I think Luke and I have different views on this. To me, whilst I knew he wasn’t in denial I believe Luke was quite distant with how he processed it. Rather than speaking to me about it, he dealt with it on his own and carried the weight of it himself. This was extremely challenging for me and made me feel isolated. I know this was not his intention at all, however it was my experience and reality at the time.

It’s been one of the most challenging parts of this for me personally, the toll this has taken on our relationship. While these photos may depict us in a happy way, the reality is we have a lot of struggles on the daily we are actively working on. Luke and I have been together for 16 years, this experience has really highlighted our relationship dynamics, which have been completely flipped since my diagnosis. We still very much have happy moments, but cancer has made life more serious temporarily.

Can you tell me a little about Support Your Girls? Why does it exist, and what do you hope to communicate? 

I had a successful event styling business called Nomad Styling and was set up to continue doing international weddings in 2019 and then I was diagnosed and shut it down immediately to focus on my healing. In turn, I had no income. While loved ones rallied and raised funds for us, we needed something else so I could just focus on my healing.

I started selling slogan T-shirts that say ‘Support your girls’, meaning your breasts and women. Each T- shirt comes with a ‘self check’ card, informing the recipient how to perform a self check and encouraging them to create a habit of checking on the first of every month.

50% of the proceeds go towards setting up a youth education program that will be rolling out into schools over the years to come on the importance of self checks and knowing their risk factors.

It has become a platform, a community where I share my experience as I navigate the many challenges that people going through cancer can – and will likely – face. It started out as me sharing to help others, and has turned into an incredible community that truly holds me when I am down. I feel so engaged and connected to my followers and am incredibly grateful for their loyalty and support.

I have so many further ideas in the works on how to reach people in more engaging ways, that I really look forward to achieving in the future.

What advice or guidance would you give someone who is going through something similar to what you have been through?

As with most traumas or challenging experiences, often it’s difficult to process and grieve at the same time as it’s too fresh or urgent. Our nervous system tells us it’s not safe to go there, first we have to survive, then we get to step back and comprehend the situation.

Allow all of the emotions to flow through you as they surface. If you get in the way of them and try to numb or suppress them it will only hinder your experience. It may feel better short term, but it will catch up with you.

Allowing that energy to flow in and out of you, the good, the bad and the horrific. It’s  extremely uncomfortable yet necessary and helps you process what the hell is happening to you so you can move forward.

What brings you joy, and what are you hopeful for?

It’s truly the small moments on the daily that I now fully drop into and truly feel grateful for. It amplifies the impact they have on my body and it feels incredible. Pure joy to me are things like: the kids jumping into bed in the mornings, the sunshine on my face flickering through the trees, feeling the cool breeze on my skin, deep conversations with loved ones, my feet in the sand at the beach, going to therapy and witnessing my growth. Ah… even thinking about these things brings me joy. There are so many more I could list.

I am so hopeful for clear scans in the future, I have a routine full body PET scan next month and I am both excited and deeply fearful at the same time. The fear can be crippling, but there comes a point where all you can do is surrender.

A candid moment with the family. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

FAMILY FAVOURITES

Family activity or outing?

We love going to local markets and exploring all of the small local townships with the kids. Having lived in Geelong most of our lives and relocating just before I was diagnosed, we enjoy learning about the local regions to us. It’s all new and exciting.

Cafe or restaurant? 

Pancho café in Daylesford. Alma restaurant in Geelong.

Ideal ‘me time’ activity?

Going to a gallery and being inspired, reading books in the sunshine, chatting to my psychologist and debriefing with a beautiful friend over a delicious meal. What a blissful day.

Sunday ritual? 

Making home-made pasta together with the kids, we do it every Sunday where we can. I cherish this time so much and hope that these memories stick with them and they want to bring their own children home and do this together as the years roll by. (Should they wish to have children, of course.)

Weekend getaway?

Going anywhere in our restored vintage caravan creating new memories together is one of our favourite things to do. We need to prioritise it more.

You can find some amazing resources, journal entries, videos and products over at the Support Your Girls website. Follow along with Shonel on Instagram here.

Explore Shonel’s 9-part docu-series, Life on Standby, here.

[pipesquotes-blog]

The Honorable Kirstjen M. Nielsen                        July 25, 2018 Secretary of Homeland Security Washington, D.C. 20528

Dear The Honorable Secretary Nielsen:

Hi! Did I say that right? I hope so. Last thing I want to do is have you chuck this letter aside and not read it because you were misaddressed.

I was writing to offer to volunteer to help you and the DHS follow the court order to put those families back together. I currently have all sorts of free time because I'm on summer break. I work as a Para Educator (it's like a Special Ed teaching assistant) at a program for kids with behaviors that are too extreme for a general education classroom setting. Most of the kids I work with have either suffered some sort of early childhood neglect or trauma and/or attachment disruptions even if they are currently living with a safe, permanent family. It's so sad sometimes. But it can also be really interesting and thought provoking. Like the time that one 1st grader screamed at me, "Go shake your asshole!" I spent the better part of my lunch break trying to figure out how that would work. It can be heart wrenching, too, like when I see kids getting that glazed look in their eyes and start to act out as if they are re-living some sort of horrific event and are literally screaming, hitting, kicking, biting, climbing on or throwing desks and spitting. Oh, the spitting...Anyway, I think the sooner the kids that you have scattered around the country are returned to their families, the better chance they have not to end up in a program like the one where I work.

I have been having nice break from work this summer, though I do miss those kiddos! Freaky and sometimes violent behavior aside, the kids of Room 3 have completely made me a better person and have, at times, shown more genuine kindness than I have ever seen from one human to another. So I am pretty excited to go back. But I still have all this free time! And I would love to be productive and helpful and it seems like your department could use that.

I know you are super busy right now scrambling to put babies back in the arms of their parents and trying to find where you guys actually put some of them and even coming up with clever ways to usurp the court order (tip of the hat to the worker that came up with key words "eligible to reunify" That must make take so much pressure off trying to give kids back to parents that have been deported without them! I mean, imagine trying to find a lady named "Maria" in the jungles of Guatemala to let her know that she can come get her toddler back! Maria, YOU are ineligible! Easy peasy and sorry, Your Honor!)

I hate to add more to your plate, but if you could just point me in the right direction to help out, I would be grateful. I have had this awful feeling pretty much continuously since this Jeff Sessions gleefully embraced the immigration deterrent of separating families. I have spent most nights waking up in a sweaty panic thinking about the horror and worry that those kids (and parents) are experiencing. What makes it impossible for me to fall back to sleep after waking up like that is the thought that your goons at the border didn't have the wherewithal to consider implementing a basic tracking system as these families were scattered around the US. I would recommend, if you guys figure out a way to continue this barbaric practice, looking to IKEA for ways to keep track of kids when you take them from mom and dad. The folks at Småland® have got that shit dialed in. I, of course realize that they don't separate and warehouse kids in the same quantities that we have, but the basic format might work for ease of return.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that you must be sleeping pretty crappily, too! Probably even worse than me! I mean, I feel guilty for not doing anything to fix the mess and trying to live my life like a normal American doing normal American summer things, all the while knowing exactly where my kid is. Sure, I'm worried and I fret, but like most other good folks who are disturbed by stories of kids who will likely never see their parents again after they came to the border as a family seeking asylum and were tricked into going with the nice lady in a uniform only to be sent TO ANOTHER STATE, but at the end of the day we get to shake our heads and say, "that's just awful what's happening to those families," and go about our business. You, on the other hand, are not only in part responsible for this massive cluster fuck, but you are also supposed to fix it. You probably, like me, are imagining what those kids are feeling every night when they put their little heads down on on those institutional pillows and wondering how long and hard they must cry before they exhaust themselves to sleep. If I am as cranky and reclusive as I have been these past few months and as often as I have been spontaneously bursting into tears and burdened by the guilt of not doing shit to fix it, I raise a glass of boxed wine to those around you that are experiencing whatever emotional wreck of a human you must be, what with the guilt and all.

I realize that with my offer to help out, I haven't really told you how I can help. My answer is: I'm willing to do whatever. I do have some skills that might work well in this situation, though. I'm really good at finding solutions for things, I ask lots of questions, I am observant, objective, patient and experienced at advocating fiercely for kids. I live in Portland, Oregon and can certainly make some phone calls for you if that helps, but I am totally willing to travel, too. I have a friend who is an airline pilot and could maybe get me a good deal on a standby ticket to where ever I could be most helpful. I am sure I could find an Air B&B for super cheap. BTW, do you know if Scott Pruitt still has dibs on that sweet pad in DC? $50 a night would add up real fast as Para Educators make a ridiculously little amount of money (I am TOTALLY not complaining. I knew it didn't pay well, but I really love being a part of the magical program I feel that the teacher I work with has created for these special kids), but I could probably scrape together some cash for lodging.

So again, let me know how I can help. Please. I am terrified that I am going to get used to this new reality and grow numb to it. Can you imagine thinking about those kids and moms and dads and not feeling a thing?! Of course you can't. At least you have the luxury of being permitted to have an actual impact on this mess. I'm just expected to do my part by registering to vote or contacting my representatives. (Big ol' shout out to my boy, Jeff Merkley for his dedication to these families. I am one proud constituent!) While those things are certainly important, I don't think it is in my make up to do those things and feel like I did enough. Especially when there are still a couple of thousand children waiting for reunification. God, try saying THAT out loud without throwing up in your mouth a little.

I know the media is giving you a hard time as are those mean hecklers that wouldn't let you eat enchiladas in peace, but when I see a headline like NPR's "Government Unable to Track Hundreds of Parents it Separated From Children" (July 24, 2018) I'm like, "Unable?! NO way! Let ME in there!" I once tracked down the drunk driver who totaled my Honda Prelude by sitting on my front stoop holding a piece of broken headlight he left behind at the scene. I should have gone to detective school really.

Anyway when you have a free moment, do let me know what I should be doing. I love kayaking, but really would feel better helping my country fix a truly fucked up situation that is creating even more damage than it erroneously believed it was trying to prevent in the first place.

Thanks!

Jen Endicott

503-xxx-xxxx

PS I almost forgot to mention that I speak Spanish! Maybe even better than your boss speaks English!

PSS I promise to cast my political feelings about the administration you serve aside. Kind of like in the 80's when parents signed those contracts promising not to yell at their teen drivers if they called at 2 in the morning drunk and in need of a ride. In this scenario, I'll be that parent who drives up to the party, wades through the red plastic cups, piles of vomit, passed out teens and empty pizza boxes to find you, with your blue eyeliner smeared and your lips stained from the jungle juice that Dave's older brother made and give you a big hug for doing the smart thing and calling me and your dad. (He's home by the way and he was too pissed to come with me.) I just want to get you home safe. Tomorrow, after you've slept this thing off, your dad and I will lecture the shit out of you guys for getting into this shit show in the first place.

cc:

Jeff Merkley

Donald J. Trump

Mom

Rachel Maddow