#manic depression records

[thewolvesof1998]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday

Tagged by @jeeyuns (early but its already Tuesday night for me-it's that NZ time)

This is a secret fic that I started yesterday and only one person knows about it 👀 And if all goes to plan I'll be posting it in the next few days...

He shoves his phone back into his pocket and heads for his truck. He throws his useless toolkit in the back seat before getting behind the wheel. It only takes him fifteen minutes to get home and he really wishes that he lived further away from his aunt. He sits in his driveway for a conspicuous amount of time but he can't seem to get his legs working, something akin to panic making his body feel like lead. Buck will be texting him any minute now, asking where he is, he knows how long it takes from his Tia’s, which seems like intimate knowledge but Buck’s been intertwined with his family for about as long as he has known him. Just last week he’d helped Eddie fix Tia Pepa’s back fence and afterwards they had driven home in Eddie’s truck, Buck behind the wheel and trying not to be distracted by Eddie’s hand on his clothed cock. Buck had definitely run some reds and almost caused a fender bender but it had only taken them ten minutes to get home that day.

It was supposed to be a funny, lighthearted fic but it's by me so of course it's got some angst.

tagging: @wikiangela @wildlife4life ​ @eddiebabygirldiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks @try-set-me-on-fire @jesuisici33​ @bekkachaos @buddierights @spagheddiediaz @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @shitouttabuck @911onabc @exhuastedpigeon @malewifediaz @your-catfish-friend @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @watchyourbuck @king-buckley @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese @daffi-990 @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings @mangacat201 @theotherbuckley @hoodie-buck @eowon @rainbow-nerdss @nmcggg @pirrusstuff @evanbegins @giddyupbuck @sammysouffle @smilingbuckley @jamespearce9-1-1 @carrierofthepaperclips @callmenewbie

[thegabbonessoshow]

For tickets call: 412-339-0608

Show Description: On May 12th at 7pm & 9pm please join "3 Times Voted Best Comedian in Pittsburgh"Gab Bonesso as she returns to Arcade Comedy Theater to record her upcoming album tentatively titled Gab Bonesso: Manic Depressive. Gab is also a Nationally Awarded Mental Health Public Speaker and Children's Performer (the Josh and Gab Show). Throughout her career Gab has used comedy as a way to share her journey with mental health and to promote kindness in schools. Through her work with Josh Verbanets (Meeting of Important People front man), Gab started writing music and has been writing songs for the last decade. Her upcoming album will feature LIVE standup comedy, and original music that will be recorded in-studio. Gab is working with legendary Pittsburgh producer and musician Jake Hanner (Donora) on this project. The idea is to use both standup comedy, original music and other sounds to convey the mind of Gab Bonesso. Josh Verbanets is also working on this project as both a musician and producer. SOME STUFF FAMOUS PEOPLE HAVE SAID ABOUT GAB!!!! Gab Bonesso has been described as "the read deal and f**cking hilarious" by Curb Your Enthusiasm's Richard Lewis. Lizz Winstead (co-creator of the Daily Show) described Gab as a "Superstar". TJ Miller (Silicon Valley) said that Gab was, "an AMAZING alternative comedian and not just in Pittsburgh, like everywhere." Joining Gab on May 12th are Harriet Riley and Alan Olifson. Harriet Riley, a UK native, has become a recognizable presence in the Pittsburgh comedy scene. Harriet's wit, keen eye and hilarious humor about American culture is absolutely brilliant. She is one of the best hosts in Pittsburgh and can be seen every summer hosting the Milvale Music Festival. Gab is so excited to have Harriet joining her for this special night. Alan Olifson is an award-winning humor columnist, public radio commentator, comedian and regular host of Pittsburgh’s monthly Moth StorySLAMs. He created the acclaimed storytelling series WordPlay in his hometown of Los Angeles. He’s hosted storytelling events for conferences, schools and, believe it or not, bridal showers. His book, ManChild: My Life Without Adult Supervision, is now out on Six Gallery Press. Alan relocated to Pittsburgh with his wife and two children years ago but never tires of hearing people complain about “traffic.” Gab is a big fan of Alan and so happy to have him on the show!

[kazoo-world]

okay. i debated not posting this because I was worried I’d get death threats (that says a lot doesn’t it) but it needs to be said, because its upsetting me.

a woman who publicly says she feels very sane and has “never been to therapy” and who breaks up with her boyfriend in part because he can’t just “”get over”” his depression to love her the way she wants/needs does not.

I repeat, does not.

get to use the imagery she did in her fortnight video.

I’ve been seeing gifsets and screenshots all day of her chained to a bed but ~aesthetic~ and being fed a pill after a cheeky side eye and strapped to a glamourfied ECT machine and no one has said anything about it so I will. those images are genuinely triggering for me.

people have been restrained, forcefed pills, and given electroconvulsive therapy or subjected to the electric chair for severe mental illness against their will. these are not fun props anyone gets to throw around to express that they feel depressed or in a “manic phase” or like they were “raised in an asylum.”

she doesn’t know how a real asylum fried my grandmother’s brain or real cops restrained me because I was psychotic and manic. she doesn’t know what it feels like to be dehumanised that way.

do better. demand she do better, too.

edit: I say that this content is triggering to say that it causes real harm. I do still have a responsibility to myself to curate an internet experience for myself. this does not negate her responsibility to avoid replicating harmful tropes in art which is deeply influential. she does not get to co-opt institutionalization or psychiatric violence as a romanticized aesthetic or as a metaphor because real people like myself have suffered greatly under the things she is representing as glamorous or cool. institutionalization silences and violates mentally ill people in a way that marginalizes them, and that experience should be treated with sensitivity and care rather than being commodified to reduce stigma. if she had experienced these things, I might feel differently, but other ableist content on the record and her statements on her life and art indicate otherwise. she is a woman with immense privilege and power and should not be using that privilege and power to punch down on mental illness.

edit 2: I want you all to know I have seen your criticism. I will not edit the post but I do respect that she has had mental health struggles since that outdated quote. That is my mistake, I own that. My apologies.

However, mental health struggles =/ experience with psychiatric violence. Experiences of mental illness are heterogenous. Aestheticizing, romanticizing, and glamourizing mental hospitals is straight up gross regardless of your experience with mental illness. It’s tasteless and offensive.

I do understand metaphors. I think that her calling her life an asylum as a metaphor is in poor taste. I think her representing her relationship struggles with the imagery of a mental institution is insensitive given the impacts that real asylums and mental hospitals have had on my life and the lives of many others like me, so I had to say something about it.

It’s ableist to assume that critics of your fav “can’t read”, “don’t understand a metaphor” or “don’t have brains” when they clearly demonstrate that they are thinking critically. Do better.

[hostess-of-horror]

Vent in the tags. Please, do not reblog; however, you can like and comment.

[0ceanic-cosm0s]

To the Hellfire - chapter 0

[Josh Washington x F! Reader]

3.2k words

masterlist - zero - one

chapter wrote by @sharkology & @xghostcr0wx

⚠️CHAPTER WARNINGS⚠️

[self-harm mentions/references, in-patient setting, blood, mental health issues]

An in-patient facility was not the place you were expecting to spend your month, but it's not surprising considering your track record of mental health problems. Ever since you were young, you had a bad habit. Self harm. The feeling gave you a blissful relief, and seeing the red left you distracted from the outside world.

It was the easiest and best way for you to cope. Sure, the medications your parents got your doctor to prescribe you helped somewhat. But the anguish and depression that constantly consumed you didn't ease up much. And after a severe manic episode, your parents had enough and admitted you to the Ocean View mental hospital.

That's how you found yourself in a month stay. It was really bad at first. You were screaming, crying, begging not to be taken there. The whole intake session you were inconsolable, asking how long you had to stay there. When you first heard '30 days' come out of your assigned therapists mouth, you felt like fainting.

It wasn't all bad though, you met a guy around your age. His name was Josh. He'd just arrived there the day before you. Before meeting him, there was a whole process of frisking you by staff and making you strip to check for any previous wounds or sharp objects. They give you a fresh pair of the hospitals clothes to change into afterwards.

You say goodbye to your parents and hug them when you're done; they each kiss your cheeks with a tearful eyes and wave farewell. One of the staff leads you through hallways and into the 'day room' where all the other patients are put in during the day to have some freedom and relax.

Necks are broken and voices quiet to look at you when you enter, countless eyes boring into your soul. They were interested to see who else was damned here. Your anxiety starts to fill your nerves as you walk over to an empty table, avoiding all eye contact. You just wanted to be left alone to calm down.

The chatter starts up again, only now a few eyes were on you. A specific set in particular however, found you. Intriguing. The stranger strolls up to your table, not even asking if he could sit with you and takes the empty chair beside you, a lopsided smile adorning his lips as he speaks in a deep and somewhat slurred tone.

"Hey, nice to meet you. I'm Josh." He says as he extended a hand out to you.

He was a fairly built guy. Short, brown locks for hair and an interesting shade of green for eyes. His skin was a olive toned, brownish shade. He looked tired, and exhausted. Eyebags hung underneath his eyes, but who's wasn't in this place?

You stare at his hand for a second, contemplating if you really feel like making friends right now. But considering the fact that you'll be there a while, you decide on being friendly.

"Likewise, I'm [Y/n]." You return his handshake, finding it hard to keep eye contact. The only thing you could think about at the moment is how much you didn't want to be in the hospital to begin with.

"So, what's it like here?" You ask with curiosity. "Best to know what's in store for me, right?" You add on in a light joking tone, causing Josh to crack a smile.

"Yeah well it's no luxury hotel, I can tell you that much. I haven't been here long either, only since last night." He admits which makes you visibly deflate, the fear of the unknown starting to get to you.

Josh notices and tries to save the mood.

"Hey hey it's not all bad, on the weekends we get to play games and let loose." He says and is only left with silence. His eyes look around the room for a bit before speaking again.

"Yeah this place fucking sucks." He admits, earning a laugh from you and causing him to smile wide.

Thus, you began sprouting a friendship with Josh in the mental hospital. It mostly consisted of you guys hanging out in the day room, sitting next to each other, cracking jokes, and talking about life at home. That's when you found out why Josh was in-patient in the first place. The death of his two sisters, Hannah and Beth.

Josh was really good at hiding his mental problems, using jokes and dark humor to cope with his trauma. There was only one time where his facade slipped, and it wasn't even in front of you. It was during the middle of your stay. You could tell Josh was acting different that day too. He was a bit more quiet, talked lower, and zoned out a lot more than usual. When he was eventually called away by his therapist to have their daily session, you felt instant bordem sink in.

There wasn't much you could do on weekdays. A TV was mounted on the wall, but the movies you could watch were very limited. You zoned out, thinking about what events in your life led you here. That was until you heard an agonizing scream from outside of the day room, down the halls. A scream that you could only recognize as Josh's voice. A lot of the words he was saying were muffled and inaudible, but you could make out a few words like 'fault' and 'prank'.  You couldn't quite understand what was going on and you could tell he was distressed. An hour later, Josh was back from his therapy session and he walked out like nothing happened. You tried not to act awkward about it, but it was a weird moment. You brushed it off and didn't say anything related to it since you assumed he'd tell you if he was comfortable with it.

He never went into detail about what happened with his sisters. It was so vague, you had to piece together that they were dead in the first place. You never pressed him about it though. You knew it was a very sensitive subject, since it's the cause of him being here in the first place. On the other hand, you didn't mind opening up to him on why you were there.

You would show him your scars when no prying eyes were looking once you got comfortable enough with him to share. They were, gruesome. Is how he'd put it lightly. The first time he saw them he made a pretty clear surprised face you mistook for disgust, your insecurities flaring up a bit. But he quickly apologized and carefully caressed your shaking arm with a calming gentleness.

"I-I'm sorry, [Y/n], I just. I've seen some nasty stuff from the other patients but yours takes the cake." He tries to joke with a nervous laugh. It doesn't make you feel better though. He sighs, and retracts his hand while you two sat in silence for a few moments.

He speaks up hesitantly, trying to figure out how to lighten the mood when a thought comes to mind. "If it makes you feel better, even in the slightest. I think they're beautiful." Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What do you mean?" He sighs, lowering his eyes to the ground while rubbing the back of his neck trying to gather his thoughts.

"It's like. It just shows that no matter how much pain and suffering you've been in, you're still here. You're still living. You exist. Your scars show what you've had to endure and that you made it to another day." His capturing green eyes look up at your [e/c] ones, trying hard to convey the sincerety in his voice.

"I just find your strength admirable, ya know? I hope that makes sense.." He smiles anxiously, hoping to the Gods he didn't make himself look like a bigger idiot. He waits a few seconds for your response-when you finally manage a small smile at him.

"Yeah. It makes sense." You softly say, appreciating his words. His grin widened at your smiling face and you two continued chatting about whatever came to your minds the rest of the day.

Both of you became close, as close as a mental hospital would let you. If the staff found out you were sharing your last names with each other, you'd get in trouble. It was strongly discouraged because 'you're here for treatment, not to make friends.' That didn't deter you and Josh though. You ended up learning his last name, 'Washington', and he told you about how his dad is a popular movie director. You kinda had a hunch his family had a lot of money but you didn't expect them to be that rich. He explained how he owned a mountain as well as how him and his friend would go visit their lodge for a few days to a week in the summer and winter. The way he explained the getaway trips made it sound so fun, leaving you longing for an experience like that.

"That sounds amazing!" you'd exclaim everytime he talked about the lodge.

"Next time we go, I'll invite you. I promise." He'd always say, you both making a quiet promise with your pinky fingers. But you never knew how serious he was. You never kept your hopes up about seeing him after you got out, you knew it was a small chance since both your hometowns were hours away from each other.

That was until he slipped you his phone number on a tiny slip of paper. He gave you a playful wink, indicating that you know what to do with it when you get home. It was the last exchange you guys had before Josh was discharged, leaving you to stay there one more night. The last day without him was the hardest. It's like he brought life into the place. You were practically spending everyday with him for 29 days straight, and you got used to his playful presence. It would be a lie to say you didn't develop a small crush on him during your time together.

The second you were out of the hospital and made it home, you just wanted to run up into your room, lock it, and text Josh-clutching the small piece of paper with his number on it close to your chest; brimming with excitement. But alas, your parents wouldn't allow you a moment to be alone. They showered you in love and affection, presenting gifts to you left and right the second you guys stepped inside. You tucked away the paper with a sigh, reminding yourself you'd be able to talk to him soon enough.

After a few hours of hanging in the living room and talking about your stay at Ocean View (only barely mentioning Josh as you didn't want them to question you for another hour) you tell them that you're exhausted and that you wanted to sleep. They reluctantly agree after they insisted you sleep in the living room with them so they could keep an eye on you, which you shut down immediately and reassure that you'd be fine alone.

You hug them goodnight and lug up all the gifts into your room, swiftly locking the door and hurriedly pulling out the notepaper and your phone-punching in the digits a little too eagerly. You already craved his ridiculous jokes and teasing. Once you added his contact, your finger hesitates over the typing section. 'Would he respond?' 'Would he want to talk?' 'Did he actually care about you?' 'Was he pretending the whole time to be your friend just to hurt you in the end for his own entertainment?'

Countless worrying thoughts filled your mind, and your anxiety begins to build. You felt the urge to self-harm to help deal with the stress you felt, even if it was something so minor. It's just how your brain processed these things. But you manage to suppress it somewhat. You take deep breaths, using breathing exercises like your therapist suggested to do when you got like this. Once you calmed down, you began to shoot him a simple text:

You: "Hey Josh, it's [Y/n]. Sorry it took me a bit to text, my parents were talking to me for what felt like forever. How've you been?"

You contemplate if this was a good text; if it seemed too desperate or corny. But you close your eyes and hit send anyway. Conflicting thoughts ran through your brain if this was a good idea or not. You were told it was strictly forbidden to ever become friends with people in the mental hospital by the staff and your therapist because it might be dangerous for both parties. You didn't care during that time, thinking: 'It can't be that bad, right?' And now, you weren't too sure, your overthinking thoughts swirling around like a typhoon.

Until a few seconds later you heard a 'ping' come from your phone. You immediately open your eyes to see what it was; hoping for Josh. And your heart raced when he responded.

Josh: "Well if it isn't Ms. Marbles finally remembering about lil' old me. Took you long enough"

Marbles was a nickname Josh gifted to you so generously in the mental hospital in reference to you quite literally losing your marbles-the cause for you to get admitted. And ironically enough, you really enjoyed playing a marble game with him during game nights so it was a two in one combo.

You roll your eyes with a sigh, relieved that he texted back and also the faint annoyance at such a cringe nickname, but it still made you smile nonetheless.

You: "Marbles? Really? Couldn't keep that dumb name back in Ocean View?"

Josh on the other side of the screen was smiling wide, happy to finally talk to you again once more. He missed your company and voice dearly.

Josh: "You wound my ego, Marbles! I'll have you know I'm the greatest nickname giver in the whole world. So be honored that you were personally given one by me ;)"

You scoff at the text. He was always such a complex and interesting guy. But his shenanigans were amusing to you, so you often didn't mind them. You kinda got used to the name overtime anyways when he'd see you in the day room and call you over by it constantly. Even though you acted like you hated it, deep down, you felt special the moment he gave you a nickname.

For the next 9 months you and Josh continued to stay in contact. You would text, call, Skype, and even play games together like Minecraft from time to time. You got close to each other over the months you spent chatting. He even finally confided in you, albeit the tinest bit, about the death of his sisters.

And you were growing on Josh too. The one thing he'd look forward to everyday is a text from you. Even if he didn't tell you that, even if you didn't know, it still meant a lot to him. He cherished the time you spent together, it didn't matter it was through a screen.

Some time at the end of January he invited you to his 'Anual Blackwood Winter get Away'. You were honestly excited to see him again, and you couldn't wait to hang out with him without having staff breathing down your back 24/7.

So of course you said yes and accepted the invitation. You knew it wouldn't just be you and Josh, his friends would be there too. You also knew that his friends were the indirect cause of his sisters deaths. You honestly didn't know how he was still able to hang out with them in the first place, but he said they expressed terrible regret for their actions which is fair. Only 2 of his friends weren't in on it, which you guess is a comforting thought. It's not like you already hate his friends, you just thought the prank was in bad taste and resulted in a terrible tragedy that no one saw coming. You just felt bad for Josh the most, he's the one who had to face the repercussions of his friends actions; losing both his sisters. You could definitely see it still affected him. No matter how much he insisted he was over it, you could tell he was still grieving.

You were there for him as much as you could be, through a screen. It seemed like he had a friend, Sam, who has been helping support him through this tough time in his life. You're thankful for that.

The day arrived when you had to get ready to go to leave for the trip. You woke up extra early, making sure you had enough time to take a shower and go over everything you packed the previous night. You texted Josh after your shower, asking him about the details of transportation. He said you were supposed to take the same bus as Sam to the mountain, since she was one of his most closest friends, he wanted you two to potentially bond and already have a good connection. You were a little anxious to meet her, but he's told you a lot about her and she seemed to be a really cool person you'd get along with.

You start getting dressed, choosing a warm yet stylish outfit. You slip on black thermal leggings, white leg warmers and black snowboots, a blue and white pleated skirt with a matching blue sweater, a cute black leather jacket over, and white earmuffs. You put the earmuffs around your neck to stay until you reach the mountain.

After checking all your essentials and making sure you had everything, you place your duffle bag over your shoulder and grab your phone-putting in wired earbuds to listen to music while on your way to the bus station during the car ride. Your parents dropped you off, making sure you packed your meds and your charger. They hugged you tightly good bye and drove off. You sat on a bench and began scrolling through your phone as you felt a tap on your shoulder.

"Hey! [Y/n], right?" You look up and recognize the blonde haired girl as Sam, from pictures Josh would show you. You give her a polite smile and nod, taking out an earbud and offer a hand for her to shake.

"Yeah, that's me. Nice to meet you." Sam shook your hand, it was soft and warm.

"Likewise, I've heard lots of things about you from Josh. And I mean a lot. He really likes you, you're a good influence on him." Your heart skipped a beat at her words. You didn't think he'd talk about you that much to his friends. But it made you feel happy he thought of you like that.

You two sit and talk for a fat minute, until your bus arrived. Sam and you step aboard, taking a seat close to the back together and continue chatting, talking about each other while the bus drove off to start the journey to your destination.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

[a/n] omg y'all chapter zero is done and chapter one is coming soon as hell so stay tuned!

-From

🦈 & 🦇

[gh0stbeeee]

New Death Note Swap AU:

L and Light are Super Stars while Misa is both the World's Greatest Detective and Kira.

HERE ME OUT.

L was first on the pop scene in 1999, made music under the name "L" and quickly dominated the UK top hits billboard, going international within a few years. Started humble, but with the support of Quilish, was able to get a record deal and it soared from there. Basically, instead of becoming a detective, he became a voice artist.

Light, on the other hand, started his music career after he had a breakdown due to, y'know. Extreme boredom, pressure, and depression because of his lifestyle. It led to him running away because he didn't want to watch his family be ashamed of him. But, with Light being Light, he was able to find work as a small time idol under the name "Kira." Of course, he became super popular, started writing songs in English to appeal to an overseas audience, and went international in 2004. (L is 22, Light is 18)

(BTW, very important, their music styles are based off of gwen stefani, lady gaga, and some nicki minaj, basically they make 2000s/early 2010s dance floor pop music)

L and Kira were household names by 2006, and by god. Did they not like eachother. It started when Light as a rising star was compared to and accused of copying L, but even though it was obvious to anyone with ears that Light's music was more manic than L's heavier beats, it sparked a dislike in Light that boiled over when they met eachother at a red carpet event where L called Kira trashy. They were both drunk and ended up fighting one another, which created a huge rivalry.

(Imagine two twinks in designer paris hilton-esque y2k fashion just beating the shit out of each other in front of the paparazzi, because that is their aesthetics in this AU)

For years, they sang shit to each other in their music, entire diss sections added for each other. On the internet, it became known as "the kira/L bits" in their respective songs.

Then, Shinikami appeared in 2006, and the detective Misa Misa was on the case.

And nothing changed for them for a few months, until Gelus saved them at a party in California from a crazy gunman. Then, when they were staying in the same room at a celebrity hospital, Rem drops Gelus's Death Note in front of them.

And they fight over it, touching it at the same time and sharing ownership because of it.

Rem is annoyed by them at first, but decides to protect the brats as Gelus's dying wish.

After they learn about the source of Shinikami's power's, they're pissed. Attention hasn't been on them because of this supernatural killer!

Oh, and uh, killing people is bad and whatever...

It's unacceptable!

Buying the shinigami eyes with the extra life-force gifted to them by Gelus (they each have 1 shinigami eye due to shared ownership of the death note), they set out undercover to go find Shi and take em down with a panty and stocking type dynamic!

Misa, who has smugly been playing against herself this whole time while Ryuk watched, has no idea what shit is about to hit the fan...

End game is LightxL and RemxMisa obviously hehe

(Detective Misa's story is the same as in the swap au, but she just had a Kira arc as well :))

[necronatural]

Limbus Company Sinner OC based on The Yellow Wallpaper (coparented with @sabaramonds)

Particulars: Anxious Manic-Depressive

This sinner is experienced and can depend on her instincts in combat. Unfortunately, her mindless approach is necessary with her personality. It is advised to prevent her from overthinking or making plans on her own, and guide her with a firm hand. She is prone to panic and doubt, so do your best to keep her docile. [WARNING]: The difficulty of retrieving this sinner's past history appears to be an active effort on her part. Any new information should be reported for our records.

[sacred-coffin]

Rubbing my grubby little hands together. It's time to bipolar Terzo.

And, one thing for the record, I'm bipolar! So I know what I'm talking about and I'm projecting a little and that's valid

I tried to rewrite my bullet points from my google doc to sound... nicer and more professional, but it didn't feel right. So y'all are getting the raw unfiltered version from when I infodumped about this in a discord chat, hope you like it :)

ONE . He has big overarching aspirations, but also mad depressive episodes. These get in the way of him completing his goals and also make things fuzzy along the way.

He's got this big city, big social change, all of these huge goals and life paths he wants to follow. And there are times where he's really set and driven on working on it! Especially when people are egging him on, like when he was a cardinal. I imagine he had a lot of sustained manic or hypomanic episodes while he was a cardinal.

Being very dead set on a goal, possibly losing sleep over it, putting all of your time and effort on it...Also however you want to interpret the cream pies comment (sexual or food) it both lines up with something a manic person would do. SO.

I think once he's in the ministry again / papa his depressive episodes started getting harder & his manic episodes more. Erratic.

He had less people pushing & supporting him towards his goals / what he was really passionate about, so he was just . Really bitter and pulled away from people. You see a lot more of his irritable and generally temperamental side come out during this time bc like. When he has manic episodes he has so much energy to use up but nowhere for it to go! Sometimes being really angry with something can trigger a manic episode, and I think he might be prone to doing things really excessive/extreme all of a sudden to spite people. If that makes sense. Like the decision to ditch the papa robes, things like that.

Also iirc, when he was a cardinal he was really over indulgent. That is very common for manic episodes; it's very common to  develop substance abuse issues as well. I think he could be a borderline alcoholic, but he's pretty good at hiding it. Definitely better at hiding it than when he was younger, but the habit is worse when he's older

I kinda wanna talk about Terzo possibly being like, a pretty angry person. And this is definitely projection LMAO. He very much presents himself as a guy who probably doesn't have angry outbursts and such, but I think that. Well. If he's bipolar that is NOT true ok. When I thought about this the first time I was like "would he punch walls? No. His mom raised him better than that. But God does he want to break stuff"

I feel like part of his reclusiveness is to keep up this image he has to everyone-- you can't judge him or form an opinion of him in his off time if you don't see it. So you don't see him getting drunk, you don't see him being depressed, you don't see him getting mad, but god it is happening all the time

I just feel like, like, you could argue he has this sudden shift in personality at a certain point. Or maybe at multiple points. In regards to how he felt about his goals at least. Esp bc I resonate so hard with the thought that he didn't want to be the machine-man (from Metropolis, 1927), but he had to, and I feel like being bipolar explains that so so well. Facing adversity he'd get so pissed about it, but he would only let that stop him for a little bit. But he'd also wouldn't be able to make the kind of progress he did before (like drawing up blueprints or plans) because he doesn't have that same well of outside energy & support to tap into

God also. He is so delusional. He is so so so delusional.

I think being Papa ruined his mind .

No offense but like. His goals are impossible. He's chasing them so hard anyways. He's insane. Like. Like.

I don't know I can only compare this in my mind rn to my mom looking at me when I was like, 5 years old or something and telling me she was going to become an archeologist and move to Egypt. Like she was so so sure of herself that it was going to happen. Obviously it fuckin didn't,

Also also. I feel like he's not diagnosed bc I feel like it's more likely to be missed in men. Also I want to give him migraines even though it's less common in men but slightly more common with people who are bipolar and also bc it is GENUINE projection but I think the idea of Omega walking in and seeing Terzo hidden in a bundle of blankets with all the lights off like "is this a depression cocoon or a migraine cocoon" and Terzo just kinda shifts the blanket around and you see him wearing this funny as fuck eye mask. And Omega is like "migraine cocoon, got it" and just fucking leaves

Did he shave his head once and regret it? Yes. Did he get addicted to cocaine? Probably. Did he spend all of his money on model city pieces? At least twice.

I think in the end it's entirely possible he bought into everyone's ideas that maybe he is the one who should be worshiped

I feel like a lot of manic episodes & things can be so warped by the people you surround yourself with and like. Idk. Being the face of a devil worshiping cult can give a normal guy a God complex.

But a guy who's already prone to delusion and God complex??? Oh honey he's FUCKED.

[a-world-with0ut-dr34ms]

John Price x Civilian Reader

After a breakup, Price figures a walk along the beach might make for a good distraction. What he did not expect to find was a strange woman standing off to the shore, who looked as though she were ready to drown herself at sea.

Sappy Romance, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Fluff, Meet-Cute, First Meeting, Young Price, Hurt/Comfort, Breakups, One That Got Away Trope, Reader is a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, mainly told from Price's perspective, Subtle mentions of depression

WC: 2.3k

Prelude | Chapter Two | Chapter Three Masterlist

Chapter One

10 Years Ago...

"We're done, John. End of discussion."

The line grows dead, its monotonous tone buzzing through his phone speakers.

Price didn't bother calling back, as any self-respecting man would do -- or ought to, he thought. There's no need to further embarrass himself begging someone to be in his life who did not want to be there anymore. She is one and a million other breakups before and a million more to come after, he's sure.

Yet, when he went to swallow, the air had caught in his throat rather pathetically, as some old memories felt a need to remind him of themselves now at this time. Her eyes, her smell he's all but come to scarcely remember, the way she once looked at him, the small moments they've built over the years... All forever to be memories, shelved by every other one alike its kind.

Only as of late, those spaces have grown rather crowded. He hadn't planned on making her another part of the collection.

But then again, what else had he expected? The man's been in and out of relationships since his youth. It's what made this last one feel as real as it did, seeing how long they stayed with each other. A new record, in fact. Two years. The team had practically been planning his wedding, it had been that big of a deal. Seems they needn't bother now.

This breakup had been brewing for months though, finally having reached its tipping point once he'd come home three weeks back. Looking back, he wishes he'd taken the warning signs more to heart.

It hadn't been like her to be the one that was hard to reach; she often griped about his unavailability as is. However, the weeks before his return had been the least they'd talked since back when they'd first met. By that point, he'd already been preparing for the worse.

Though, no amount of preparation had been enough to really help him once he'd stepped through the door and finally laid his eyes on her taciturn gaze.

She couldn't have looked less excited to see him when he'd gotten home. All of his things had been put away someplace where she hadn't had to look at them, she covered the pictures they had on the walls and rearranged the apartment to better fit her taste. She'd even made plans for the day, as though she'd forgotten about him entirely, having already removed him from her spaces.

As if that hadn't already stung, the disappointment in her eyes when she had to shift her day around to fit him in again... he went to bed that night having still seen her frown in his mind all the way into his slumber. That had felt like the end before it ever came to fruition.

The next day when it had sparked a "discussion", it soon morphed into an hour-long screaming match between the two. She grabbed her things and walked out without so much as a goodbye, and Price had been given new orders right on time to not be able to mend things before leaving, allowing for the negativity to further fester.

Or had that been his last relationship? They all seem to blend together these days. Whether it be because of him, the other, or circumstance, one way or another, things just never seemed to work out. You'd figure Price would give up by now.

Being alone for the rest of his life didn't exactly sound appealing... yet each day he's watched another person walk out from his life as easily as they've come in. If it's not someone leaving him back home, then it's someone dying in the field. Everything and everyone always just passes through. Always visiting, never staying.

Maybe he's just cursed. He knows the others liked to joke about his luck, as Price seemingly had the worst of it compared to the rest of them. He never took their jokes seriously, but the more time passes, the more he thinks they might be on to something.

Maybe he is just bad luck...

What it was that possesses him after, he's not so sure, but Price has grabbed the keys to his truck and set route on an unknown path, driving aimlessly, until he's found himself parked in an empty parking lot at a lonely beach.

A walk seemed like the sensible thing to have, given the situation.

The sky is gray today, clouds laid out across the sky like a cold sheet, as the icy sun did its best to break through its veil. The seagulls cawed obnoxiously, flying circles above head, as the chilling waves fell peacefully in the afternoon breeze. He almost mistook this sad sight for the beaches back home.

His stationing in the Pacific Northwest had been temporary, that time soon to come to an end once his Captain has gotten his team more work to do. It couldn't come soon enough if you asked him. While the place hadn't left any particular impression, beyond it being rainy and busy, he felt it was time enough to keep moving.

Price pauses in front of the water, staring off towards the sea. The horizon disappears into the distance, blurring into a mesh of grays and blues. The waves crash against each other in loud, unsettling burst. Early signs of a storm. Cold and uninviting. Empty. Easy enough to just... step right into, letting the sea run its course and take care of the rest... oh, how easy it would be...

The man has found himself encapsulated by it suddenly, body frozen. Dissociating. A sad, lonely, dreary sight, akin to every emotion he hadn't yet wanted to focus on.

Out on the field, with the SAS and his team -- who had felt more like family now than any he's had before, it was easy to put this negative energy to good use, staying focused on what matters.

Here by himself, Price often finds that negativity is all he's left with most days.

Perhaps it had been the view or the thoughts of her eyes that accompanied them soon after. Price has already begun to dial his ex's number as he presses the device to his ear and awaits to hear from her again.

"Lord, I'm DONE!"

For a moment, Price had thought that cry of defeat came from the other line. However, this sudden unknown tangent continues behind him, as someone shouts out, "I can't do this anymore!"

To his right, Price had suddenly seen you approaching the shore a few feet away. Angelic looking, the sun seemingly breaking apart and shining a light on you like a beacon of hope. Your white sundress battles against the light gusts of wind that flee from the ocean, your hair blowing around you freely.

You walk over slowly, paying no mind to anyone or anything beyond the sea itself and its lapping waves, and you pause, an epiphany hitting you in the breaking sunlight. Overwhelmingly. You don't speak anymore, nor do you move, simply watching the ocean, your shoulders slouched in defeat, with a look of true hopelessness in your eyes.

You never look his way once. Somehow, Price could sympathize with that.

He can't help but stare, given your sudden outburst, though it hadn't explained what it was that had mesmerized him as well. He could not exactly say why.

"Hello?"

The irritated voice of his ex-girlfriend quickly reminded him that he had been on the phone.

"Morgan?" he asks, even though he's already gathered by the distaste in her tone that it was her.

"Look," she's already prepared everything she had to say to him; he's all but memorized all her go-to phrases and tactics. "I already told you it's over. I'm done with this, John..."

You've started to groan loudly to yourself by the shore again, bringing your hands to the back of your head in defeat. You start to wiggle in your shoes, continuing to watch the horizon.

"...Are you even listening to me?"

Price blinks. "Of course I am," he says.

"Fucking Christ, John," Morgan groans on the other line. "You know, you're really pathetic sometimes."

"Tell me about it," Price says plainly.

Morgan scoffs. Desperate to have some high ground in this; she's now begun to start spitting venom at the man. "I always knew you'd be a fucking waste of time, you know. Everyone told me you would be," she says. "Even now. You just called me to what, exactly? Bother me some more?"

"I wanted to talk to you," Price admits, though saying it out loud only made him feel more fragile than he would have preferred.

"Then why aren't you?"

"Why aren't I what?"

"Talking."

Price rolls his eyes, knowing where this conversation was heading, as it's gone this way a hundred times before. Especially of late.

"It's not as though you've allowed me to," he argues.

Morgan has started going into another rant, one which involved various different words to belittle him for his lack of being a good enough partner for her. Frankly, his mind has begun to wander once again to this strange woman, who has only now begun to worry him, the longer he watches.

You take some steps forward, the ocean waves brushing the tips of your feet. A couple more steps forward and it’s ruined the bottom of your sundress. You just keep walking forward-

“Excuse me, miss?”

Price has called out to you. He's not quite sure what would have happened if he hadn't just now.

"What was that?" Morgan speaks on the other line once more, having heard the man now interrupt her tangent. "Who are you talking to-"

Price has gone ahead and hung up the phone. It hadn't been like he was listening anymore in the first place.

You've paused now, turning to see the man a few feet away who has now called out to you. He's handsome, young, with soft eyes which looked to you with worried curiousity.

If he didn’t know any better, Price would almost say you looked offended that he stopped you. You say nothing, in fact, simply waiting to hear what it was he felt so important to say to you.

The look in your eyes is what had him suddenly tongue-tied, having now grabbed your full attention. He hadn't expected your gaze to feel so piercing. As though you could see right through him.

“I don’t think dresses make for good swimwear," he settles for some humor.

There's a silence after he's said that. A short one spent just looking towards one another, attempting to read the other person, and see what it was that had you both so stopped. For a second, he didn't think that line would work.

Though, your gaze wavers, emotions start to swell in you. You genuinely ask him, your voice nearly broken and defeated calling out over the waves.

“Does it even matter?”

Price thinks to himself, having wanted to give you a proper answer. He slips his hands into his pockets, shrugging to himself, as Price genuinely tells you, “It will when you get out.”

You laugh to yourself, breaking your gaze from him as you've looked back out towards the ocean. If the wind blew a little more in your eyes, you may actually cry. Yet whatever tears seemed to brim at the corners of your eyes, remained there, sat behind a still face that desperately wanted to remain as so.

You stay put, thinking, deciding on what choices you had before you. Price didn’t want to make that decision for you, not knowing what it was exactly that was wrong with you. However, regardless, he had not wished to see anyone drown today.

“Is it cold?” he jokes.

Your face goes blank, and Price can't help but smile at how deadpan it had appeared; as though he had just asked you the dumbest question you've ever heard in your life.

“Is it cold?” you ask with such disdain, the question feeling like an obvious one. And then, you grin. “Why don’t you come find out?” you taunt. “Since you’re so curious.”

There was a hesitancy Price had, one which felt unlike any he’s had before. Your suggestion was simple, yet possessed in it the weight of the entire world. For it wasn’t a matter of bravery or doubt or disinterest, but a simple chance to be had, if willing.

A simple chance...

Price thought about declining at first. He wasn’t particularly fond of getting his shoes wet, and it wasn't like he knew you. Then again, what was there to lose in a little more humor? Today's been particularly humorous as is.

Price walks forward into the sea, the cold water hitting his skin in an icy shock; he has to keep from groaning reflexively. He continues until he's stopped a few feet from you, the water soaking into the bottoms of his pants and seeping into his boots and socks uncomfortably. Too late to turn back now, so he’s accepted it, his face as stoic and dejected as it had been on the shore.

The whole time he's made his way over, your eyes have stayed on him, shocked he actually stepped out here with you, clothes and all. If his attempts had been to distract you, then they certainly worked.

In the water now, Price looks to you, and he gives you a soft, patient smile. One you felt cautious to return.

“Well," you ask him. "Is it cold?"

In all honesty, Price hadn't even noticed the temperature. His heart was racing too much just taking in everything to really give a damn about the water.

“It’s not so bad," he says.

The distant waves crash, the seagulls circling above, as the sunlight warmed the air, its gentle breeze passing between you two. A shared moment in time, where the world felt nothing more than background noise.

"Well aren't you an odd one," you comment.

Price chuckles to himself. "Says the woman trying to drown herself."

You look to him jokingly. "Is that what was happening?"

"I don't know..." Price shrugs. "Was it?"

You look as though you were about to tell him, though you quickly catch yourself, thinking back on whatever that sentence had been previously. You instead look off to the sea again, growing quiet.

"... I don't know," you say. "I just... wanted to get in. Guess my impulses won."

This takes Price aback now, having begun to wonder if he should have come over here. Of course, he could tell you were lying, though he wouldn't press if you did not wish to share.

"And you say I'm the odd one," he teases.

Your smile lifts, the sunlight making your eyes shine brighter than he's seen them this whole time.

"I guess we're both a little odd then, aren't we?"

You make Price laugh to himself, and it's then he's noticed the warmth he'd begun to feel from this conversation. This random chance.

He’s about ready to ask for your name when suddenly you've up and started walking out of the water. Price watches you resubmerge from the sea, your dress bringing a trail of dripping water along with you across the rocky sands.

“Change of heart?” he calls out.

You shout back, “Something like that.”

“I never caught your name.”

You turn around, smiling.

“I know!”

And then you walk away, becoming but a small spec in the distance, before the horizon has swallowed you whole. Price had watched you the entire way, no longer feeling the swell of the waves at his feet.

You never looked back once.

Chapter Two Here!

Author's Note: So this is gonna be a slow-burn romance that goes for 10 chapters. The next chapter is going to jump back to "present" time, which is set at a random time period after the events of MWII.

Each chapter's gonna go back and forth, as we delve into this relationship and what made it not work, and if it can be salvaged. I hope the dialogue wasn't garbage, I promise they'll have more time to develop, and that this isn't all just random stuff either.

I really wanna practice putting themes and foreshadowing and stuff in things. So think of this as a passion project guinea pig WIP. Please stay tuned and leave a comment, I'd love to know your thoughts! If you'd like to be tagged, please feel free to ask! ಥ‿ಥ

[plaguedocboi]

Tell us more about Moby Dick!! :D

Ishmael is a fascinating little specimen let me tell you. He has a reputation for being a “boring narrator” but that’s complete bullshit. Right out the gate he’s like “hello this is my (fake) name, I’m poor, I’m depressed, but luckily when I can tell I’m about to kill myself I hop my ass on a boat because the water can cure whatever’s wrong with you, also we are all being controlled by the puppet strings of the divine and free will is an illusion. It is now Page Three.”

The entire first part of the book is his story of meeting, falling in love with, and marrying a hot tattooed Polynesian man in what may be the first recorded case of the “there was only one bed” trope and it only gets wilder from there. This really caught be off guard tbh, I had no idea that there was so much gay stuff in this book.

I honestly cannot even pick my favorite Ishmael moment. Could it be him being adamantly on the wrong side of the “are whales fish or mammals” debate? That he suggests narwhal’s horns would be good for turning the pages of small books? When he hides behind the mast and eats some spermaceti because he just has to know what it tastes like? When he tattooed himself with measurements of a beached whale but rounded all the numbers because he also needed room for the poem he was writing on his arm? The gay sperm squeezing chapter? When he made his drunk listeners fetch him a priest and a Bible so he could swear he was telling the truth? And then lied????

Ishmael’s musings range from beautiful, lyrical prose that makes you stop and reread the section because damn, and chapters about How Rope Works and encyclopedic writing about the whaling industry. There are lofty theological debates and accusations about the reader being a fish. You spend much of this book wildly seasick because Ishmael’s voice is manic, hilarious, and disorienting. Once you’ve finished this story, you, too, will feel like you’ve spent three years aboard a whaling ship.

Although the unhinged tangents are often amusing, many people complain because they probably account for 90% of the book with only the remaining 10% devoted to the plot. Surely if we just got rid of Ishmael’s Nonsense it would be better, correct? No. This is Ishmael’s memoir. He knows how it ends. These plot-delaying anecdotes are purposeful; he does not want to reach the end because it is The End. The death of his friends and his husband. The inevitable, unforgiving blade of fate that slices the lives of of the Pequod’s crew short and leaves him alone and adrift at sea. Enjoy his journey, because it may seem long now but it ends all too soon.

[candiedspit]

It was not the first time I’d considered death as an escape hatch. Nor was it the first time I felt my head was not my own, not in my control. Once, after a vicious fight with my mother I went to the golf course in the neighborhood, houses on either side, blonde patios and a long stretch of grass, and drank a bottle of cough syrup. I laughed into my hands, I laughed out loud and took an Uber to the supermarket. I sat in the front and felt as though the driver knew how special I was, the mission I’d been granted, wanted to fuck the powers out of me, suck my light. But he dropped me off and I went inside, ate a candy bar without paying and ignored the phone calls. When my brother appeared, he asked if I was alright. I was gone, not Jasmine at all. But a puppet carried by someone with restless hands. I experienced depression first at eleven years old. I would want to sleep all the time, asked for sleep on my birthday; I couldn’t focus in school, limped through my classes and said not very much. This came and went, once resulting in taking a bottle of aspirin then laying on the couch and telling no one what I’d done, nursing a stomach ache. But at sixteen years old, a girl raised on Lolita and Arctic Monkeys, vinyl records and poems, I had my first manic episode. I have only bits of recollection. I know the broader scope; I wore loud clothing, hung out of cars, was convinced I was either going to win a Tony award because of the music I was planning to write or, if that didn’t work out, an Emmy for my film I was in the process of making. I had hired two young girls, gotten permission from the library to film inside, had written the script—but I had no camera. Still, I would mumble beneath my sheets at night, rehearsing my acceptance speech over and over again. Thank you so much. This is an honor, really. More episodes would follow; seven years would pass punctured by episodes, long stretches of being king, a couple of dark holes. I set toys on fire. I started smoking. I lost all my friends. I loved everyone on earth. I dropped out of school. I shocked myself again and again, electric kisses. I heard orchestras in empty rooms. I found comfort in hallucinations. I was going to save the world. I was incoherent, listen to me.

These details are important.

These memories were whirring through my mind the morning I decided to die.

[redlips-greensleeves]

The Psychology of Qi Rong (TW for cannibalism and mental health)

This is a review of Qi Rong's behaviour and symptoms in relation to this authors note. According to MXTX, if put into a modern day context, Qi Rong would be said to have bipolar disorder. In order to verify this statement, this post is dedicated to comparing actual symptoms of bipolar disorder and Qi Rong's behaviour from the novel in order to prove this statement true.

I would like to put out a disclaimer that I am not a licensed psychology practitioner, but a student who hasn't finished his degree yet. I am simply writing this because this authors note wouldn't leave my brain. Please don't expect total accuracy from this post, though I will try my best to ensure that there is no error on my part

I would also like everyone to note that the term bipolar itself, is used to describe a spectrum of disorders, and that simply regulating it to one term would be incorrect, and that treatment can vary depending on the disorder

Bipolar Disorder: History, Symptoms and Probable Causes

Bipolar disorder is characterized by chronically occurring episodes of mania or hypomania alternating with depression and is often misdiagnosed initially. Treatment involves pharmacotherapy and psychosocial interventions, but mood relapse and incomplete response occur, particularly with depression.

(I want everyone to make note that the first recorded case of Bipolar Disorder as an illness was by Pierre Farlet in the mid-19th Century (1851-1854), who called it “folie circulaire” (circular madness). It was defined by manic and melancholic episodes separated by symptom-free intervals.

In 1854 Baillarger used the term "folie à double forme" to describe cyclic (manic–melancholic) episodes (Pichot 1995; Ritti 1879).

There also seems to be a mention of bipolar disorder (Unsure of this, take with a bit of salt) in the book Eight Treatesies on the Nurturing of Life by Gao Lian (Different character from the Lian in Xie Lian); dating back to the Ming Dynasty (1591 {first publication()} [requires fact checking])

(Note: Records of treatment of mental disorders in Ancient China go all the way back to the Tang Dynasty. If you check wikipedia, there is the claim that it goes back to 1100 BCE, which I can't confirm [requires fact checking])

Criteria to be met before diagnosing someone with Bipolar I Disorder according to the DSM-5 are at least one manic episode. This may be preceded by and may be followed by hypomanic or major depressive episodes and the occurrence of the manic and major depressive episode(s) is not better explained by schizoaffective disorder, schizophreniform disorder, delusional disorder, or other specified or unspecified schizophrenia spectrum and other psychotic disorder

Manic episodes are characterised increased talkativeness, rapid speech, a decreased need for sleep, racing thoughts, distractibility, increase in goal-directed activity, and psychomotor agitation. Some other hallmarks of mania are an elevated or expansive mood, mood lability, impulsivity, irritability, and grandiosity (Can be remembered using the DIGFAST mnemonic)

Rapid cycling in bipolar disorder is defined as having at least 4 or more mood episodes in a 12-month period. These mood episodes may be manic, hypomanic, or depressive but must meet their full diagnostic and duration criteria. These episodes must be separated by periods of partial or full remission of at least 2 months or be separated by a switch to an episode of opposite polarities, such as mania or hypomania to major depressive episodes (Note: Switching from mania to hypomania or vice-versa would not qualify because they are not opposite polarity). Rapid cycling bipolar disorder patients have been found to be more resistant to pharmacotherapy.

Hypomania and mania can be distinguished by a certain feature- hypomania does not cause major deficits in social and occupational functioning. The duration of a manic episode is at least a week, while a hypomanic episode is about four days

Symptoms of a depressive episode include feeling very down/sad/anxious, slowed down or restless, trouble falling asleep, waking up too early, or sleeping too much, talking very slowly, feeling unable to find anything to say, or forgetting a lot, trouble concentrating or making decisions, unable to do even simple things, lack of interest in almost all activities, and feeling hopeless/worthless, or thinking about death or suicide

(Note: According to the DSM-5, major depressive and hypomanic episodes are common in bipolar I disorder but are not required for the diagnosis)

Bipolar II Disorder is defined by a pattern of depressive episodes and hypomanic episodes. The hypomanic episodes are less severe than the manic episodes in bipolar I disorder

And finally, cyclothymic disorder/cyclothymia is defined by recurring hypomanic and depressive symptoms that are not intense enough or do not last long enough to qualify as hypomanic or depressive episodes

Like in the case of most mental disorders, there is no known cause for disorders on the bipolar spectrum, however the most widelt agreed upon risk factors are brain structure and functioning (some studies show that the brains of people with bipolar disorder differ in certain ways from the brains of people who do not have bipolar disorder or any other mental disorder), and genetics (some research suggests that people with certain genes are more likely to develop bipolar disorder. Research also shows that people who have a parent or sibling with bipolar disorder have an increased chance of having the disorder themselves).

In relation to genetics, many genes are involved, and no one gene causes the disorder (Which, if the authors note is true, we can assume that one of his parents carried the genes for it, most probably his father).

青鬼戚容

Qi Rong needs no introduction or abstract (Because I don't have to submit this to a prof hehehe) to start with. He is iconic, and rightfully so. In order to try and analyse Qi Rong's behaviour, let us take a glance at his introductory (In this case, first physical) appearance.

In his first (physical) appearance Qi Rong talks shit about others, which isn't really notable in regards to this topic. Its like my Mother after the guests leave and she's finished playing social politics. Its nothing interesting, just the typical criteria for the average aunty.

But you know what is interesting? His lair.

He has a throne, a banquet hall style dining set up. The only things he needs is the cauldron to cook (human) meat. I don't remember any of his subordinates needing to eat, and considering all of the salted carrion he has hanging around; not to mention the fresh meat stores he keeps (Three hundred humans...three hundred), he doesn’t eat a good chunk of the humans brought to him immediately. Its all unnecessarily grandiose for a single person, (We know that he doesn’t invite any dinner guests over. If he did, they'd be the main course)

If you notice Qi Rongs behaviour a majority of the time fits the criteria for a manic episode. Its also probably why his schemes seem to fail most of the time. Note that there has to be a remission period of two months in the case of rapid cycling (Which I belive occurs in Qi Rongs case), so MXTX is right, in a way. Qi Rong would be diagnosed with a disorder on the bipolar spectrum, more specifically Bipolar I Disorder

(One may also assume that he had cyclothymia during his days as a prince, but I believe that its just a showcase of certain symptoms of Bipolar I Disorder from a young age. He always had it, but it didnt manifest much more visibly until later on in his life)

Now Lets Talk About Kuru

Kuru is an infectious, acquired, non-immunogenic, fatal neurodegenerative prion disease. It progresses rapidly with cerebellar and extrapyramidal signs and symptoms, with death occurring within one to two years of onset of symptoms. What causes Kuru? Cannibalism, or more specifically the consumption of the brain tissue.

The diesease originated and was confined to the Fore Tribe in the Eastern Highlands of Papua New Guinea, where ritualistic cannibalism was practiced. Kuru is now extinct due to the outlawing of ritualistic cannibalism in the region.

(Note: There is a theory that cannibalism occurred due to famine, and that it was ratonalised by the Europeans who arrived their as a ritualistic practice. Colonisers have also used the excuse of cannibalism to colonise and kill indigenous populations)

What causes cannibalism? Usually, the two most predominantly ascribed motivations are hunger and hatred, and the occasional belief that eating human flesh is medicinal.

(This is a bit of a personal note from me, but from what I've heard, human flesh is not good for any living creatures health. In my hometown there are plenty of stories about animals going mad or dying after eating human flesh)

A point I want to make is that we do not know how Qi Rong died. Did he die from being eaten alive? Or did he pass from a neurodegenerative disease caused by consuming human flesh in order to survive? If its the latter, it could explain his behaviour.

Kuru is also known as the laughing disease, as patients exhibited sporadic uncontrollable laughter, due to being emotionally labile. Perhaps Qi Rong passed before the disease could reach the sedentary phase? Maybe he was killed before that. Symptoms of Kuru can take time to manifest completely, so I feel that this theory should not be discounted.

Reference(s)

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK559103/

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3188776/

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/bipolar-disorder

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK493168/

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK519712/table/ch3.t8/

https://web.archive.org/web/20070928103521/http://www.nmh.gov.tw/nmh_web/english_version/exhibition/exhibition_s0703.cfm

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2813703/

A note of gratitude for @toowolfdelusion for posting that authors note, otherwise this brainfart of mine would not exist

[waitforcaiti]

// CAITI LORE!!! (because I never elaborated on her character.. oops..)

Caiti Armstrong was born November 5th 1985. She was born to Paul Armstrong and Cassandra Armstrong.

Growing up, Caiti didn't make friends. She was a wallflower, and to the few friends she had, a doormat. She kept to herself and stole her father's camera to make short films and scripts in her free time.

During high school, Caiti started smoking and picking up drinking. She stopped talking completely (except for the short films she would make in her spare time). She tried to maintain her status by keeping up her grades and being as active in clubs as possible.

She worked hard to get into a decent film school out in Jersey, even picking up a job at a local record store. Around this time, a boy had asked her out. He was incredibly horrible for her and was very abusive both emotionally and physically. Caiti still made no effort to try and be sociable or anything other then invisible so Jigsaw sent an apprentice (Lawrence) (idk why I just have a big fat crush on him) to trap her.

Her trap takes place in-between Saw 2 and Saw 3. Her trap was a test similar to the nerve-gas house, a redo, of sorts.

She was trapped in a house with four other manic/homicidal victims who were there for their own separate reasons (DV, DUI causing three casualties, child neglect, pervert). She had a device strapped to her neck and had to keep talking because if she didn't it would close around her neck and suffocate her. There's also a good chance if she wasn't bargaining for her life she'd die. She also had a sedative poison in her veins to make it harder.

When she escaped, she had that bliss period of "oh my life is so great" (getting promoted, breaking up with her toxic ex, etc) before it all came crashing down on her. Caiti became irritable on most days, depressed and even more of a wallflower. Obviously, other days were better (she got a job in a coffee shop and participates in class) but most days are hard. She's mildly suicidal still, but on off days will attend the jigsaw survivor group. Caiti's still incredibly socially awkward as she's only been properly talking for a year give or take. She's easy to snap, yet very caring if you find the right spot.

"[I'm] really nice when you get to know [me], swear it."

Her user is a play on words, telling you to wait for her (either to catch up to normal or just in general I suppose.)

Yeah! Uh, feel free to interact because I'm literally BEGGING you I need to role-play. OCs or canon it doesn't matter to me:3!!!

[justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms]

Hello! May I get some headcanons for Honkai Star Rail (Caelus, Dan Heng, Welt, Jing Yuan, and Blade) for a shy!s/o who when they sing can manipulate the environment around them?

Usually, in combat, they hum very quietly as a boost, but when their alone and singing with their heart its as if the universe itself bends to their will? (Like if they're singing a song while feeling bittersweet and reminiscing on memories, projections of said memories will appear.) Essentially, the more that the song matches with the passion reader has with their performance ((humming -> singing (while still) -> full on preforming)) , the stronger the effect is, enough to influence (on a subconscious and concious level) and power boost an entire army to their desires.

The power comes at a cost of a decline in mental stability becoming depressively manic (think like no-self preservation, unhealthy-coping mechanisms, and crying while laughing hysterically) due to the exhaustion resulting from its strain. Due to its effects and the fact that the reader genuinely enjoys singing, they have extremely good control over these powers and only sing in front of people they trust or as a last resort to sway the tides in battle.

Thank you! :)

-🪷

Hi 🪷Anon! Thank you for your request! This was a really cool concept! I haven't written for Blade before so hopefully I got his character right. I hope you like your headcanons!

Fandom: Honkai Star Rail

Characters: Caelus, Dan Heng, Welt Yang, Jing Yuan, Blade x gn! Reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You have singing-based powers. What do the characters think of this ability?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Caelus loves listening to his s/o sing. He knows the effect it can have on them so whenever they sing for him, he always makes sure to listen carefully and appreciate every second.

He also loves watching the projections that appear when his s/o is singing and reminiscing. At first, he was worried it was an invasion of privacy, especially if the memories are painful or deeply personal.

But his s/o has reassured him that if they’re singing those sort of songs with him around, they don’t mind him seeing those memories.

I see Caelus as someone who has a pretty decent voice so he’d love it if his s/o would teach him how to fine tune his singing so he can join in if he knows the tune.

Gets very concerned when his s/o is fighting and opens their mouth. Of course he’ll be there for them if they need to sing and their mental health takes a downhill turn as a result, but he would much prefer it if that didn’t happen.

He’ll do whatever he can in the moment to protect his s/o so they don’t need to sing in battle.

Really good at supporting his s/o during moments of bad mental health. He hates how helpless it makes him feel when they’re crying and laughing hysterically but he’ll sit beside them and provide them with whatever comfort he can.

Dan Heng is a lot more cautious about his s/o using their power at all. He hates seeing his s/o's mental health drop after they exert a lot of power while singing so he has the mindset of it's better if they keep their singing to a minimum.

However, he won't force his s/o to stop singing. He knows they enjoy it and, as long as it doesn't hurt them, he likes listening to the hum while they're working.

Dan Heng can't deny that the archives feel more homely when his s/o is there with him, singing softly to themselves.

When in battle, Dan Heng will do his best to sway the tide before his s/o feels backed into a corner.

If his s/o does sing and their mental health drops as a result, he will take them somewhere quiet and stay with them as long as they need.

It hurts to see his s/o so depressively manic but he’ll stay by them. The last thing he wants is to make things worse but not giving them the support they need.

Welt likes music. He’s got a lot of records and is always on the look for more. So he loves listening to his s/o sing.

He probably won’t join in, even though he probably has a decent voice. He much prefers listening to music than making it. He might be persuaded to dance with his s/o though…

However, as soon as it comes to battle, Welt is doing his best to make sure no singing comes out of his s/o.

He struggles to help people when they’re emotionally unstable so no matter how much he cares about his s/o, he finds it hard to be around them. And that makes him feel infinitely worse.

So to avoid the emotional pain it causes both Welt and his s/o, it’s easier if he just helps prevent his s/o from needing to use their powers.

If it’s unavoidable and his s/o’s mental health does take a sharp downhill turn, Welt will be there for them of course but he needs to sneak out sometimes under the pretence of making sure the Star Rail is still on course.

He needs a moment to compose himself.

Jing Yuan can't help but think about the many ways his s/o's ability could be beneficial in battle the moment he finds out about it.

As soon as he finds out about the side effects though, he's going to do everything in his power to prevent them from putting themselves in that position again.

Another one who loves listening to his s/o sing. He'll probably fall asleep if it's a relaxing tune. If he doesn’t immediately fall asleep and he knows the song, he might hum along. He’s always careful not to drown out his s/o’s singing though.

Those are the best sleeps he's had in years.

In battle, Jing Yuan trusts him s/o to do what they think is right in the moment. Unlike the others, he won’t go out of his way to prevent them from using their powers.

That’s not to say he doesn’t care! Certainly not. When his s/o is suffering the negative effects of their powers, Jing Yuan is there for them every step of the way. He just trusts them to make their own decisions.

Blade seems indifferent about his s/o’s singing and he’s showing no signs of changing that tendency any time soon.

But deep down, he can’t imagine anything he likes more than their voice. The underlying understanding of trust and comfort is just as beautiful as the music itself.

To even be in a relationship, Blade would have to have a very deep and strong connection with the other person. So he’s glad those feelings are reciprocated.

He also finds the projections captivating. If his s/o looks away from the projections and spares him a glance, they’ll see that he’s completely absorbed in the images. If he gets called out though, he’ll deny it.

In battle, Blade trusts his s/o. Whether they use their powers or not, he believes they will do whatever they need to in the moment to make sure they survive.

In moments of bad mental health, Blade will just keep his s/o company. He’s not great with emotions, especially soft ones. But he’ll do what he can for the person he loves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[zalrb]

Hey! so what did you think about Claire on the bear? I've seen some people call her a mary sue, a mpdg, a pick me which feels a bit much to me lol. I generally agree w people who say that she wasn't fleshed out and felt out of place bc of how carmy viewed her. My only thing is she never felt like an ER Doctor. Her career was supposed to be equally demanding so it should've affected their relationship in some small way at least but she kinda just seemed available for him at any given moment.

One of them I can see an argument for, the other two no. So before I get into the one I can see an argument for, I really need people to understand that these terms actually mean something. They're not blanket descriptors for female characters who annoy you and while we're at it, just for initiumseries, I'm going to add for the record that there aren't male versions of pick mes and manic pixie dream girls because these stock characters (or in the case of a pick me, viewpoints,) are rooted in misogyny

A Pick Me is specific

A Mary Sue is specific

Mary Sue stories—the adventures of the youngest and smartest ever person to graduate from the academy and ever get a commission at such a tender age. Usually characterized by unprecedented skill in everything from art to zoology, including karate and arm-wrestling [...] She saves the day by her wit and ability, and, if we are lucky, has the good grace to die at the end [...]

Like even Nathan Rabin who coined the term MPDG apologized for doing so because it keeps being misused:

I feel deeply weird, if not downright ashamed, at having created a cliché that has been trotted out again and again in an infinite Internet feedback loop. I understand how someone could read the A.V. Club list of Manic Pixie Dream Girls and be offended by the assertion that a character they deeply love and have an enduring affection for, whether it’s Diane Keaton’s Annie Hall or Katharine Hepburn in “Bringing Up Baby,” is nothing more than a representation of a sexist trope or some sad dude’s regressive fantasy.

It doesn't make sense that a character as nuanced and unforgettable as Annie Hall could exist solely to cheer up Alvy Singer. As Kazan has noted, Allen based a lot of Annie Hall on Diane Keaton, who, as far as I know, is a real person and not a ridiculous male fantasy.

From what I can recall, nothing about Claire is "Pick-Meish" or "Mary Sueish", she explains that when they were kids and a girl broke her arm, everyone was freaked out except for her because she wanted to understand the injury, that is not Pick Me-ish.

This is Claire

not this

The fact that she has six months left on her residency doesn't make her a Mary Sue.

Now with regards to being an MPDG, these are the characteristics of one:

That day in 2007, I remember watching "Elizabethtown" and being distracted by the preposterousness of its heroine, Claire. Dunst's psychotically bubbly stewardess seemed to belong in some magical, otherworldly realm -- hence the "pixie" -- offering up her phone number to strangers and drawing whimsical maps to help her man find his way. And as Dunst cavorted across the screen, I thought also of Natalie Portman in "Garden State," a similarly carefree nymphet who is the accessory to Zach Braff's character development. It's an archetype, I realized, that taps into a particular male fantasy: of being saved from depression and ennui by a fantasy woman who sweeps in like a glittery breeze to save you from yourself, then disappears once her work is done.

She isn't quite the "pixie" part of the trope, I don't think she's whimsical enough for that, instead I would say she's the "insufferable female lead in an indie" trope (love this!)

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because she does kind of just appear or sweep in to Carmy's life and has this history with him

and instead of giving Carmy her number, she asks for his, therefore the narrative places the onus of initial pursuit on her

she's been carrying this torch for him since they were kids

and her role is to be someone in his life that makes him feel good, that takes his feelings into consideration,

that gives him peace

that urges him out of his shell

that shows him another way he can be and feel outside of the restaurant

while we basically know nothing about her outside of that role.

What makes this iteration more complex than others is not Claire, it's not that she's a fully fleshed out character and we see more than a glimpse of her life and it's not that we get to know about her personally because we don't really, what we get is this

which just goes back round to Carmy and his complicated relationship with food and cooking anyway

the subversion lies with Carmy and how he needs to heal and still has a lot of unprocessed trauma that doesn't go away because Claire entered his life, the show shits all over the typical outcome of the MPDG coming into the male protagonist's life and making it all better.

I'm not saying that they did that purposefully as in they're trying to say something about MPDG, like I don't think the show purposefully framed her as one or views her as one, I think they just wanted to show how deep-rooted generational trauma is and how it presents itself and how it affects your current relationships and it ended up being subverting an MPDG-esque trope for the male protagonist.

I don't know if any of this makes sense, I haven't slept and it's like 5 AM lmao.

[loneberry]

Baby's First Meditation Retreat

…attention is prayer. —Simone Weil

It would be simpler—the monastic life would be so much simpler. Wake, pray, meditate, do battle with the ego, eat, sleep—live such that everything inessential is stripped away. Why did you come here, I said, I’m tired of living a distracted life, of going through my days in a fog of unawareness.

In Cambridge, MA I attended a meditation retreat. I signed up on a whim, out of a vague feeling that I have lost control of my mind. I have been meditating very casually for the last nine years, mostly using the Calm app, listening to Tara Brach recordings, and attending guided meditations while a grad student. I had come to the practice out of desperation, in the midst of a debilitating depression that made me feel perpetually tormented by my thoughts. During that time, I would voraciously read every study I could find on depression treatments and tried basically every treatment modality out there: neurofeedback, ketamine, therapeutic yoga, medication, CBT, DBT, fish oil, an anti-inflammatory diet, psychedelics, and the “treatment” that ultimately saved me: intensive psychoanalysis four days a week. Meditation seemed a particularly promising and low-risk way to manage depression and anxiety—and yes, it did bring me some relief, working as a kind of supplement to the psychoanalysis. Even though I haven’t been as consistent about it as I would have liked, I continued to practice it regularly, usually for about 10-20 minutes a day. Not once have I regretted meditating, though when life gets busy it’s easy to tell yourself that you just don’t have the time to sit and do nothing, even though we seem to somehow always have the time to mindlessly surf the internet. 

What is there to say. I’m just so tired of living on autopilot, of not having to face the moment, to face myself. There are a million ways to blot out one’s internal monologue, filling up our days with the background chatter of podcasts or social media. 

The recrudescence of my Simone Weil mania has forced me to reflect on attention—that rare quality of mind which is increasingly in short supply. And yet everything is a matter of attention—not because attention can be instrumentalized to achieve one’s goals. No. Attention is the end in itself. Weil: “We have to try to cure our faults by attention and not by will.” It’s in that second-to-second awareness that reverence for the moment blossoms. The fog is lifting. Here is the trembling world, a cloud passing, the dancing light on the pavement as the sun passes through the rustling leaves of the tree. Weil: “Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. It presupposes faith and love.” 

*

I landed in Boston late Friday night and early the next morning was off to the Zen center for the silent two-day retreat. I really did not know what to expect when I signed up. I knew a little about the different schools of Buddhism from studying it in a course as an undergrad. I remember being slightly afraid of “Zen” (or Chan) in particular because it seemed so severe to me. I imagined interminable zazen sessions, without guidance or visualizations; imagined slouching pupils getting whacked with sticks for bad posture or falling asleep. Yet surely if I were to test the Buddhist waters, I should do Zen/Chan since it is a specifically Chinese tradition? My father’s uncle was a Buddhist monk who wandered the mountains of China. I don’t know anything about him, other than his sister (my grandma) was devastated when he died after getting hit by a train. Whether it was suicide or just a manic pixie monk moment, I do not know.

*

Some meditation retreats are completely secular—they are just like a series of long, guided mindfulness sessions, with the context, rituals, and “religious” dimensions stripped away. This was not really that kind of retreat. There were robes, chants in Korean, elaborate meal rituals, and yes, getting whacked with a stick! Of course it is always possible to opt out of getting hit with the keisaku stick—I thought I would, but in the end I took the whacking almost every time it was offered, partly because it jolted me awake and relieved the tension building up in my body from hours and hours of sitting cross-legged on a cushion. The first couple of times the keisaku whacking was administered, I had to restrain myself from laughing. Oh my God, we’re getting whacked by a Buddhist master! In the orientation the instructor said it was for “tension release” but I did feel that it was something like a ritual of submission to the authority of the teacher, even if it didn’t really hurt. Watching how eagerly D. bowed to receive the stick in the orientation, I wondered if the Zen pupils were secretly sadomasochists. 

Constitutionally, I am not a “joiner” and have an aversion to organized religion and anything that emits even a whiff of cult vibes. I’ve always been critical of authority and incapable of following rules, possibly because I didn’t have any growing up. But there was something soothing about how regimented everything was. We performed our actions in sync, chanted about emptiness at 4:30am. The whole experience felt almost militaristic, but a part of me enjoyed the austere, disciplinary atmosphere and the obsessive attention to detail. Not disciplinary in a punitive sense, but disciplinary in the way I imagine Russian classical music training to be: the methodical pursuit of self-mastery (it’s hardly surprising that the Zen master I received instruction from was a classically trained pianist). During the retreat I concluded that more discipline would be good for me.

Most of the retreat consisted of meditating in silence. There was no small talk, no psychobabble, no “now we will get started…”—he just hits the wooden clapper three times, and the sitting session starts. No guidance, no body-scan, no loving-kindness prompts. Just you, seated cross-legged on the cushion in silence, facing the tumult of your chaotic mind, your hands in the Dhyana Mudra position, your eyes half-closed. 

It is a profound and difficult experience, having to face your own mind…both utterly banal and deeply disturbing, thoughts flitting from “maybe I should try to find a used bicycle on the OfferUp app” to thoughts of my parents’ mortality. I was warned by the Zen teacher that difficult emotions might bubble up. Thrice I broke out into tears and strained to regain my composure. It began during one of the short breaks, when I was lying on a bench outside looking up at the sky, imagining that a passing cloud was a life appearing briefly before dissipating. It was an unmediated confrontation with the eternal flux of the universe—pure panta rhei. 

Weil: “Whatever frightful thing may happen, can we desire that time should stop, that the stars should be stayed in their courses? Time’s violence rends the soul: by the rent eternity enters.” Time’s violence has utterly and completely ripped apart my soul. I wanted to hold onto everyone and everything I love, for the stars to be stayed in their courses, for time to stop, for my parents to live forever. I thought about Mari Ruti’s rapid decline and death, about my recent visit to my older brother in prison, and my trip to my relatives’ assisted living home, where my mother’s cousin has been completely waylaid by the rapid onset of Parkinson’s disease. I thought about my father sitting down in the chair looking out the window at the assisted living home, talking about getting old, how his knees ache now. Time’s violence rends the soul.Will I be strong enough to face the eternal flux, the impermanence of everything I love, with a fierceness that borders on madness, grieving even the eventual death of the Sun? Sitting on the cushion meditating, crying: let go. Will I ever be able to let go with grace? Don’t know. Sink into don’t-know mind. Count the breath. Something passes through me.

What did I see, what did I hear—I heard every exhibit of the Museum of Jurassic Technology: the voice imploring us to follow the chain of flowers into the mysteries of life, the burbling waters of the miniature model of Iguazú Falls, a recording of David Wilson talking about exploding dice, the distant echoes of barks in the bestiary room, the mournful sound of the duduk in Djivan Gasparyan’s “Lovely Spring” playing the Sandaldjian room, Monteverdi’s “Lamento della Ninfa” as I ascend the stairs to the sublime courtyard, Bach’s “Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ” in the ‘Ecstatic Journey of Konstantin Tsiolkovsky’ exhibit (impossible not to see the levitation scene from Tarkovsky’s Solaris when hearing BWV 639), Mihály Víg’s “Valuska” in The Borzoi Kabinet Theater at the end of the day, and the sound of David’s nyckelharpa reverberating in the garden. 

Now the birds of the mind are taking flight.

In, out. In, out. Return to the breath. 

The mind opening like a door to the sky

            a deep purple flower unfolding in the emptiness.

List everything you see, her feet standing on the lotus. 

Clear mind

Clear mind

Clear mind

Don’t know.

(In) 1-2-3-4 (out) 5-6-7-8

Κύριε Ἰησοῦ Χριστέ ἐλέησόν με 

The heart

The heart

The spherical heart of the manatee

Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts and thoughts

like waves, saturating the swash zone of the mind…

It’s the weekend of the Perseid meteor shower. Eight years ago, Ed and I watched them from the dock of a Maine pond. We had rented an Airbnb from a man with the same name as a dear poet friend of mine, Dana Ward. (I was dreaming of Dana when I woke up this morning.) A week after the Maine trip, I was at the mental hospital. I had forgotten I had a poetry reading. The woman organizing it called, wondering where I was. 

Eight years have passed me in the blink of an eye. 

Thoughts.

In

out

In

out

In 10-30 second intervals: nothing. Just the space between thoughts.

There were two states of non-self:

one of calm neutrality—just the is-ness of the world.

The other, something more ecstatic:

a mystical amnesia, when you become the contraction and expansion of the breath.

What is there to say about it? In my stead there was a heaving purple cloud floating in a black room.

Then, the “I” coheres again. Head so full of language, thinking about everything I want to write. “I shouldn’t be so attached to my thoughts.” The teacher says in the interview: it’s not about suppression.

Writers are fundamentally hoarders of thoughts. I try to collect each one, as the squirrel does the acorns. In my head I am writing an essay about the antidepressant withdrawals, my astonishment that I did not relapse as David Foster Wallace did when he committed suicide after tapering off his antidepressant. I remember when my thoughts were stuck on the “I want to die” loop, how Ed installed the ad blocker on my internet browser because he was disturbed by the suicide hotline targeted ads. I do not think such thoughts anymore. Maybe it is true—we are not our thoughts. They pass through my mind like water through the sieve. Did Woolf train herself to observe the stream? Too much thinking. I must be doing it wrong. Wrong again—I’m supposed to suspend judgment. 

I hear my friend Tim saying, “the mathematics section is the most mystical part of the library.”

Then Weil says, “As soon as we have a point of eternity in the soul, we have nothing more to do but to take care of it, for it will grow of itself like a seed. It is necessary to surround it with an armed guard, waiting in stillness, and to nourish it with the contemplation of numbers…” 

Now I’m thinking about the relationship between math and mysticism, about the Indian number theorist Srinivasa Ramanujan, who received, in his dreams, thousands of formulas from the Hindu Goddess Namagiri. Ramanujan: “An equation for me has no meaning unless it expresses a thought of God.”

I remember my poem “Umbra,” in which I reference the French mathematician Alexander Grothendieck’s strange book, La Clef des Songes (‘The Key of Dreams’). As one commenter puts it: “It’s a book about God. Grothendieck’s thesis is simple. We meet God in dreams. But we aren’t ourselves dreaming God, rather God Himself is dreaming us. Or better: according to Grothendieck ‘a Dreamer’ exists, an external force who ‘dreams our dreams’ and at the same time dreams us. And this force can only be God. … he declares, in a little footnote that it’s almost hidden, that mathematics wasn’t ‘created by God’ nor by man, but by an aspect of God’s nature that, unique among his attributes, is accessible to human reason.”

A week ago, I was telling Alex about Oppenheimer’s mysticism, his proficiency in Sanskrit and intensive study of the Bhagavad Gita, his “feeling for the mystery of the universe that surrounded him almost like a fog.” I watched Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer biopic with Alex—a mathematician/mathematical physicist—and my father—an almost-physicist who immigrated to the U.S. from Taiwan to do a physics PhD in Wyoming but dropped out after his first year to move to NYC to wait tables at a Chinese restaurant. After the film, we watched a documentary about Sir Isaac Newton’s heretical theology and alchemical studies, how he read the Bible as a cryptogram and determined the world will end in 2060.

Could there be a connection between mathematics and the capacity for the divine, between the abstraction of mathematical thinking and the ability to sense the invisible, to see the hidden points that connect disparate realms? Wasn’t Einstein a Spinozist?

Scraps of language jostle around in my mind like a shaking bowl of coins. Stupid thoughts like, “Lacan is to psychoanalysis as Zen is to Buddhism.”

I see myself thinking about the news, about geopolitics and the madness of nation states. China is preparing their population for war, as are we. A kind of nausea overcomes me, as I see the whole nuclear age unfurl before me. 

We dwell on whatever we expose ourselves to, the articles we read, the people we see, the people we lurk online, the reflex to compare, to repeat the name of the Other like a mantra. 

Everything you think you need, you don’t actually need.

A butterfly has somehow flown into the Dharma room. It flits on the floor in the middle of the room. The teacher scoops it up and brings it outside. She corrects my dreadfully sloppy attempt to perform the meal ritual. I panic because I’ve taken too much food and must eat every last crumb. The pear is not ripe, and it is a torture to eat the whole thing. The pear is not ripe—a Zen lesson! Mastication of the unripe pear, a kind of koan. 

There was a short break. I decided to walk around Central Square, without a wallet or phone or headphones. 

How can I describe the sense of aliveness I felt in that moment, that alert receptivity, when I looked at the sky and saw the birds of Central Square taking flight above the Greek Orthodox Church? I walked up the stairs—some ceremony is taking place inside. Down the streets, there’s a brunch spot I never knew about in the seven years I lived in this town. There’s the sound of a busker, so sweet, and a flower shop I wandered into. There’s the bus stop I would wait at on my way to psychoanalysis. I cross the street. Emanating from a building on Mass Ave is the rhythmic thud of Latin American music—it must be the music-dance sessions my ethnomusicologist friend told me about years ago.  

Before dawn on the second day, we perform 108 prostrations. It turns my legs to Jell-O. When I walk up the stairs to use the bathroom, I have to grasp the banister to drag myself up. A few days later I can still barely walk from the soreness caused by the rapid-fire prostrations. Was there something off about my form? I noticed that the others relied more on their arms to hoist themselves up, while I relied almost exclusively on my legs.

And yet I quite enjoy prostrating myself. Outside of any religious or ritual context, I sometimes find myself spontaneously performing prostrations—to what or whom, I do not know. To the earth? I like to kiss the ground, to give thanks to this marvelous rock on which we all dwell. 

*

The interview with the Zen teacher takes a bizarre turn: she asks me questions about DeSantis, in a ‘liberals-trying-to-commiserate’ kind of way. My hatred of DeSantis is bottomless—I had just flown in from Florida the night before the retreat. Please, anything but a DeSantis koan! She asks me if it annoys me that she has been correcting my attempt to execute the meal ritual. I say, No, I don’t mind being an amateur, and crack a joke about being an adult music learner. When the short interview is over, I return to the silence of the Dharma room.

Sitting in silence for long periods is much harder than it looks. Yet the second day feels easier than the first day, despite being on day three of almost no sleep. Toward the end of the retreat, I stare at a spot on the floor, convinced it is a moving bug. It jiggles and jerks, walks in a circle, but always seems to return to the same spot. I can’t stop observing the bug. At the end of the sit, I lean in to get a closer look only to realize it’s not a bug at all, but a dark spot in the wood flooring. 

When the retreat is over, there’s the shock of hearing everyone’s voices, of realizing you had projected otherworldliness on people who are just people in the way you are just a person. We sit in a circle and take turns sharing our experiences. I say, “I came on a whim…because I watched YouTube videos about Buddhism with my dad.” We eat vegan pie at the table. The girlfriend of the man sitting next to me has come to meet him, with roses.

I grab my backpack, put on my Blundstones, and leave the center, in the soft afterglow of the mind’s clearing. What did it feel like: I had no desire to look at my phone. Turning on my phone was almost painful, and yet I needed to call the friend I was staying with. I met up with the religious studies poets, felt more present with others, more natural. We tried to go to the Harvard Film Archive to watch Ozu but were turned away for arriving late. We sat on a rooftop terrace to watch the sunset, with a view of the two spires of Harvard Yard, Memorial Church and Memorial Hall. Sun through the leaves, perceived crisply, as though a layer of mediation had been removed.