#maybe ill write out what my vox would give him too))

[alteredassistant]

((looking at stuff to put towards trevs augmentations but im curious what specific vox's would give him))

[mitch-the-silly]

hey!!!!

I’d like to request vox (I sense you like him a normal amount) x gn!reader headcanons where the reader is an overlord and is in charge of theatrical productions such as musicals, in which vox sees as ‘out of date’ and therefore detests the reader, but the reader is oblivious to this and is always seen trying to befriend him? I could see this as some good slow burn :)))

thanks a ton! 🎀

I DEFINATELY like him a normal amount :)

Anywho- Have to write for this guy more often and the second I saw this request, I knew I was gonna have so much fun writing this! Vox slow burn is literally my kingdom come-

ENOUGH SAID-

Vox x gn!thespianOverlord!reader

Cheery and old-timey, that’s how Vox viewed you. 

Truly, he only interacted with you because the musicals you produced for his films sold very well. But the world was begging and in need of more realistic movies and shows. Musicals just weren’t as interesting to him. So he always saw you as a luddite. Maybe not to the extent he saw Alastor that way. But your mannerisms and theatrics reminded him so much of his rival, so despite you having done nothing but benefitting favors for him, he kinda hated you on the lowkey. But who didn’t he hate at this point?

He at first found you extremely obnoxious. The way that, at times, people flocked to your theater productions instead of his movie premieres… 

Despite this, despite hating you so, you were always so kind to him. It baffled him truly, that you never caught the hint. 

The amount of time he’d rejected your invitation for coffee at your opera house should have already given the hint but you always figured he was busy (he was one of the most powerful overlords after all).

Every time a meeting was held, you spoke to him before and after the meeting. Always in such a friendly manner that made Vox smile awkwardly at you. He couldn’t outright tell you to stop talking to him, that would give off the wrong impression about him. So he would try his best to socialize with you without making you think you two were friends.

At times, you’d send him friendly gifts after collaborations. 

You’ve given him blue roses after writing a particularly famous movie musical that earned both you and him a huge amount of money. 

(He’d never admit it, but they made him feel special. He put them in a vase and kept them alive as long as possible.)

You definitely text him as if you two were friends. Which he always responds to very dryly, but you figure (again) that he’s probably too busy to put much thought to the text. Either way, you’re happy to hear back from him. 

He does ghost you on occasions, which you don’t take personally (much to his dismay).

You find yourself always speaking fondly of him and his image. Admiring him to some degree. The way he acts in front of everyone, you ought to ask him to try acting for a production! His skills impress you a lot. And you’ve told him before. Which, for a moment (and only for a moment), made Vox think you weren’t that bad.

Oh, what he hated the most… it had to be seeing your play advertisements plastered all over the city.

Hell, you would also go up to him and ask him if he could advertise your shows. 

You’d pay, so he couldn’t say no…

But the medium you expressed yourself with, oh how much he detested it!

Sometimes, out of courtesy (despite how much he detested you), he’d always accept the invitation to come to your Opera productions. Velvette liked to see the outfits the actors wore (and criticize them), and she always ended up dragging him along anyway. So he always ended up going when invited. 

This particular time, you were putting on a production of Phantom of the Opera. The actress who was supposed to play Christine/The Phantom got severely ill, and the understudy was killed in the recent extermination. So it was up to you to take matters into your own hands and save your production.

The second he saw you in that scene, his eyes shot open wide. He’d never seen you act before. Hell, you looked so good on that stage, that even Velvette’s heavy criticisms of the play’s costume wardrobe didn’t move him. 

And your voice! God… He’d wish someone that pretty/handsome would sing to him like that. Maybe it was the character you played and how they depicted them.

Matter of fact, he was paying attention to the plot this time. Unlike the other occasions. 

The fact that you were willing to jump in and play the part perfectly as if you’d been rehearsing it every day surprised him. You’d be perfect in one of his movies, he just KNEW IT!

After the production, you approached him. Speaking to him and thanking him for coming to see as you always did. 

The way he smiled at you was no longer full of false politeness. He now spoke much more freely with you. And it made you feel like you were finally important enough for him to have time for you! It was such a great feeling!

He didn’t want to admit how his perception of you had changed but let’s just say he began to plan more musicals. 

Velvette knew what was going on the second he stayed to talk to you a bit longer than usual. She made fun of him for DAYS.

He would begin to respond to your DMs with less dryness.

And he would accept your offers to drink coffee at the opera house (he’d deny them sometimes to not raise any suspicion on your side or from his fellow Vees). 

He would publicly deny any ties with you and would try his best to balance it out by telling Valentino just how “annoying” you were. 

Vox being the obsessive little man-child he is, would survey you. Or rather, jump in excitement the second you appear in the sight of one of his cameras. 

He’d set up a camera in your opera house just to see you directing rehearsals and even to see you practice.

He refuses to admit his feelings, but his fellow Vees are finding it hard to pretend they don’t know. Vox is… very obvious…

He begins sending you roses (yellow so he doesn’t make anyone think that he’s THAT obsessed with you).

He might start spiraling a bit when he sees any man approach you. But oh no, he had to keep himself together. You two were nothing, he didn’t like you! He only stayed close to you for convenience! …right?

Until he received another bouquet of blue roses signed off as “-Your Thespian Angel of Music”. 

Oh, he went nuts! He had to find the footage of you signing it off. And just as he suspected, you were bashfully smiling as you wrote the note.

He couldn’t! He simply couldn’t let this change his mind! But he didn’t have much time to think about the move you’d made, because you’d invited him for coffee soon after. 

Oh, he couldn’t keep himself together that time. Your smile, the warmth of your fireplace… it was all too much for him.

So it slipped out his mouth, he invited you to come over to his place and watch a movie. 

You gladly accepted and after agreeing to a date for this to happen, you two were set!

Of course, he planned for you two to watch a musical together. 

When you arrived at the V-tower, he was anxious to make sure that you were greeted properly. So he himself walked you to his area. 

Sideye from Velvette because she just knew that Vox inviting you was him admitting to them that he was definitely into you.

During the movie, he admits that he thinks you’re pretty cool and you take it as a huge compliment!

When you go home after the little date-not-date, he can’t get you off his mind! The way your eyes shone in the TV’s light, the way you paid careful attention to every scene. Oh, he was so stupidly in love with you.

So what did he do next? He spent his free minutes texting you. Sending you Envees (the hell version of TikTok) he thought you’d like and you sent him some back. 

He’d start advertising your stuff for free now! 

If it wasn’t already obvious to the Vees, now they knew he was head over heels for you.

Eventually, he got Velvette into thinking you weren’t that bad… Maybe she could put some more style into your shows.

After a few months of you talking to Vox and Velvette casually texting you, she was fed up with Vox’s obsessive giggling when he saw you in the cameras, so she told you. 

Yup. Velvette told you he liked you.

You were elated, to say the least. To be seen in a favorable light by such a powerful overlord was one thing. But to be the object of his adoration… Oh, you were more than happy.

So you set up another coffee date with Vox at your opera house.

To his surprise, you kissed him at the doorstep of your opera house.

It almost fried his circuit. The lights in your building flashed a bit and you could have sworn he was glitching in the middle of that kiss.

After which, your relationship was VERY MUCH PUBLIC.

Vox posted about your musicals almost every day.

He’s definitely the type to go to your practices and post you with a caption like “My Angel of Music”, “My Romeo/Juliet”, or “My Christine Canigula/Jeremy Here”. Something in reference to the lead or most adored role of the production you’re currently directing.

He’s corny as fuck in private-

He’d definately cuddle to watch whatever new musical you two just co-produced. 

He funds your shows and is kind of embarrassed to admit it, but he’d blow marvelous amounts of money on you if he could (he has to be smart about how he spends his money and the fact that he can’t just spoil you as much as he wants, destroys him).

He also hates to be caught accidentally humming along to your musicals. He claims to not care about those things at all (he knows the entirety of your repertoire by heart).

[moose-muffin]

im new here (hiya from the hazbin tag lol) but if you do character + character requests than please PLEASE gimmie a lee!vox with ler!alastor 🙏🙏🙏hear me out... the two are fighting and al (sHocKINglY) wins out, and vox expects to like.. be beaten into the ground as a result, but nope!! he gets tickled!!! to tears!!!! smthn smthn he wasnt smilin and, yk, youre never fully dressed w/o a smile!!!

/nf to do tho ty for reading!!! <3<3

OMG OMG HELLO WELCOME I HOPE YOURE DOING GOOD YIPPEE

SO FUN FACT I WAS VERY LIKE NEUTRAL TO RADIOSTATIC BUT TONIGHT HAS BEEN (HAHAH GET IT) AN ADVENTURE AND THIS ROAD HAS BEEN SUCH A BLAST <3 THOSE TWO FUCKERS ARE SO INSTIGATIVE ITS CRAZY.

I KNOWWWW THIS AS A FIC WOULD GO C R A Z Y!!!!! IDK IF ANYONE HERE WRITE FOR VOX AND ALASTOR AND PERHAPS DOES COMMISSIONS BUT I WILL PAY!!!! PLEASE HIT ME UP OR ILL PROBABLY GO TAKE A PEAK FOR MYSELF TMR <3 AS LONG AS THATS OK ANON. (I WILL ABSOLUTELY LET IT BE POSTED AS LONG AS THE AUTHOR IS OK WITH IT WHICH USUALLY THEY ARE!!!!) IM GONNA TAKE SOME CREATIVE LIBERTIES AS I TYPICALLY DO HEADCANONS!

IM NOT USUALLY A CHARACTER + CHARACTER GIRLY SO BEAR WITH ME BUT I WILL DO MY VERY BEST!!!! HOPEFULLY I CAN DO THIS JUSTICE! IT WILL BE RANDOM HCS THAT ARE UNRELATED TOO. MY BRAIN IS A MESSY PLACE HWBSHWDBD

OK SO LIKE I KINDA MENTIONED, THEY BOTH LOOOOVE TO JUST GET UNDER PEOPLES SKIN. LOVE IT!!! ESPECIALLY ALASTOR. HES SUCH AN ASS (affectionate)

I’D EVEN SAY HE’S KIND OF AN INSTIGATIVE LER???? BRO IS DOING EVERYTHING IN HIS POWER TO GET TO TICKLE VOX LIKEEE IDK IF THAT EVEN MAKES SENSE BUT I KNOW ITS TRUE. HE WILL CASUALLY WIGGLE HIS FINGERS IN CONVERSATION, TWEAK HIS RIBS FROM BEHIND, LITTLE THINGS LIKE THAT. WELL THEYRE NOT LITTLE. ESPECIALLY NOT TO VOX WHO IS SO FLUSTERED BY IT… ITS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING

BUT! VOX HAS STARTED TO FIGURE IT OUT. AS HE IS ALSO ONE WHO LOVEEES TO GET UNDER SKIN, HE DECIDES HE’LL DO EVERYTHING TO TRIGGER A LER MOOD IN ALASTOR. IF HE CAN TELL HE ALREADY HAS ONE, HE FINDS WAYS TO SUBTLY (WE ALL KNOW HE ISNT SUBTLE THOUGH) LEAVE A SPOT UNPROTECTED. BUT ALASTOR DOESNT WANT TO GIVE HIM THE SATISFACTION!!! HE TRIES SO HARD TO NOT GIVE IN TO VOX BC HE “WANTED TO BE THE ONE IN CONTROL” AND NOW HE ISNT AND HES #PISSED

ALSO VOX ABSOLUTELY IS HORRIFIED OF VULNERABILITY. YET HE IS ABLE TO MOVE PAST IT WITH ALASTOR HERE. SOMEHOW HE ISNT AS WORRIED ANYMORE. MAYBE HE KNOWS ALASTOR WILL REACT. HE LOVES THAT SO VERY MUCH.

AS FOR THE SPECIFIC PROMPT, OH THAT IS SO REAL!!!! ABSOLUTELY YES!!!

I DONT WRITE GOOD ROMANCE BUT LIKE UGH IMAGINE IT NOW. Alastor definitely just got himself to the V’s tower and was planning on fucking with Vox only to see he had already been kinda pissed off. Alastor wouldn’t be as satisfied if he knew he didn’t cause the frustration. He realized he could just stir the pot again. Problem solved, and what better way to solve it than using his weakness against him.. being tickled.

I’m being a little silly but genuinely Vox is so ticklish. Like most ticklish person in hell would go to him if it were an official title. That’s what I’m thinking. That being said, Alastor also knows how quickly he could get him to crumble… but wouldn’t it be more fun to take it slow.

Vox notices his presence almost immediately. He tried to ignore it as he feels his face get warm. He can’t fuck this up. He takes a deep breath and turns around. “Why hello, Alastor! What brings you to our building this evening?” He said in a semi newcaster voice. He wasn’t ready to drop the act

“Well Vox, I came here for a reason of my own but then I walked by your office and you looked so sad!” He began to walk closer to Vox. “You know, t they say you’re never fully dressed without a smile!”

Vox let out a laugh that was quite clearly untruthful. “Yes Alastor I am aware! I was alone in here and so I figured I’d just save up some energy. I’m sure you understand.”

“Quite frankly I don’t,” Alastor paused, “I think maybe I could help you get that smile back.”

Vox didn’t even have to think. He knew Alastor meant he was going to tickle him. You could ask Velvette. She’s seen those two in tickle fights that lasted for DAYS. she knows what they’re capable of, or more so what Alastor is capable of.

Vox puts up a fight for maybe a couple seconds but he just loves tickles more than he can play pretend that he doesn’t <3

It works out well for them both, Alastor gets to fuck around with Vox and well, Vox gets his shit rocked!!! And he loves that more than a lot of things.

OK IM GONNA CUT IT OFF HERE BUT PLEASE FEEL FREE TO COME BACK!!!! IM ALWAYS DOWN TO HEAR WHAT PEOPLE ARE THINKING!! MAYBE ID DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS AGAIN OR LIKE ADD ONTO THIS!!! BUT I AM JUST ALL OVER THE PLACE CURRENTLY HEHE. I HOPE THESE ARE ENJOYABLE!!! (LOWKEY I WANNA ADD MORE TO THISSSS MAYBE TMR MAYBE TMR WE’LL SEE)

apologies if anything is ooc, i just do this for funsies <3

THANK YOU FOR THIS ASKK

[e-m-p-error]

Need A New Game Need A New Something More

This is based on an rp with and idea from @strangeandun-muse-ual! It is based in Val and Vox meeting at Woodstock when he was there with Missy! Alastor is based off of @ritzy-cervidae's portrayal! The woman mentioned with the sun back tattoo is human Summer by @erthlyheavn! Main ship is VoxVal!

This was my 5k fic for a fest I was part of in a writing server I'm in on Discord!

Wordcount: 3,759

CW: Demon/Human, When Valentino Was Alive Fic, Alcohol, Alcoholism, Drug Use, Oral Sex, Blowjobs, Daddy Kink, One-Sided Vox/Alastor Mention, Original Female Character(s) Mention

---

—-August 16th, 1969—-

“It’s important, my good fellow!” Alastor cackled, turning on his heels as he smiled and waved to the throng of bodies in various states of undress, “They don’t know what they’re doing! We could do almost anything we want to here and they’d be none the wiser!”

Vox figured that ‘almost anything we want’ looked different on both of them, though. Alastor liked to scare people, but scaring people outside of a fictional setting didn’t typically make any money. Money was on Vox’s mind more often than not, and he didn’t see how a bunch of people who rioted over overpriced hot dogs were going to make him any money.

“I could be worki–”

“All work and no play makes Vox a dull boy,” Alastor tutted with a smile bordering on having too many teeth, “You can take a weekend to drum up some new contracts! Think of it as, oh… What did you call it?” Drumming his fingers against his stretched lips, he snapped them to the right of his jaw when he got it, “Networking! Yes? Think of it as networking.”

The sweaty masses writhing and gyrating to the beat of whatever music was playing on stage didn’t interest Vox, and he hadn’t been particularly fond of the idea of coming up here in the first place. But Alastor had insisted, and when he had become downright petulant, Vox had given in. Maybe a little bit of that attraction he felt for the radio demon had influenced his final decision to go topside for a weekend of networking.

If nothing else, Hell tended to only be a few years behind trends on Earth. Vox would be able to get a feel for things he’d need to be mindful of, so he supposed he could still make the best of this.

“Networking, sure,” He muttered, watching as the animated man broke formation to introduce himself to a flock of gangly twenty-somethings singing just seconds behind the woman onstage. With a sigh, he decided it was time to strike out on his own and see what he could cobble together, adjusting his smart silver glasses on his nose. 

The scent of weed and the knowledge of everything inebriating under the sun being present at this festival hit him at the same time. Alastor may have been right about the amount of things people would tolerate here, he could give him that, at least. He’d seen more plastic cups of booze here than he ever had in college, and with his business degree, that was really saying something. 

One such cup found its way crushed into his back, and Vox’s shoulders became a tense line as he yelped, warm booze coating his shirt and the back of his pants. There was a body, warmer still, that came along with it, and he whipped around once the initial shock wore off to take in the surprised expression of the man behind him with the eighteen-wheeler routine.

He was handsome, Vox noticed that right off the bat Tanned skin, dark wavy hair hanging down just beneath his jawline, soulful doe eyes, his shirt open and ill-fitting as though it wasn’t his. 

”Hey, sorry, man.“ Was all that he managed at first, and Vox didn't think it was the best apology, but at least it was there, he guessed. He was soaked, and this guy thought a 'sorry, man' was enough? It was a start, anyway.

”You should watch where you're going,“ It left him before he knew what he was saying, and he continued with a frown, ”Did you not see me?“

”I—“ The drunk man swayed a little on his feet, and Vox reached out to grab him on instinct to keep him on his feet, “Fuck. Sorry, really. I'm... So drunk.”

It didn’t answer his question, but Vox could tell that was the truth. He didn't look like he needed the drink that had smashed into Vox’s back. At least, he'd saved him from alcohol poisoning, the Overlord thought absently. Too bad. He was going to tend to this guy in Hell eventually, he thought.

“Do you need something?” Like a contract, perhaps?

“I'm Era.” 

That didn't really answer his question again, but Vox let it slide for now. Era, huh?

“Nice name,” He began, “You can call me Emil.” But he didn't think that the drunk man before him would remember that. 

“I'll be sure t-to remember that when I'm screamin' your na-name later.”

“What?” Vox asked, blinking a few times fast. He'd seen more than his fair share of men kissing during the festival, sure, but he hadn't quite been propositioned like this before. 

“Not into it?” Came the easy reply, “No worries, man, just thought you might want some head or something. I did getcha soaking wet.”

He did, yes,  but did that mean that Vox needed to bed him? Once more he took in the other's handsome face, his soft features, the look in his hazy eyes. Was he high, too? Vox wouldn't put it past someone at this event to be both. At the very least, he knew that Era was too drunk to stay standing.

“I didn't say that,” Vox replied, “Just surprised is all.”

“Ooooh, yeah, that makes sense.” Era nodded, leaning in a little more, “Where're you stayin', Hot Stuff?”

“I don't have a place,” It was the truth, too. He and Alastor hadn't set up camp, and he didn't know if they would. He had no idea how long Alastor intended on staying.

“We could go to mine,” Era replied, “And I can at least give you a new shirt.” He had some of his own there.

“Maybe later, okay?” He hoped that the other man would just drop it if he made him a weak promise, “Show me where you're staying.”

“Yeah, okay!” Chirping happily, Era took the other's hand and began to lead him through the crowd to a tent set up with two lounge chairs outside of it. Without a word, he disappeared inside the tent, coming back out with a new button-up shirt in his hands, “Here.”

Taking it, Vox nodded, shedding his ugly Hawaiian shirt for the simple red button-down. Pulling it on, he buttoned only a couple of the buttons in the middle before leaving it be. Era had started to drop his own shirt off his shoulders, and Vox raised an eyebrow at him.

“Hot?” He asked absently, his hands falling away from the shirt he now wore.

“Yeah, for you.” Oh, this man was a charmer, even when he was drunk, wasn't he?

“I told you later, didn't I, Baby?” It came out before he could stop it, and he didn't seem to mind. Era basked in the attention, spreading his legs a little more as he reached for the button on his pants.

“Yeah, and it's later, Daddy.” 

“Daddy, huh?” He paused, then shook his head with a dry laugh, “Not later enough. I gotta do a few things, first.”

“Guess I could, too.” Vox got the feeling 'do a few things' meant 'do a few people' in this case. Maybe that would help him forget.

”Alright, Era. I'll see you later.“

”See you, Daddy~“ Winking playfully, Era let the other man wander off. It was time to find Leslie. Or was it Amber? Kimberly? No, Catherine. No... He'd find the girl with the blazing sun back tattoo again, even if he couldn't remember her name. That tattoo was stuck in his brain like an earworm, and he needed to feel her company again.

——June 19th, 1999——

”We're going to Earth?“ Vox asked, his head tilting as he looked at the portal opened up by his (not) boyfriend, watching the moth carefully. When had he gotten an Asmodean Crystal?

”Yeah, I got some contract stuff to fulfill,“ Valentino began, shrugging, ”You're just coming with for the Hell of it. If you want to play games with people, you can. I don’t give a fuck.“

This sounded so familiar, but he didn't dare say as much. It wasn't like he hadn't gone to Earth for fun before, either.

”Alright, alright. Let's go,“ It came out exasperated, but at least Val knew he was being facetious.

They entered the portal, and Vox set his human disguise. It was just what he looked like before he died, dark hair cut close to his head, blue eyes, pale skin. Silver-framed glasses adorned his nose, and he pushed them up absently.

When he glanced over at Valentino when his own disguise was in place, he went still, his eyes wide.

——August 16th, 1969——

It had been some hours since he'd seen Era, and Vox was somewhat glad for it. He still wore the man's shirt, but his pants still reeked of bourbon. At least it had dried, but that didn't make him that much happier. When he did see the drunk man again, he was stumbling around with a wild-eyed expression, obviously looking for something.

”Hey, man!“ He called suddenly, waving his arms in the air. Knowing he was caught, Vox made his way over, raising an eyebrow at the other man, ”Have ya seen a redhead? Not high, drunk, or horny? Makin' friends with everyone?“

Looking for one person in this place was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Even Vox had lost Alastor and didn't know where he'd gone off to.

”Can't say that I have.“ He replied, ”But I'll keep a lookout.“

”Thaaaaank you~” Era winked as he grinned at the other, “Is it later, yet?”

“Huh?”

“Is it later, yet?”

“I... Suppose it is.” So he hadn’t forgotten Vox's promise. The Overlord sighed a little, “You still want me?”

“Let me take care of you,” Era replied softly, taking the other's hands into his. He could at least still find his tent.

——June 19th, 1999——

“You sure do look... Familiar.” Vox murmured as he gawked at the human disguise of his beloved. Valentino looked damn good with the chin-length, dark wavy hair and those eyes that Vox would remember forever. They were so innocent-looking, but he knew that this man was far from a saint.

He still had the shirt he’d borrowed from Era in his closet.

“Thanks~ Just put on what I used to look like is all,“ Val managed with a grin, spinning slowly in place. The fishnet top beneath his crop top looked good on him when he was in his usual form, but it looked even better on this man.

”Era, right?“ Vox asked, and Val paused, narrowing his eyes.

”Huh?“

”That was your name. Era.“ It was a nickname at the very least.

”...yeah, but how do you know that?“

——August 16th, 1969——

Upon reaching the tent, Era invited him inside without question. It smelled like his pants did in here, implying that Erasmo kept his shirt. Laying the other man out with his head on a pillow and the rest of him on a navy sleeping bag, Era settled between his legs.

For a moment, he eyed the other before surging up to kiss him suddenly. Vox wasn't exactly opposed, but the gasp that left him was a surprised one. The other man kissed him slow and deep, unhurried and arousing all at once. He sure was good at this. Vox's hips jerked and he groaned happily when Era's hips flattened against his and he ground down. Okay, if he hadn't been hard before, he sure was, now. His hips worked up against Era's, rubbing them together as they made out, tongues sliding against one another's.

One of Era's hands found his groin, rubbing and stroked him through his pants, and Vox couldn't help a low, lustful moan. Appreciating the other's need for him, he watched as Era finally backed up again, undoing the button and zipper on his pants and pulling his cock free of his underwear. The way he looked at it made Vox shudder, and he groaned again at the other's purposeful stroking. 

His dick was girthy, a good mouthful for the other man, and he couldn't help but grind upward when Era's mouth latched onto the head. Gasping, he reached down to take hold of the other's hair, his fingers digging against the other's scalp as he worked his way down. The way he took him deep into his mouth like that was going to drive him insane. When the tip of his cock touched the back of Era's throat, and then the man adjusted to take him deeper, he just about lost it. Ever composed, however, he didn’t show it except for the flutter of his stomach muscles and the way his cock throbbed.

There was no way that Era didn't do this all the time. He was too good at sucking dick to be an amateur. Taking Vox to the root, he nestled his nose against the other's pelvis, his pubic hair tickling it a little. He didn't seem bothered by it, sucking and swallowing around him in a way that could almost be loving. Really, he made Vox feel wanted, necessary for his pleasure.

Era's hand moving against his own dick didn't go unnoticed, and Vox found himself releasing more low moans as the other worked him over. It felt too good to let him stop, now, but he looked down at him with a new request regardless.

”Let me fuck your mouth.“ He managed, and Era moaned appreciatively, popping off of him with a nod, ”Good boy, that's Daddy's good Baby.“

That made Era moan himself, and he stroked his leaking cock a few more times for Vox to see. Shifting onto his knees while he enjoyed the sight, Vox encouraged the other to get on his hands and knees. One hand remained on Era's cock as he stroked himself, while Vox grabbed a handful of the other's hair again. Era took his cock into his mouth once more, and Vox rounded his hips.

Pushing the other's head down, he guided him with the hand on the back of his head. Each thrust inward saw him pushing the other's head down, and each time he pulled back, he tugged Era's head back by his hair. It pulled beautiful moans from the other's lips, and Vox relished in the tears slipping down his cheeks. Every time he took him deep, he held it for a second, letting Era slurp and swallow around him. He luxuriated in it for a moment before pulling back to give him a chance to breathe through his nose. 

Dutiful in his actions, Era kept sucking at him softly, focusing on the head whenever he was given the chance. He swirled his tongue around it, and Vox moaned beautifully, too lost in his pleasure not to give him a good reason to continue. Praise always worked wonders on subs like this; he could tell that this man would look pretty in a collar, and probably luxuriate in the feeling of being owned. There was no way he wouldn’t, not when he was this eager to please.

It had been a long time since he’d had these thoughts.

”Thaaaaaat's it, Baby, you're doing so good for Daddy,“ Groaning again, he thrust into the other's mouth once more, his eyelids fluttering as he did so, ”Such a good boy, taking Daddy so deep like that. Bet you love this, don't you?“

The only thing Era managed was a murmured 'mhmmm' that vibrated through Vox's dick and made his thighs quake. Okay, this was better than he'd expected, that much was for sure. Era was damn good at this, and it was making him want more from him. What would Era look like, filled to the brim with his cock over and over again? What faces would he make as he was fucked into oblivion?

A throb gave away his thoughts, and he gasped when Era's throat spasmed around the head of his cock. He ground his hips into the other's lips, mouth falling open a little as he rolled his hips. At least Era didn't seem to mind the way he moved, moaning and whining as his throat was ruined. He'd be hoarse, Vox thought, and the idea of his voice rough and wrecked was enough to send another throb through him. It wouldn't be long, now.

With a few more thrusts, he hit his orgasm hard, filling the other's mouth with cum. Era swallowed him down, not wasting a single drop as Vox's hips continued to twitch and his thrusts slowed but did not cease. When he was finally done, he slowed to a stop, watching Era's arm as he worked over his dick faster, trying to follow Vox’s lead.

”Let Daddy help you, Baby,“ He coaxed, and Erasmo eased up onto his knees, his hand never quite stopping its frantic movements. Surprised when Vox leaned forward, he gasped when the other lapped at his cock, drawing him into his mouth and sucking. Pulsing in his mouth, Era knew he wasn't going to last very long, his hips giving a twitch with the desire to move.

Vox managed to bob his head a total of five times before Era's hand was in his hair, gripping it hard. Another couple and it was all he could take, coming with a loud cry of pleasure that was somewhat flavored with Vox's given name. Yes, he thought he rather liked the hoarse rendition of his name on the other's lips, and he thought to bend him over and fuck his lights out. It sure would be a good way to spend his time here.

”Vo—Emiiiiiil~?“ A familiar voice outside of the tent asked, peeking inside the mesh over the closed flap before hiding his eyes behind his hand, ”Are you quite finished? I have business to attend to with you.“

Swallowing Era's cum, Vox sat up on his knees again, glancing down at his half-hard cock before sighing.

”Yeah, it's me. I... Guess that's it, Baby. Daddy's gotta go.“

Packing himself back into his pants much to both of their dismay, Vox let himself out of the tent, leaving Era to bask in his orgasm alone.

”Daddy, huh?“ Alastor chuckled as his friend joined him and they began to walk away, ”I've never heard such a thing from you.“

”He started it,” Vox said, following Alastor to another section of the large throng of people. He had half a mind to go back later if he had time. Era seemed to really be worth it.

——June 19th, 1999——

”You don't remember me, do you?“ Vox asked, his head tilting to look at the other.

”What? I... No, I don't.“ 

”You were pretty  blitzed,“ Vox managed with a sigh, laughing quietly as he shook his head, ”Woodstock?“

”Woodst— Holy fuck.“ He hadn't thought about Woodstock in some decades, now, but he didn't put it past himself to have slept with him. Vox was handsome like this, definitely his type, ”What did we do?“

”Blew each other. Then we were interrupted.“ Vox supplied easily, taking the other's hand as he started to walk, ”I don't blame you for not remembering.“

”But you remembered?“

”How could I forget? You were... You are handsome, and that was the best blowjob I'd ever gotten, dead or alive.“

”Yeah?“ Val nearly purred, preening as the other complimented his skills.

”Should have known it was you when you sucked my soul out through my dick the first time.“ But he hadn't even thought of Era in years.

”What was your name again?“ Val asked, not shy in the least. Maybe he should have been, if the flat look on Vox’s face said anything.

“Emil. You moaned it real pretty when you came, I couldn't forget that. Such an eager little slut for Daddy. Had never heard my name so beautifully before you.”

That made Valentino moan, and he shifted his free hand to palm at himself through his tight leather pants.

”Don't go getting too excited right now, we have work to do, don't we?“ Don’t you?

”I... Guess, yeah.“ He didn't want to work now, though. All Valentino was going to think about now was sex, and they both knew it. By the time they found the humans that Val was going on about, their reason for being here, he was going to be in desperate need of some sweet relief. Especially in those tight pants, Vox thought.

”If we do your work while we're up here, you can blow Daddy in an alleyway like a proper whore.“ Vox promised, ”And then Daddy will help you remember what we did at Woodstock.“

That made Valentino groan again, and he nodded, taking the lead towards a street called Richmond.

”We just need to check in on a contract I have and see about contracting her roommate. They were talking about it, at least, I remember that much.“

He needed to know what to do about it, sure, and if he was going to be getting another soul or not. That didn't mean that he wasn't focused on Vox and how he moved, though. The other Sinner was always so good at being composed, even when he was getting his pleasure, and Val knew that this wouldn't be any different. That didn’t stop him from wanting to make a mess of him, though.

”When we're done, you're going to be so pretty on your knees for Daddy,“ Okay, maybe teasing Valentino was too much fun. He couldn't help himself, not really. It brought him so much joy to watch him squirm. Valentino was the least patient man he’d ever met, and he didn’t falter on that even now.

”Daddyyyyyyyy,“ Val moaned, his hand never quite leaving his groin even as they walked, ”Stop it, or I'm going to jump you right now.“

”Patience, Bunny,“ Vox reminded, ”Do your work and you'll get your just desserts.“

”I don't want—“

”I know, I know. You want what you want, and you want it now. But you have to be patient for Daddy, do what I say and I'll make sure that your reward is worth the wait.“

It always was, but that didn't mean that Valentino had to be happy about it, now, did it? He sure hoped that it didn't. If he had to go into this being chipper and excited, then he just might lose his mind.

”Okay, Daddy, I'll... Try.“

”You'll do, Bunny.“

”Yes, Daddy.“

”That's Daddy's good Bunny. Let's go get your contract going.“

”Yes, Daddy.“ Ah, music to Vox’s ears.

[saphirered]

Heyo! Saw you wanted some individual character requests! I'm a sucker for Grog, and there isn't enough out there for him, so I was wondering if you could do a Grog x Sorceress!reader where the reader doesn't think grog would have a reason to like her since she isn't a melee fighter. Thank you so much!

P.s. Your writing is amazing, and I always love reading your works! ❤️

Thank you for the request! I'm glad you like my writing and hope you enjoy this one! Turned out a bit longer than I intended but that means more content. Anyway, Enjoy! 😘

Seated on the stone balustrade feet dangling over the edge looking over the city in front of you you twiddle your thumbs. You needed a moment away from everyone to sort your mind on your own. There’s a solitude in the dark clouds looming above and the first drops of rain signalling an oncoming storm and it’s never failed you before. Even while there’s no one around, you can confide in such storms knowing your words will be heard but carried away upon the wind and drowned out by the rain and thunder. A good storm won’t judge or hold a grudge. It will simply accept and listen. So here you’ll stay speaking your worries into the abyss and hope for some clarity or ease of mind and heart.

Back inside Grog sits on one side of the table, Scanlan at the other. They hold their respective tankards at the ready as the gnome counts down. By the end of the countdown they swing back their drinks finishing them as fast as they can being cheered on by the rest of Vox Machina and other witnesses to this drinking game. Grog’s determined to win this. While he’s pretty sure his tankard is actually a bucket with a handle, it’s more to scale compared to the gnome’s. Ale spills over the sides of Scanlan’s drink but Grog keeps it neat. No wasting ale after all.

With one last big chug Grog finishes the drink, slams it down on the table roaring in victory as the table shakes beneath his hit. Scanlan puts the remainder of his drink down on the table wiping his face disappointed. Grog looks around the crowd. Some are happy celebrating with him, others pass over money to the happy people for paying up on whatever amount they lost in their bets. How could they even consider Scanlan would win. He’s the best of the best after all and no one can out drink the all mighty Grog. He doesn’t spot you among the crowd and the victory doesn’t feel as sweet anymore. He really hoped you could have seen this one. Where had you gone?

Before Grog can get up and go find you he’s given a refill and the next challenger approaches. New bets are placed, Vex massages his shoulders giving him a pep talk and noting how he’s been making her a lot of money so better keep it up. He doesn’t want to disappoint his friends. One more game. Then he’ll go find you wherever you went.

The next game comes along, and another, and another but he’s done. No more games. When another challenger approaches and the game starts he doesn’t pick up the tankard and pushes away from the table. People ask him what the hell he’s doing but he ignores them. They’ve kept him long enough so he just up and walks before they can stop him. Grog leaves the room but Pike follows behind him worried for her buddy. He never refuses a good ale or a challenge, let alone the two combined.

“Grog? Grog, wait up!” Pike rushes after him leaving the banquet hall behind. Determined Grog still keeps walking but slows down his pace enough to let Pike catch up with him.

“Where are you going? There’s still plenty of ale to be drunk!” Pike reaches for the goliath’s hand to pull him to a stop. He does and turns to face Pike.

“I think I’ve had enough.” Grog says and Pike gasps. Never, never does Grog think he’s had enough to drink. Something must be wrong with him. Is he ill? Does he have a fever? Did someone poison her buddy’s drink? She might go on a war path if someone did and ruined his fun! But Grog seems okay. Physically that is. He’s fine.

“Do you know where she went?” Grog asks, maybe Pike can help him find you and maybe she can talk to you why you left. He doesn’t think you’d want to talk to him about that kind of stuff and while he’d consider himself a good listener, if something’s really up Pike always knows what to do. She can help.

“Who?”

“The pretty sorceress.” Grog states as a matter of fact and it is. Anyone who dares say otherwise clearly need some of those glass thingies Percy keeps on his nose and make him look smart.

“Oh, I don’t know Grog. She left to go get some fresh air.” Pike searches her mind to see where you might have gone. There’s a few places that come to mind but it’s all narrowed down to just the one when thunder rumbles through the sky. She knows exactly where you went and by the looks of it so does Grog.

Grog knows there’s only one place you really love to watch a storm unfold. You’ve told him before and you’ve even watched some storms together there. He shares a look with Pike and picks up his step going where he knows you’ll be, still dragging pike behind. When she doesn’t move fast enough he swings her up on his shoulders, running up the steps as far as they’ll take him, dodging a torch and pushing aside a guard here and there.

Then around the corner he sees you. Feet dangling over the edge, a single push away from what could possibly be a death drop, hand outstretched catching the rain with a sad smile on your face. You’re absolutely gorgeous. More alluring than anyone ever could. If he could paint, Grog would make sure this moment would be captured for eternity just so he would never forget. Maybe he can get some money from Vex to hire a painter? If Scanlan did it, why shouldn’t he?

You’re seated alone at the top of the tower. Lightning flashes through the clouds, sometimes branching down to strike the ground be it mountain or forest, you’re in a valley of safety surrounded by the storm. The drops of rain hit your outstretched arm extended beyond the cover of the overhanging. Cold as they are to the touch you watch them glide around your arm with movement until they too, continue their descend.

“…Sometimes I wish I would just have the courage but I don’t.” You speak into the skies. A burst of lightning strikes in the mountains, the sound echoing and even this high up you can feel the slight tremor of the ground. You know a storm is no sentient being but you read it like a reply no less and continue.

“I’m not a fighter. I don’t know how to wield a sword or an axe. I can barely lift one. We have such vastly different lives. Grog’s got no reason to like me in any way.” Thunder strikes again you smile briefly. You’ve come to terms you’ll always like Grog and your feelings wouldn’t be reciprocated. The only reason you’re even spending time together in the first place is because you’re both involved with Vox Machina in one way or another. You’ve got hardly anything in common so if you hadn’t met through them Grog probably wouldn’t even have thought about you twice.

That may sound sad and you’re thankful for getting to know him but Grog has his own life and interests so why should he bother indulging you in yours. He’s already not a big fan of magic and you won’t bother attempting to teach him. It’s not like it’s any interesting stuff and he’d probably be bored out of his mind the entire time. Then again, the theoretics of magic might just not be your strong suit either. It’s more of a natural born gift.

Grog gets this weird feeling in his chest as if he’s been hit by something and it’s being twisted. Kind of like when he got shot by an arrow and Pike had to remove it. It’s not a good feeling. Checking for injury just to make sure he’s fine. It’s clear to him he feels this on the inside; his heart bleeds a little for you. You shouldn’t think that way. He likes you. He likes you a lot actually so you couldn’t be more wrong. Pike nudges him to set her down. He does as they remain around the corner, leaving you unaware of their presence.

“Go talk to her.” Pike whispers and Grog panics for a brief second. How is he even supposed to do this? What is he supposed to say? He doesn’t know how this psychology stuff works. That’s what Pike’s for. If people feel sad they often come to her, talk about their worries and problems and then they feel better. How’s he supposed to do that? He’s not Pike.

“She needs you, Grog. I know you like her and she needs you. Go talk to her.” Pike nudges him on into your direction. The goliath isn’t physically moved by her effort but he does move. If Pike says you need him, if you really need him then he’ll be there. Looking over his shoulder one last time to ask Pike for some advise she’s already half way down the stairs leaving you with him. Grog thinks hard for a moment but thinking isn’t his strong suit either so he’ll do what he always does; face the problem head on.

A throat clears behind you and you almost slip from the fright it gave you. A heavy step rushes forward and an arm wraps around your waist pulling you back before you can fall. You’d have spells to save you in case you did fall but you’d rather not and are grateful for your valiant saviour. The bare arm wrapped around your waist is covered in tattoos, markings and scars and engulfs the majority of your middle. It doesn’t take a fool to know this arm belongs to Grog Strongjaw himself.

Flustered you allow the goliath to pull you back onto solid ground and off the balustrade entirely before he lets go of you, making sure you’re right on your feet. How much of your conversation with the skies did he hear? Did he hear anything at all? Grog steps back and stares at his boots. He doesn’t only appear to be more embarrassed than you feel but also apologetic.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Please don’t fall again and please don’t be angry at me.” Grog closes his eyes tightly afraid you might be mad at him as he was the cause of you almost experiencing a death drop. You’re basically gods but if we’ve learned anything from Keyleth; that doesn’t save you from a splat.

You step forward grab one of his hands in yours drawing his attention. With your index finger you tilt his chin up just enough so he’s looking at you and not over you. These gestures are enough for Grog to open his eyes. When there’s no look of anger on your face the tension in his body falls away just slightly. There’s still some rigidness from nerves but he’s closer to usual Grog.

“Chin up, big guy. You saved me too. I’m not mad.” You smile and the smile is returned. The air is still somewhat awkward so you decided you best get this over with and clear it up.

“How much did you hear?” You ask. The blush rushing to Grog’s cheeks and frantic glancing around to make sure no one else is here to witness it tells you he heard enough.

With a deep sigh you step back to the balustrade sitting down upon it once more but now to face Grog instead of the sky, your hair blowing lightly in the breeze, the rain and occasional illuminated sky behind you leave him staring yet again forgetting your question. He’s just captivated but you calling his name snaps him out of it. Saved it. Still got it. As long as he doesn’t turn to ‘drunk Keyleth’ levels he’ll consider it a win.

“I-uhhhh…. Why don’t you think I like you?” Grog twiddles his thumbs rocking back and forth from his tiptoes to his heels in anticipation of your answer. He knows he heard you tell the sky but he wants to be sure because if he gave you any reason to believe he didn’t like you, he did do something wrong. He’ll pick you over any of those other fools down stairs. He might just even pick you over the best ale. He’d already picked you over the ale he’d been offered. If that isn’t testament to his fondness of you, then what is?

“Ah, so you did hear that. I just- I think-. Ugh, why is this so hard?” You try to express your reasons but words are difficult and feelings even more so to describe yet still you try. Grog waits patiently either way.

“Do you think we would have been friends were it not for our lives being tied together as they are now?” You ask the dreaded question. You don’t even know if you really want the answer afraid that it may break any semblance of hope you had somewhere in your mind. Grog’s brow furrows, deep in thought but mostly confusion.

“Of course we would be. Why wouldn’t we?”

“Because I’m not like you. I’m not a fighter. I stay back with my spells and incantations while you run in axe swinging taking down anyone in your path. I read while you train. I sit around in my tower watching the skies while you go out and drink the town dry looking for a fight to enjoy. I could never do what you do and I do not dare to assume you’d have any interest in doing what I do.” The thoughts and feelings find words. A tension lifts from your chest like a breath you didn’t know you were holding just by speaking your mind to the goliath in question.

Grog knows damn well you’re not a fighter in the traditional sense. No steel or arrows for you but that does not mean you’re not a fighter in your own right. If he’s learned anything a fighter comes in many shapes and forms and you fit the description perfectly. You’ve shown determination and strength, courage against all odds and immense skill. You are a fighter.

“When I run into danger kicking ass who’s had my back every time?” Grog asks. There’s a harshness and authority in his voice indicating he’s leading somewhere and you better answer.

“We all have-“ Grog cuts you off.

“No. You have had my back every time.” He corrects. “Who comes watch me train, throwing spells to keep me on my toes? Who does it while reading her books completing not one but two tasks at the same time?”

“I do.” You admit.

“And who helps me kick ass in bar fights? Who cheers me on or joins me in any gamble or drinking game? Who is the best drinking buddy? You are. Now, who spends time with you watching storms whenever they occur up here in the tower or anywhere else?”

“You… do…” Grog’s right.

“I like to spend time with you because I like you. I don’t care you don’t swing an axe. That firestorm you do works just the same and looks way more badass. I’m not the smartest but I know two of the same are not always useful and can be too much. What are you going to do with two when you only need one. You need difference so they compitry- complitarity- colmpli-“ Grog struggles with that word. He’s heard Percy use it in a similar context but why is it such a difficult word to recall. He still tries and just hopes you’ll get what he’s trying to say.

“Complimentary?” You ask. You fear Grog might get himself a migraine if he tries any harder. You still don’t think that’s the correct use of the word but you get it. He’s trying to lift your spirits and it’s working.

“That one. Yes. Complimentary. I don’t just like you, I love you for who you are. You’re special and being different makes you special.” Grog admits he tries to fight the heat rising to his cheeks from admitting what he did but when he sees your smile grow, that’s enough to push his pride aside and let it be. Maybe he can do this thing Pike usually does after all? Maybe not unless it’s you. When he tells you he loves you he means it. When he has to say it to the likes of Vax he’d rather eat his own boots for lunch.

You gesture with your hand and beckon the goliath over to come closer. You rise to stand on the edge of the balustrade and wrap your arms around Grog’s neck holding him close. You feel his arms wrap around you in turn and pull you closer to where your feet barely touch the stone.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.” You pull back to look Grog in the eyes as he still holds onto you and take his cheeks between your hands giving him a quick kiss. Grog’s eyes light up and lifts you up higher offering you a kiss of his own. Sweet and short and filled with glee. He sets you back down on your feet but doesn’t let go of you yet.

“Do you want to go back downstairs? Last I checked there was a drinking game going on? Should we show them what we’re made off?” You grin and the proud look on Grog’s face tells you enough to know exactly what you’re talking about.

“Let me tell you the tale of my grand victories-“ Grog starts as he begins leading you back down the stairs, arm wrapped around your shoulders pulling you into his side as you walk.

[radiotransmissions]

Gib us the forbidden 5 hour radiodust rant pls

Well here it is as requested, my Magnum Opus of Protective!Al RadioDust headcanons. I hope these are at least vaguely enjoyable to you, I’m so sorry for how long it is in advance. My writing is very prosey and over dramatic because I like my words. Enjoy!

* When Alastor first starts hanging around the hotel, he doesn’t want anything directly to do with Angel. The spider demon was way too touchy for his liking and he hated the almost constant sexual comments. But all that being said, he was still very intrigued with Angel because of how little fear he felt around Alastor and how nonchalantly he talked to him compared to the rest of the staff. Angel didn’t quite seem to know about his reputation and that was fascinating to him rather than annoying.

* Due to this interest, Alastor has his shadow start to follow Angel any time he leaves the hotel. When what started out as following Angel out of curiosity turned into secretively protecting him, Alastor couldn’t say. Maybe it was the comments his shadow heard Valentino make about the hotel and what he thought about it, the very rare fear picked up from Angel during those conversations. Maybe it was the less than favorable idea of losing such a wonderful source of entertainment. Whatever the case, he was going to make sure this spider stayed out of harm’s way.

* Alastor starts becoming annoyed when Angel hasn’t come back to the hotel at a certain time. Maybe Angel’s work was running a little late, or he was out with Cherri, either way Alastor starts finding that he can’t lay down comfortably at night knowing that he’s not back at the hotel. Either he waits up chatting with Husk until Angel comes back, or Alastor will physically go out and drag him back to the hotel. Angel doesn’t really understand why this is happening. And to be fair neither does Alastor.

* When Angel picks up on the kind of humor Alastor does like, he gets really good at it and Alastor finds himself genuinely laughing more than he has in a while when they talk. Alastor’s shadow comfortably entwines itself with Angel’s as they talk and there’s no power in all of Hell that could harm Angel in that moment, who was under the absolute and full protection of the Radio Demon, whether said Radio Demon was aware of it or not.

* If Angel ever seems agitated or upset, Alastor will make a “purring” white noise to relax him and gently hum a song from Angel’s time. He learns how to cook different Italian specialties and learns which ones Angel prefers, especially the ones that seem to cheer him up. Angel doesn’t think he’s ever been more in love with someone when he starts picking up on everything Alastor seems to be doing for him lately.

* Valentino is absolutely not allowed to take a single step inside the hotel’s walls. Alastor tends to man the front door, and the rare times he isn’t you better believe he’s set up wards and boundaries to prevent access by anyone he doesn’t approve of entering. Valentino had come looking for Angel more than once and Alastor had the great pleasure of being the one to slam the door in his face or scare him away with his true form. If Angel wasn’t at the hotel that particular day Alastor would immediately send his shadow after him to make sure he stayed unharmed.

* Alastor finds himself... angry? Yes angry was the word for it. When Angel comes back to the hotel injured, most often after helping Cherri with a smaller scale turf war. (They just couldn’t seem to leave Sir Pentious alone.) He didn’t quite understand the anger because as demons they had extraordinary regenerative capabilities, Angel wasn’t nearly in any danger of disappearing or being sent to “Double Hell” as he liked to call it. And Alastor wasn’t sure if he was angry at Angel or whoever had injured him. Maybe both? In any case, he would give Angel the silent treatment as he bandaged him up and silently fumed under his smile, to which Angel always gave an apologetic laugh and teased him for caring more than he let on. Which Alastor conceded was very much true at this point. Angel would then make a comment on how “cute” his agitated twitching ears were, and Alastor found he couldn’t muster the energy to be upset over that.

* Alastor would never admit it but he secretly has some concerns that if Valentino ever got in league with Vox, or another Overlord of his caliber, he wouldn’t be able to fully protect the hotel and its inhabitants (one inhabitant in particular). After realizing how much he’s started caring about Angel he dedicates a good portion of his days to working with his magic to strengthen it, just in case something of the sort did happen. He starts using his magic more frequently for smaller things to constantly hone his control over it, his shadow more active than it had been in quite some time.

* Alastor starts finding that his shadow will drift to Angel without him consciously meaning it to, curling protectively around the spider demon to Angel’s great amusement. Alastor can’t find it in him to be genuinely upset, despite this being the first time since manifesting in Hell that his shadow hasn’t been completely obedient to him.

* Alastor would absolutely deny it if anyone asked him, hell he was still mostly in denial himself, but he starts becoming almost... afraid of the idea of redemption. Angel along with the few demons who had stuck with the hotel thus far had definitely started to make strides towards becoming better versions of themselves, and he hated, oh he absolutely hated how that made him afraid. What was he to do when they all started leaving? What was he to do when Angel left? He despised even thinking about that, so without really meaning to he tries to stunt the progress Angel had been making. Oh Sir Pentious is in the area, shall we go give him a run for his money? There’s a new club open in town, doesn’t that sound exciting? He hates even more the slight guilt that comes with that.

* Alastor always makes sure to place a massive amount of defenses around the hotel during Exterminations. In years past, before the hotel, he would just retreat to his Radio Tower since it’s isolated and not usually a target for extermination, but he feels responsible now for keeping the hotel safe. He always makes sure to gather everyone (starting with a certain spider demon) at least 24 hours before so he has time to set up boundaries and whatnot. Nobody is allowed to leave his sight for the duration of the Extermination and he would always place himself directly in front of Angel just in case something did go wrong and they had to fight to get away. It was always an extremely tense and sleepless 48 hours.

* Alastor was never one for pets, even when he was alive. Didn’t spare time for them, didn’t care for them. When he found out about Fat Nuggets he really didn’t care at all about the pig, honestly found it kind of annoying even though it seemed to like following him around quite a bit. Angel absolutely enabled that kind of behavior because he thought it was the most endearing thing ever. Eventually, as Alastor starts to care about Angel more he starts paying more attention to Fat Nuggets and honestly does start to like the pig. His shadow loved playing with it from time to time and would regularly follow it around to make sure none of the other residents had any ill intentions towards the pig.

* Angel absolutely catches Alastor holding Fat Nuggets in his sleep at least once and he literally melts on the spot because god that’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

* Alastor will revert to French if he’s complimenting Angel or really saying anything nice to him because he finds it entertaining how much it bothers Angel to not know what he’s saying. He very much enjoys being able to express how he feels about Angel without anyone around understanding a single thing he’s saying, and he’s able to be more openly possessive with his words than he otherwise would be.(Angel absolutely starts picking up on a few words though, “cher” being a favorite of Alastor’s and in turn the first word Angel learns the meaning of.)

[kalluun-patangaroa]

Now you see them: It's been a long time since there was a pop phenomenon like this - frenzied fans, rhapsodising reviews . . . Suede, it seems, might be the future of rock and roll. Then again, they might not.

The Independent

Sunday, 21 March 1993 

Written by William Leith

A THURSDAY in March 1993, 7.20pm. The Top of The Pops presenter, Mark Franklin, introduces the latest video from Suede; the studio audience gives a youthful cheer. Brett Anderson, Suede's lead singer, appears on the walkway of a nasty tower block. He wears: no shirt, a tight black leather jacket, so short it reveals his midriff, black trousers low on the hips, so you can see his angular hip-bones, a cheap-looking necklace. He looks pale, almost ill, a figure from an early 1970s nightmare. His lank fringe covers his whole face.

The camera rushes down the scummy walkway into a dark room, where a coloured light flashes sickeningly; over the fuzzy guitar noise Anderson sings - or rather, he wails: 'Like his dad, you know that he's had / Animal nitrate in mind / Oh in your council home, he jumped on your bones / Now you're taking it time after time.'

This is 'Animal Nitrate', Suede's third single, a song about - what? Domestic violence, drugs, child abuse? It's thick with filthy undertones - and people are wild about it, just like they were wild about Suede's first two singles, 'The Drowners' and 'Metal Mickey', so wild that a concert-goer told me: 'It's not just girls who pack themselves at the front of the stage and try to rip Brett's clothes off - it's boys, and it's nothing to do with homosexuality . . . it's everybody, it's a mania.'

In his careless, Mick Jagger twang, which he has to a tee, Anderson tells me: 'Yeah, there's been a lot of hysteria at our gigs. But we're quite bored with playing live already. Once you have captivated a couple of thousand people, got them in the palm of your hand, and had them salivating . . . you don't really know where to go from there.'

They're still in their infancy, but Suede have snared the imagination of a certain type of rock fan - the sort of people who latch on to thin, angst-ridden white boys, the caste who worshipped the Smiths in the Eighties and David Bowie in the Seventies. Most important, Suede have become the darlings of the rock press. Melody Maker, the New Musical Express, Select, Q, Vox are wild about Suede, too; Suede have had more hype than anybody since the Smiths, or possibly even the Sex Pistols. The reviews are florid, poetic, half-crazed; they express the almost lascivious delight of journalists hungry for something to pin their hopes on. Suede, says the New Musical Express, are: 'The triumph of decadent aristo-foppery over prole pop.' They are 'Out there, so alone, brilliantly vulnerable' (Melody Maker). Or, as Select magazine put it: 'Never mind the bollocks. Here's Suede.' Needless to say, Suede's publicists, Phill Savidge and John Best, won the Music Week award for the best publicity campaign of 1992. The judges said they 'took Suede from obscurity to accolades to being hailed as the best band of the year'.

In the past year, Suede have been pictured on 19 magazine covers (including six Melody Maker covers, four New Musical Express covers, and, unprecedented for a band who have yet to release an album, the cover of Q magazine, which appeals to older fans). The Christmas edition of the NME, on which Brett Anderson posed as Sid Vicious, was the biggest-selling NME for a decade.

But Suede haven't yet released an album; their first three singles reached, respectively, 49, 17, and 7 in the chart. This is not the big-time yet; it's not U2 or Simply Red or the Cure. In an important sense, Suede haven't happened yet; they are in an interesting limbo. They might not happen. Lots of bands have got this far - or nearly this far - and no further; what happened to the Stone Roses, to Sigue Sigue Sputnik? They seemed like great ideas at the time.

What will Suede's fate be? Nobody knows; the world of rock music is too fickle to predict. When I met Brett Anderson, he said: 'I do want to have a place in history. I really do.'

'And what does it take for a band to have a place in history?'

'I think . . . three great records. Three great albums. But then again . . . the Sex Pistols did it with one, didn't they? I don't know. I don't know.'

BY THE end of 1992, when the height of Suede's chart success was still only a No 17 single, journalists were drooling over Brett Anderson. They practically had him on the couch. They loved his angst, his preoccupa-tion with himself, his ability to verbalise. He was perfect - he was everything they could possibly want.

In a typical exchange, he told Melody Maker: 'When it comes to writing, there's something to be said about being unhappy. I know I've been at my most creative when I've been sexually unsatisfied. When I'm sexually satisfied I write a load of old rubbish.'

Melody Maker: 'Are you sexually satisfied now?'

Anderson: 'Yeah.'

Melody Maker: 'So you're writing a load of old rubbish.'

Anderson: 'Yes, and it's a problem, because we're supposed to be doing our debut album . . .' He even had an exact position on sex, which was: 'I see myself as a bisexual man who's never had a homosexual experience.'

Perfect. As soon as they spotted Suede, the rock press knew they were on to something. The journalist who first wrote about Suede was John Mulvey of the NME. Suede were nobodies, playing third on the bill at the University of London Union. Mulvey says: 'They had charm, aggression, and . . . if not exactly eroticism, then something a little bit dangerous and exciting. Brett was a brilliant frontman. He has a certain edge to him which most people don't have, like Ned's Atomic Dustbin or Kingmaker, who are woefully bereft of that spice.'

'That spice' is something the rock journalist needs to find, if he is to make a living. Week in week out, you trudge to seedy bars and clubs, desperate to find something exciting. When I was a rock journalist in the Eighties, people would come into meetings every week, excited, with their discoveries. This is it! One week it was Stump, another week it was the Soup Dragons. We had the Shrubs, the June Brides, Sigue Sigue Sputnik, Half Man Half Biscuit; they were all the talk of the NME office for days, or weeks; sometimes they held out for longer, as long as there was still a chance of starting a cult, of getting people excited enough to rush out and buy the magazine. The strike-rate is very low; mostly, these discoveries fizzle out. So when the music press is faced with something that might go the whole way . . . it explodes.

'Here was a British band it was possible to get excited about,' says Danny Kelly, editor of Q magazine. 'The kids have to wait for the Smashing Pumpkins, or Hole, or Come, to come over from America. Whereas Suede is a very real, very immediate thing - they are around and playing.'

Kelly continues: 'In the last 10 years bands have been very apologetic; they've thrived on the attitude that 'we're the same as the audience'. Suede's attitude is 'we're brilliant; we're the stars, and you're the admirers'.'

Steve Sutherland, editor of the NME, says: 'When I first saw Suede, it was one of the few times I can honestly say I saw a band and I was utterly convinced they were brilliant. Often, you get a band with attitude, or a gimmick, or good songs, but seldom everything together.'

Kelly says: 'Also, Suede allude so knowingly to things that rock journalists are comfortable with - Seventies glam, Cockney Rebel, the Smiths, sexuality, asexuality, male violence. If there is a game to be played, they're playing it very well . . . they are skinny white boys speaking to other skinny white boys about their inadequacies.'

This week's NME cover story is the transcription of a meeting between Brett Anderson and David Bowie, who listened to a tape of Suede's first album sent to him by Steve Sutherland. Bowie told Sutherland: 'Of all the tapes you've ever sent me, this is the only one that I knew instantly was great.' The two singers, the 'Thin White Duke' and the star-in- waiting, chat about sex, drugs, Nazism and the ins and outs of being a pop star. Talking about Bowie's recent, relatively anonymous, period, Anderson says: 'It's funny that, when David started Tin Machine, it was the start of the cult of non-personality . . . maybe you were just feeling the times.' The article is headlined: 'One day, son, all this could be yours.

HE COULD, conceivably, be the next David Bowie, the next Mick Jagger. Or it could all come to nothing. Who knows? Brett Anderson sits with his feet up on the table, talking quietly about his chances. He wears: black corduroy trousers, cut low, a thin jumper with nothing underneath, shoes with holes in the soles, a reaction against his recent, more stylised image, which included an appearence in the NME with an elaborate shirt painted on his body.

'Are you conscious of the way you dress?'

'Yes . . . I'm feeling pressure on how to dress in that I don't like being made into a cartoon. There's a certain element of the music press that deals in comedy and turn you into a two-dimensional thing. The whole foppish thing is getting quite boring really.'

Sitting, as he is, in stardom's waiting-room, Anderson is hyper-aware of the traps he might fall into. Recently, for instance, a tabloid scoured his earlier interviews and found them to be larded with references to drugs. 'They said there was a backlash against Suede because parents were worried for their kids,' he says. 'The whole media's a huge dangerous web.'

'Do you ever think that all this might just be hype? That you might never go the whole way?'

Anderson, his knees drawn up to his chest, his head in his hands, says: 'The British music press are notorious for getting it wrong, for leading people up the garden path, because they just . . . they're too obsessed with the idea of things. But we never really felt it wouldn't happen. We knew we had a bit of substance over the style.'

Anderson believes he's going to be a star. He's happy with Suede's first album, Suede, on the cover of which is depicted a couple kissing - an ambiguous picture, which could be a man kissing a man, a man kissing a woman, or a woman kissing a woman. 'I chose it because of the ambiguity of it, but mostly because of the beauty of it,' he says.

He also says: 'There's an elegance and a beauty to our music that people haven't heard yet, and I want that to come across - the flow of it, the swoon, to a certain extent.'

Anderson comes from Haywards Heath, where he met Mat Osman, Suede's guitarist, at school. 'He's always known he was going to be a pop star. He was very arrogant,' says his childhood friend Alan Fisher.

'I'm quite glad that Haywards Heath was such an ugly place,' says Anderson. 'Being born on the outskirts of London, being able to just peer in but not quite see what's going on, is a really tantalising thing - it makes you hungry and gives you a certain amount of ambition.' He lived in a council house with his father, a taxi-driver, his mother, an artist, and his sister, who 'escaped' at the age of 15. 'I didn't go to any gigs,' he says. 'I didn't like all the bands that were around - Echo and the Bunnymen and all that stuff.' Anderson's taste was more obscure - he liked hard, punky bands - Crass, the Exploited.

After attending Manchester University for two weeks, Anderson moved to London with Osman. 'Before we met Bernard,' he says, 'it was just me and Mat in my bedroom with this rubbish drum machine, writing awful songs.' Then they auditioned for a guitarist, and chose Bernard Butler, who worried Anderson because he was 'too good'. They also auditioned for a drummer, and picked Simon Gilbert, who tells me over the telephone: 'I heard a tape of their early stuff. I said, this sounds really good, but they need a drummer.'

'And then it just . . . took off?'

'Oh, no. We played all the shitty gigs for a year and a half. We played the Amersham Arms in New Cross to one person.'

'Do you remember the moment when the rock press discovered you?'

'Yes. I remember the first few reviews. I'll get it out of my scrapbook if you like.'

BRETT Anderson, sitting precariously on the window-ledge, with his feet balanced on the radiator, talks about Suede's first album. His favourite song is 'So Young', a full-tilt anthem of slashing guitars and pained howling, a great song - which, like so much of Suede's material, recalls the prancing confidence of Marc Bolan, of early Bowie. 'It deals with the knife- edge of being young,' says Anderson, who is 25. 'There's the desperation and all the pitfalls, but then actually turning them into something hopeful and beautiful that looks forward and that isn't negative.

'It's a rejection of the traditional English character,' he goes on. 'A desire to push all the claustrophobia and tat and bits and pieces away, and stride into the future, which isn't the most original thought in the world, but maybe one of the most important.'

'So will success spoil you as a musician then? What if you get comfortable?'

'I don't really feel as though I could ever be comfortable.'

And now, a week before the release of Suede's first album, Anderson must go to a studio to meet Bernard Butler and write songs for the second album, tentatively scheduled for release early in the new year. He has also been thinking about the video for the next single. 'Up to now,' he says, 'we've been playing on the grittiness of it all. But I wanna take it all to a different level; I wanna use nature more. I've got this image in my head of these horses galloping, and then I'd have it superimposed, and make it a lot more beautiful, a lot more floating, a lot more . . . implied.'

Anderson gets down off the window-ledge. By the time the stuff he will write this afternoon is in the shops, he might be just a vague memory. Then again, meeting him is something I might boast about to my grandchildren. Who knows? Nobody, yet.

[sealofzeal]

Childhood

City life gave me all that I could ask for. My parents were well off, both working in the trade industry, and were able to provide me with academy level training and education. Sometimes the lifestyle was daunting but because I knew I belonged here I pushed when other faltered.

I had few friends, but of them the closest was Rhalyf. We shared most of our schooling time together and during our free periods we made up games to play. Looking back, it seemed so childishly delightful. He was so extremely adapt at playing hide-and-go-seek, but, no matter the hidding spot, eventually I could find him. Other times we would practice our fighting. Being as young as we were they only taught us the defensive stances but it was only a matter of time until we out grew our lessons. Once we snuck into the city guard's training grounds. Rhalyf, being the crafty one that he was, helped me scale the walls so we may watch together. He had such an uncanny ability to know which stones were loose and where to grab. We spent hours together watching the men and women train. My job was to take notes and memorize the movements so we may practice together afterwards. Somethings that Rhalyf would miss, I would notice, like the way to set your footing before swinging a sword, or how their hands were placed on a bo staff. Between our games he would find fun in quizzing me. He knew my favorite subjects were history and lore. Often he would marvel at the little things I could remember from our class. He loved bringing up the far out land of the elves, Evermeet. Over and over he would ask. I knew he knew everything that I said, after all, we shared the same lessons. I think that he just liked hearing about it. He shared with me one day about his anxiety of being half kin and that he wouldn't be welcomed into Evermeet or that if he was it was merely an act of petty. I hugged him tight that day and told him that any one who would turn him away clearly misunderstood how incredible he was.

We grew up eventually. I had a few years on Rhalyf but his human side made up for that quick. Rhalyf would eventually apply for apprenticeship as a Bladesinger but when no word returned he feared the worst. Whether it be from his half human blood or the fact he was no Evermeet citizen he took the news hard. He was at the top of our class, only riveled by me, so whatever the reason he was sure it was something due to that.

I met him the day before he left. He had been crying, one of the few times I've seen him ever do that. Being a Bladesinger was all he ever wanted. Powerful guardians. Champions of elven kind. Adventuring was in his blood. And that's why he had to leave. A college had accepted him when Evermeet and her master's did not. My memory is so vivid of that night. We were in his room for hours, from set to rise. Perhaps my mind knew already the long length of time we would have to endure before seeing each other again and so it captured every detail it could. We sat in his room, near the open window. It was summer and the wind stayed warm many hours after the sun had left. He had candles burning, a mix of fresh pine lumber and lemon, something he always burned when worried or stressed. We talked but also enjoyed comfortable silence.

His time to go came. The sun had it's first light over the city and Rhalyf was adamant about leaving without other people's knowing, wanting to avoid the fuss of good byes.

I hugged my friend again before letting him go down his path but not before he asked one last question.

"Vox, why don't you want to go?"

Adulthood

But why would I leave? Where would I go? What place could I go to that was better than here? Perhaps I was too bought in on the idea that our elven differences were so firm, at least that's what others thought of me. But what can I say? I am a full blooded sun elf. A lot is expected of me wether they admit or not. Time out "adventuring" could be time spent on bettering myself and I must be the best me.

When finished with the academic portion of my life the next series of months blended together. My memory is very strong but there's not much I could tell you about that time. I wouldn't discribe it as a 'blur', but more like the gears of a clock. Days mimicked days and weeks were mirrors of each other. The only breaks of the continunity were the local festivals that my city observed but those matter much less after Rhalyf left. Those days were better spent with personal projects.

Cooking was an interesting venture for me but was short lived as I don’t eat much. I tried my hand at my parents' own vocation but rarely did they require my help. Most hours with them had me idle and anxious to be else where, doing something different. Tutoring was a promising start. I was with a youngling named Ceara. Access to an apprentice came in handy and I was most pleased to influence her and give guidance. She had fallen behind in school due to what her parents thought was a poor immune system. It turned out to be more than that. She would fall ill randomly and after enough encounters with our family physician we took it into our own hands. I admired how willing and brave she was. It took some trial and error, something that wasn’t easy on either of us. Eventually, over the course of months, we discovered that Ceara had an sensitivity to the weave of magic that was omnipresence. When the threads suddenly changed course and caused a peak or valley Ceara would experience something akin to vertigo. After that we found prescriptions useful to her and mindful meditation aided Ceara’s mental strength to withstand the occasional shifts. It wasn’t long after that she was caught up with her classmates and no longer required my tutelage.

That lasted for a little over a year and maybe it was for the best. Teaching wouldn’t be my calling. Maybe in a century or two later would I consider but not now.

By this point it had been close to four years since Rhalyf left for college. Letters were sparse, mainly sent in time for each other’s birthdays. I had gathered enough spare gold to send a care package of some of our home city’s goods. Fresh fruits, a green and gold ribbon from the Day of Color festival, a supply of candles. The item most pleased to send was a flat palm sized slab of obsidian. It came to my possession via my parents. It was an oddity that never sold after years of trying. The material was rare but in such small quantities it hardly had any appeal. It was always warm to the touch and I suggested he store it in his glove or a pocket. He was far north in the snowy lands and judging by his correspondence afterwards he’ll never receive a better gift. This was quite some time ago and had recently been considering sending another. Tutoring Ceara had landed me a windfall of gold. Her parents insisted on paying extra after going such lengths for their daughter.

It would have been such a surprise for Rhalyf had he not surprised me first.

The Silver Hymn

I threw my arms around my dear friend and hugged him tight. He had grown but not quite to my height. His clothing choices were different too. He sported a more fashionable attire that leaned on ostentatious. His hair wasn’t cut short any more either and was pulled into a low pony. So much had changed but I could still quickly pick my friend out in a busy crowd.

We exchanged our pleasantries before finding a place to sit and talk. We traded our stories from the past four years. I asked questions about some of his letters and he did the same back. He was impressed on how much I could recall from them and accused me of rereading within the last few days. I teased him, saying that he wishes and was quickly reminded of how acute my memory could be. He then asked about Evermeet and about the Bladesingers. Of course I remembered as children how he used to do this but there was something he was leading up to, I could tell. And he didn’t let down. After my brief lesson of the Bladesingers he asked me if I thought they were the only ones, sword fighters with a wholly original style of combat. I said yes and he thought so too, until he left. His theory is that there could be others. He hailed from the sword college now and that the talents he learned from the mountains were cousins to the Bladesingers, and that there could be more. He showed me an insignia that I later learned was for “The Silver Hymn”.

The Silver Hymn is a guild of lore seekers, or would eventually be. As of now it was just him and one other, the guild’s benefactor. He explained to me that he needed me, that there could be no one else to do it. Anyone could memorize text from a book and retain knowledge but only in me did he see the passion for it. He described the types of roles I would play and after two days of considering I said yes.

It was interesting work to say the least! Within a month we had grown from two, to six. Actually it was seven but it was hard to consider the guild’s benefactor as a member. Rhalyf and myself were looked to as the founders. Darcan and Jhaan were the first to join, classmates that had also stayed with in the city. They were revered well but were having trouble finding work without dedication to a mage college. After we had Eleyon join, a half moon elf who out grew her peers in the classroom and was eager to start their adulthood. She was the youngest but carried her weight just as much. We weren’t sure if the guild needed any more until a wood elf of the name Kel joined. He was older and had experience far outside the city that both Rhalyf and I knew we couldn’t pass up on.

Gold was steady for the guild. We would receive a payout every two weeks. Darcan would prep and send the progress report in the in between weeks. Darcan has the finest of penmanship. Sometimes I would review his report just to see how that man writes his o’s. Jhaan had a knack with accounting and was quick to fill the role of treasurer. She made sure we had everything we needed and budgeted accordingly. Eleyon lacked initiative to work on her own and found her time better suited with me as an assistant. Kel we were still getting to know but he was delightful at the six string and had a tongue of silver, something useful when ever the need showed. No matter our talents we all poured over every book.

It took some time for any honest progress. Eleyon felt like we were shooting an arrow with out a target. She didn’t like the ambiguity of what we were looking for. It was actually Ceara that gave us our first step in a new direction. I had the sudden impulse of checking in on her, seeing what improvements she had made. I told her what I could of what we were doing. Until then we had just been cataloguing events of Bladesingers but they had been kept factual not instructional, likely to keep the artform's secrets. Ceara asked why do that if we were looking for something like the Bladesingers. From there Eleyon suggested we look into folk lore, specially since Kel always said stories like those always had some truth to them.

It was the best months of my life. Rhalyf and I, working closely again. Making new friends. Together we separated fiction from non. There were examples of what Rhalyf was searching for. A sword fighter had returned from the Moonshae Isles and was completing feats of mastery, with acts discribed similar to a Bladesingers but not exactly. Many books mistakenly called them a Bladesinger or even The Bladesinger. This just wasn't true as this character lacked key attributes from the fighting style. None of them discribed the whistle of the blade or gave examples of a dancer-like manner of fighting. Jhaan found examples of the character being refered to as a "she" while still fitting the description from other books when refered to as a "he".

We slowly found other stories of them. It seemed that this person lived a full and fantastic life. We had to cross reference passages told within novels with historic events. It helped us form a better timeline of them. Whole works of literature being read and boiled down to a single page of factual text.

Satisfaction came when Darcan finish the report of our findings. I must have read those pages a dozen times over. Our guild's magnum opus. I would still consider it largely unfinished but our benefactor would be nothing less than pleased. After finding an appropriate carrier suitable for something this important and paying the large sum to have it delivered most of the guild broke off for some rest. Rhalyf went with the package to better present it. Kel was "getting the itch" which meant he wanted to go deep wood hunting and camping. Jhaan and Darcan kept quite about what they did but likely went off acting on the chemistry they experienced during our work. Eleyon went home with most of her earnings but only after a day venture of shopping. She was raised by an elderly woman, unrelated to her, who took Eleyon in and supported her education. I spent time with Ceara and my own parents. Rhalyf asked me to join him but understood when I declined. I had been surrounded by people and needed some alone time. Not to mention that my physical maintenance had lessened after the guild's formation and I was determined to return to form.

We would have to wait until Rhalyf made it to his destination, which we learned via a missive spell, and then for his return. Eleyon was curious on what would happen next. She wasn't entirely pleased at the idea of doing exactly this again for other examples. Not that she had intentions of leaving if that were the case as the take in gold was too good to pass on. She had woes when it came to money coming from a life that struggled to make all ends meet. We got to know each other along with Kel after a night of camping together. The two of us wanted to check in with him, letting him know Rhalyf had made it. Kel was much harder to locate than anticipated but eventually the fun of watching us struggle wore on him and he made himself known. He played for us on his instrument and treated us to his hunt of the day, this time being fish. He was much better at cooking than myself.

Moonshae Isles

Three days after Rhalyf's arrivle we received another magical note from the carrier's guild. These were not cheap to request and already had major significance. Rhalyf had news, huge news, to share when he returned and asked us to be ready for his arrival at an appointed date. I didn't delay on informing the other members. Eleyon had a flurry of questions for me but she would just have to accept that I knew nothing more than what I had told her. I spoke with Darcan and he took on telling Jhaan. Kel was again tricky getting a hold of but didn't play games this time which helped.

We gathered together in our research room. There was an air of unease that lingered. It felt very cryptic in is nature. Rhalyf was intentionally vague in his letter and Jhaan was clear on how she didn't enjoy this position of not knowing. She also didn't like that none of us other than Rhalyf knew this benefactor. Anxiety was getting to us all. Kel had went with playing his six string to pass the time. No one said anything but he was noticably jumpy. Eleyon couldn't stop fidgeting. She was in a new position every ten minutes. Darcan was straighting some notes we had left behind after our work completed. I was reading a short story that Ceara had wrote. She wanted me to judge it and help with mistakes if any. There weren't many but quickly did I realize that the main character was embarrassingly based off me. I wouldn't tell Eleyon what it was and that frustrated her to no end.

Relief came when finally Rhalyf showed. There were some men with him carrying something heafty. They set it on the table and then left. Rhalyf thanked, tipped, and locked the doors behind them. He apologized for the wait and got into explaining his trip. The benefactor was pleased with our findings and wanted to support a expedition. The next step was to obtain physical proof to back up our research and thought we should be the ones who go about finding and studying anything found. The idea is to keep the number of eyes and minds to a minimum. That notion struck Jhaan as odd and asked to meet this person, now wanting to know who she was working with and how they plan using our work. Rhalyf eased her and everyone else's worries by claiming that they were a promising historic practitioner and specializes in finding heroes lost in lore. I found this off putting as that wasn't Rhalyf's original pitch to me when founding the guild. None the less, I choose to trust him.

Finally we open the box after Eleyon insistence that we do. It contained six soft in color purple cloaks with an insignia of The Silver Hymn as clasps, sized and fitted for each of us. It was a gestures made not by the benefactor but my Rhalyf. He wanted to show their union and how close he felt to everyone.

The rest of the box was a large bag filled with gold and platinum. This was a combination of our compensation for our report, and funding for supplies and travels with an early bonus if we accepted. There was only one caveat, no one person may accept unless we all do.

We all stood in a circle, cloaks clasped on, and agreed.

Personal affairs were to be put into order. I spoke with my parents about where I was going only saying what I could about it. We had together all sworn to some level of secrecy. We weren't doing anything illicit or something that needed protecting, it just felt like the right thing to do. With Ceara though I broke that swear to the others only after she made her own promise to me to never share what I said to anyone. I handed back her story with some notes about. I told her that I expected more to read when I returned and hugged the girl tight as a goodbye.

The surplus of gold allowed for a new sword, masterfully crafted, as well as armor fitted to me. I didn't know if either would be necessary but I felt better with them. I was also able to afford a rounded shield and painted the face with our guild's insignia. The others has similar ideas on preparation. Jhaan bought a new tomb for spellcasting as well as a few scrolls. Kel was more interested in practical supplies, but did also get a cooking kit for travel. Eleyon picked up a hand-crossbow and after seeing what I did to my shield she asked me to do something similar. Darcan had a cracked orb as a focal and with a bit of his gold had it repaired. Rhalyf had eyes on this elegant elven thin blade since we were young and after this lump sum of gold it was his.

Travel was uneventful, which was good. Eleyon would disagree but she also didn't know better. We opted for renting a horse and being pulled by carrage. It saved time at the cost of more gold but allowed us to bring more supplies into port. From there we obtained a vessel to the Isles.

None other than Kel did well on ships. He had been on a number of them in the past. Rhalyf found enjoyment between bouts of sick. I watched my friend as he gazed out into the open sea with such a large smile. I could tell adventuring was for him. I'm not sure what he saw in it but then again, here I was too.

The Moonshae Isles were not welcoming as the travel from home had been. We didn't obtain any lasting injuries but it was a good warning to stay vigilant and careful. Kel took lead and sometimes would scout ahead. We had our notes and eventually we started noticing landmarks from our readings. We found safety and formed a camp in a suitable space and began our dive into history.

Weeks passed and progress was good. We had a map drawn in the main tent with landmarks and notes written all over it. It turned out Eleyon had a great sense of direction and made for a talented cartographer. She had made many revised copies and eventually started drawing maps of all the tunnels and caves we came across. Jhaan spent every possible chance she could detecting any magical aura in the area. Darcan would always be the one to volunteer to join her but with how less hidden they acted with their relationship we all knew why.

It wasn't until the end of our eighth week here did we come across something tangible. We did as before, separating tale and fact. Moonshae Isles were the origins of the hero and in the stories about them the character reference the area often but never spoke where the abilies came from. Some supported to notion that this was a narrative device that allowed for other authors to spin their tales about the hero. Others, like myself, think it was deliberate, an attempted to keep it secret. The others debated their pet theories while I reviewed the maps. I was laying on my back with the papers stacked on top of each other to better review what changes had been made. Normally this would be done over the fire so the light may shine through but tonight the moon had been full and bright. With each revised copy they became better detailed. I was about to compliment Eleyon on her improvement when I realized that she always left out one corner of the land mass undetailed. I asked why and she said that not a single passage in any of the books spoke about it. We had visited there early on but determined that it had no real importance due to the lack of mentions. Her eyes went wide with the same realization I had. Rhalyf was fine with taking another venture out that area but declined joining. He was working on his own angle on this problem and wished us luck in the morning.

Kel, Eleyon, and I went together. Kel again took the forward position which allowed me and Eleyon to review her map. She had chosen an older one with more of the tunnel system drawn in before she started to separate the layers. Some clever deductions were made and she theorized that the tunnel should continue all the way out here. Kel's survivalist ability kicked in and noticed that there must be a underground spring nearby with how a stream of water didn't flood the area. We did find that cave, the entrance well hidden, and went on searching inside. It was rough and rugged as a tunnel ought to be but farther, just as it was starting to tapper off and shrink, the texture changed. In a cube like formation it was smooth and sort of man made. Some sort of magic must have carved into this portion of the underground. Turns became 90° corners and there were some gradual slopes downward. The hallways opened into a large room. Tapestries decorate the walls and although they may once have been brilliant in hue, they now hang in graying tatters. Despite the damage of time and neglect, I could make out their once-grand images and symbols of spellcasting. Messages in strange languages were carved into the ground in chalk somehow untouched by time and the elements. I was sure they were likely written in such ways to aid in casting. Me and Kel both had the sense to stay still but Eleyon jumped and cheered at their find. She had ran in excited, moving before we could stop her. The runes on the ground became lit and flashed in a spark. At the time we were sure it was a trap but guessed it fizzled with age. Kel and I sighed with such relief.

We were sasitfied with finding that room and after marking it on our map we turned for home. At first we didn't know what was different but something felt wrong. It had been much later in the day from when we entered and the ground was soaked from rainfall. Kel suggested that maybe we couldn't hear the rain because the tunnel went that far deep. I didn't fight that as an answer then but it was when the sunsetted on us and the moon became apparent. It was clear something had happened. The night before it had been full and yet here and now I see it as a just a thin cresent. There was no denying it now and matters only worsen when we returned to camp. It was gone. Our tents, our supplies, and most importantly our friends. Eleyon shouted, saying that this isn't funny. She didn't understand what me and Kel did. I grabbed her and asked her to please stop. I think she must have seen the fear in my eyes because she didn't resist.

Kel saved us that night. Eleyon too. Her map gave us some ideas on where to set up a makeshift camp and Kel's took over from there. We didn't have much with us. No food other than some traveling jerky and water skins were low. My pack only had some parchment and writing utensils. I had my weapons and shield, and luckily the cloak was weather resistance. Eleyon had her short sword, crossbow with a few bolts, and a cartographer kit. Kel traveled light and thankfully that means he carried only supplies to survive. Even with the rain earlier he managed a small fire for us. We would take turns to keep watch and I took first shift. I wanted Eleyon to sleep and not dwell on thinking this was her fault. Kel meditated on my right and Eleyon laid her head in my lap on my left. We eventually all got rest and started answering new questions the morning after.

Kel went off to hunt, leaving me and Eleyon to focus on what happened. Not only had the camp gone missing bit the signs of it even being there were gone too. Grass had regrown and the places where the stakes had been driven in at had closed. There was only the faint circle of stones that gave hint that someone had been there. Eleyon was distraught. I was too but I guess I hid it better. Together we spent a few days looking for Rhalyf and Jhaan and Darcan, but when no signs appeared we had to change our goals. The three of us couldn't stay here in the wilderness forever looking.

We returned to the port where arrived from and asked there. I could feel my hope drain with every puzzled look I received after pointing to my insignia or showing my purple cloak. In the end the light showed and someone mentioned three others. The troubling part was this man remembered them from almost over four months ago. He remember them catching a boat to Waterdeep.

Waterdeep

It took some convincing for Kel to agree but eventually he went with going to Waterdeep. Eleyon and I had brought no personal gold with us. Mine was with my parents and Eleyon gave all of hers to her caretaker, spare some traveling coins. Only Kel kept his on his person and ultimately it was his choice on what to do with it. He saw no other recourse obvious and went with it.

Some how the seas were worse this time through and me and Eleyon were unless during the choppier parts of travel. Kel managed us a less expensive ride to Waterdeep at the cost of manual labor. We did what we could but clearly Kel carried more than just his weight.

The Sword Coast greeted us with I suppose a typical hello. Pirates of the sea had caught us unguarded by other ships and the winds too dead to escape. We managed with our lives, quickly coming to arms against them, but not without cost. Kel has taken blows to the side with a flintlock. He lived but needed rest and care.

Now we three find ourselves, drained, injured, hopeless, and in Waterdeep.

[the-sargerei]

Childhood

City life gave me all that I could ask for. My parents were well off, both working in the trade industry, and were able to provide me with academy level training and education. Sometimes the lifestyle was daunting but because I knew I belonged here I pushed when other faltered.

I had few friends, but of them the closest was Rhalyf. We shared most of our schooling time together and during our free periods we made up games to play. Looking back, it seemed so childishly delightful. He was so extremely adapt at playing hide-and-go-seek, but, no matter the hidding spot, eventually I could find him. Other times we would practice our fighting. Being as young as we were they only taught us the defensive stances but it was only a matter of time until we out grew our lessons. Once we snuck into the city guard's training grounds. Rhalyf, being the crafty one that he was, helped me scale the walls so we may watch together. He had such an uncanny ability to know which stones were loose and where to grab. We spent hours together watching the men and women train. My job was to take notes and memorize the movements so we may practice together afterwards. Somethings that Rhalyf would miss, I would notice, like the way to set your footing before swinging a sword, or how their hands were placed on a bo staff. Between our games he would find fun in quizzing me. He knew my favorite subjects were history and lore. Often he would marvel at the little things I could remember from our class. He loved bringing up the far out land of the elves, Evermeet. Over and over he would ask. I knew he knew everything that I said, after all, we shared the same lessons. I think that he just liked hearing about it. He shared with me one day about his anxiety of being half kin and that he wouldn't be welcomed into Evermeet or that if he was it was merely an act of petty. I hugged him tight that day and told him that any one who would turn him away clearly misunderstood how incredible he was.

We grew up eventually. I had a few years on Rhalyf but his human side made up for that quick. Rhalyf would eventually apply for apprenticeship as a Bladesinger but when no word returned he feared the worst. Wether it be from his half human blood or the fact he was no Evermeet citizen he took the news hard. He was at the top of our class, only riveled by me, so whatever the reason he was sure it was something due to that.

I with met him the day before he left. He had been crying, one of the few times I've seen him ever do that. Being a Bladesinger was all he ever wanted. Powerful guardians. Champions of elven kind. Adventuring was in his blood. And that's why he had to leave. A college had accepted him when Evermeet and her master's did not. My memory is so vivid of that night. We were in his room for hours, from set to rise. Perhaps my mind knew already the long length of time we would have to endure before seeing each other again and so it captured every detail it could. We sat in his room, near the open window. It was summer and the wind stayed warm many hours after the sun had left. He had candles burning, a mix of fresh pine lumber and lemon, something he always burned when worried or stressed. We talked but also enjoyed comfortable silence.

His time to go came. The sun had it's first light over the city and Rhalyf was adamant about leaving without other people's knowing, wanting to avoid the fuss of good byes.

I hugged my friend again before letting him go down his path but not before he asked one last question.

"Vox, why don't you want to go?"

Adulthood

But why would I leave? Where would I go? What place could I go to that was better than here? Perhaps I was too bought in on the idea that our elven differences were so firm, at least that's what others thought of me. What can I say? I am a full blooded sun elf. A lot is expected of me wether they admit or not. Time out "adventuring" could be time spent on bettering myself and I must be the best me.

When finished with the academic portion of my life the next series of months blended together. My memory is very strong but there's not much I could tell you about that time. I wouldn't discribe it as a 'blur', but more like the gears of a clock. Days mimicked days and weeks were mirrors of each other. The only breaks of the continunity were the local festivals that my city observed but those matter much less after Rhalyf left. Those days were better spent with personal projects.

Cooking was an interesting venture for me but was short lived as I don’t eat much. I tried my hand at my parents' own vocation but rarely did they require my help. Most hours with them had me idle and anxious to be else where, doing something different. Tutoring promising start. I was with a youngling named Ceara. Access to an apprentice came in handy and I was most pleased to influence her and give guidance. She had fallen behind in school due to what her parents thought was a poor immune system. It turned out to be more than that. She would fall ill randomly and after enough encounters with our family physician we took it into our own hands. I admired how willing and brave she was. It took some trial and error, something that wasn’t easy on either of us. Eventually, over the course of months, we discovered that Ceara had an sensitivity to the weave of magic that was omnipresence. When the threads suddenly changed course and caused a peak or valley Ceara would experience something akin to vertigo. After that we found prescriptions useful to her and mindful meditation aided Ceara’s mental strength to withstand the occasional shifts. It wasn’t long after that she was caught up with her classmates and no longer required my tutelage.

That lasted for a little over a year and maybe it was for the best. Teaching wouldn’t be my calling. Maybe in a century or two later would I consider but not now.

By this point it had been close to four years since Rhalyf left for college. Letters were sparse, mainly sent in time for each other’s birthdays. I had gathered enough spare gold to send a care package of some of our home city’s goods. Fresh fruits, a green and gold ribbon from the Day of Color festival, a supply of candles. The item most pleased to send was a flat palm sized slab of obsidian. It came to my possession via my parents. It was an oddity that never sold after years of trying. The material was rare but in such small quantities it hardly had any appeal. It was always warm to the touch and I suggested he store it in his glove or a pocket. He was far north in the snowy lands and judging by his correspondence afterwards he’ll never receive a better gift. This was quite some time ago and had recently been considering sending another. Tutoring Ceara had landed me a windfall of gold. Her parents insisted on paying extra after going such lengths for their daughter.

It would have been such a surprise for Rhalyf had he not surprised me first.

The Silver Hymn

I threw my arms around my dear friend and hugged him tight. He had grown but not quite to my height. His clothing choices were different too. He sported a more fashionable attire that leaned on ostentatious. His hair wasn’t cut short any more either and was pulled into a low pony. So much had changed but I could still quickly pick my friend out in a busy crowd.

We exchanged our pleasantries before finding a place to sit and talk. We traded our stories from the past four years. I asked questions about some of his letters and he did the same back. He was impressed on how much I could recall from them and accused me of rereading within the last few days. I teased him, saying that he wishes and was quickly reminded of how acute my memory could be. He then asked about Evermeet and about the Bladesingers. Of course I remembered as children how he used to do this but there was something he was leading up to, I could tell. And he didn’t let down. After my brief lesson of the Bladesingers he asked me if I thought they were the only ones, sword fighters with a wholly original style of combat. I said yes and he thought so too, until he left. His theory is that there could be others. He hailed from the sword college now and that the talents he learned from the mountains were cousins to the Bladesingers, and that there could be more. He showed me an insignia that I later learned was for “The Silver Hymn”.

The Silver Hymn is a guild of lore seekers, or would eventually be. As of now it was just him and one other, the guild’s benefactor. He explained to me that he needed me, that there could be no one else to do it. Anyone could memorize text from a book and retain knowledge but only in me did he see the passion for it. He described the types of roles I would play and after two days of considering I said yes.

It was interesting work to say the least! Within a month we had grown from two, to six. Actually it was seven but it was hard to consider the guild’s benefactor as a member. Rhalyf and myself were looked to as the founders. Darcan and Jhaan were the first to join, classmates that had also stayed with in the city. They were revered well but were having trouble finding work without dedication to a mage college. After we had Eleyon join, a half moon elf who out grew her peers in the class room and was eager to start their adulthood. She was the youngest but carried her weight just as much. We weren’t sure if the guild needed any more until a wood elf of the name Kel joined. He was older and had experience far outside the city that both Rhalyf and I knew we couldn’t pass up on.

Gold was steady for the guild. We would receive a payout every two weeks. Darcan would prep and send the progress report in the in between weeks. Darcan has the finest of penmanship. Sometimes I would review his report just to see how that man writes his o’s. Jhaan had a knack with accounting and was quick to fill the role of treasurer. She made sure we had everything we needed and budgeted accordingly. Eleyon lacked initiative to work on her own and found her time better suited with me as an assistant. Kel we were still getting to know but he was delightful at the six string and had a tongue of silver, something useful when ever the need showed. No matter our talents we all poured over every book.

It took some time for any honest progress. Eleyon felt like we were shooting an arrow with out a target. She didn’t like the ambiguity of what we were looking for. It was actually Ceara that gave us our first step in a new direction. I had the sudden impulse of checking in on her, seeing what improvements she had made. I told her what I could of what we were doing. Until then we had just been cataloguing events of Bladesingers but they had been kept factual, likely to keep the art form a secret. Ceara asked why if we were looking for something like the Bladesingers. From there Eleyon suggested we look into folk lore, specially since Kel always said stories like those always had some truth to them.

It was the best months of my life. Rhalyf and I, working closely again. Making new friends. Together we separated fiction from non. There were examples of what Rhalyf was searching for. A sword fighter had returning from the Moonshae Isles and was completing feats of mastery, acts similar to Bladesingers but not exactly. This fighter single handedly protect

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18

The first time self-soothing was explained to me, it was by a friend who had her hands full taking care of a new baby. Self-soothing, she said, is when a baby develops the capacity to calm his or herself down. It’s seen as being key to uninterrupted nights of sleep for parents, since it allows babies to get back to rest if they should happen to wake up during the night.

A little while later, when I was exploring resources on coping with depression and anxiety, I learned that there’s such a thing as adult self-soothing, too. It may be an especially important skill to develop if you identify as a sensitive person or you feel the impact of emotions very strongly.

Self-soothing practices can take all sorts of shapes and forms; they may take one out of time and place, like going for a walk or practicing yoga in a special part of the home, or they might be as simple as listening to a particular song, sipping tea, breathing deeply, praying, singing, humming, reading poetry out loud, or smelling an essential oil. These, anyway, are my own favorite ways to self-soothe.

Two years ago at this time, my anxiety was so bad that I often didn’t want to leave the house. I did leave, going about my business and trying to perform as much competence as I could muster, but I felt as if I was falling apart. I was so on edge, so irritable, and so unable to hang onto a sense of safety or security. It really scared me, much more than my depression ever had.

Many months of therapy later, and I’m in a different place. But this week in particular gave me new skills to be grateful for. A few situations came up that triggered my anxiety, and I reacted, but I was able to stay connected to a fundamental sense that things would be OK. I’m not exactly sure what to attribute this to: my meditation practice? Learning to pay attention to my breath? Slowing down? Learning to say “no”? Reconnecting?

The answer is that all of these things, coupled with time and patience, have helped. I’m also starting to understand that quelling anxiety creates muscle memory; if you do it often enough, you start to believe, consciously and unconsciously, that it’s possible, and then it starts to happen more readily.

I know that I may manage my anxiety for a long time and possibly live with it always, just as I know I’ll always have brushes with depression and may always periodically encounter certain ED-related urges. In writing these words today, though, I realize how surprisingly calm I feel about my anxiety, which is sweetly ironic.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not alarmed by the fact that I have anxiety, not scared of it. I’ve been given signs that I have some of the tools I need to manage it. Maybe I’ll need to expand or change up my toolkit at some point, but that’s OK: toolkits can grow along with us. For now, merely knowing that I can get centered even in the midst of anxious feelings or thoughts is a major shift, one that gives me hope and a sense of spaciousness.

As always, wishing everyone peace and grounding as we head out into a fresh week. Enjoy these tasty recipes and reading links.

Recipes

There’s a mushroom miso barley soup recipe in Power Plates that I’ve become pretty attached to, but I can never get enough soup recipes, and I’m loving Natasha’s version, which is infused with Italian herbs and seasonings.

Wish someone had made these sweet buckwheat crepes for me on Valentine’s Day! Or that I’d gone ahead and made them for myself

This is my kind of potato salad: roasted potatoes, dill, vegan bacon, creamy garlic mayo. Perfect vegan comfort food.

Writing about Hannah’s book on Friday has me thinking about the art of creating really good food in very little time. It’s something I’m still figuring out. Lisa is one of the people I turn to for inspiration in this area, and her easy green curry noodles are a perfect example of a super speedy, flavorful, filling meal.

I tend to have lousy luck when I’m baking exclusively with grain free flours (I do OK when they’re part of a blend that has some wheat flour or gluten free grain flours in it). I’m always impressed with the way that Lindsay works wonders with grain-free baking that’s also vegan-friendly, and I’m dying to try her easy vegan white cake.

Reads

1. In spite of spending a fair amount of time around doctors—and anticipating a year of clinical work on the horizon—I had never really given much thought to what it must be like for doctors to return to full time work after being treated for an illness, especially the illness that they themselves specialize in.

That’s exactly the process that breast cancer surgeon Liz O’Riordon finds herself in now. I was touched by The Atlantic‘s profile of her, in which she admits to having new emotional challenges on the job, including sensitivities to hear certain diagnoses spoken of in dire terms and heightened awareness when delivering news to patients. The article says,

She [Liz] also takes more care with her language, and cringes at the memory of comments that were meant to be encouraging but now seem glib and unsympathetic. “I used to say: You’re lucky it hasn’t spread. No one is lucky to have cancer,” she says. “I used to ask people: Are you happy to sign this consent form? No one is happy to have cancer. As a doctor, you may give bad news 10 times a day. Until you’ve been on the other side, you don’t realize that when you get bad news, you remember every single detail of that conversation.”

There’s a lot of pressure for doctors and medical personnel to remain transparent, cool, and objective at all times, but my own limited experience in a helping profession is that personal struggle often gives way to empathy that can enhance one’s capacities as a practitioner. I hope that O’Riordan can indeed follow through on her hope to speak out more openly about her illness and encourage other doctors to do so with her.

2. Also on the topic of medicine and healthcare, a physician examines the concept of agape as it relates to healthcare. Agape is the ancient Greek term for selfless love of humanity; it’s seen as transcending difference or circumstance, which distinguishes it from filial or erotic love. Pooja Gidwani, a hospitalist, writes,

To me, agape means having the fortitude not only to empathize with patients or to provide compassionate care but to also habitually understand that each patient’s reactions may stem from their physical or mental suffering, past or current. To develop the ability to connect on a more spiritual level with the sufferer’s emotions despite their behaviors to truly be a healer. To put oneself in the shoes of each individual, remembering that everyone we meet is a product of what life has created for them.

I can’t think of a more beautiful summation of how agape can animate medical practice.

3. In the wake of the tragedy in Florida this past week, Vox sat down with Gerry Griffith, a crisis counselor with over 30 years of experience, to ask questions about what’s needed in the aftermath of shocking losses. She offers a lot of practical, detailed perspective on how crisis counselors respond to different stages of trauma among the people they’re helping, and she also has important things to say about the importance of addressing peoples’ sense of powerlessness after these kinds of events.

When asked how she continues to do this challenging work, she says,

I had a mentor, early, early on that said doing this work is learning how to keep your heart open in hell. I know what hell looks, tastes, like, and smells like.

I think, for me, there are people in my life that I can talk to about this. I have a husband, he’s proud of me and he supports me. When I’m out there in Oklahoma City or out in New York, I can call him and I can talk about how the dog, what she’s doing today. Because he’s not there.

Somebody asked me the other day: ”How would you know when you’re done?” I said, “When I stop crying.” When I stop feeling, when I don’t cry, my heart has closed and I have to quit.

I thought it was impressive that Griffith’s barometer of being fit for the task of counseling is having a strong capacity to feel. Something I want to keep in mind, in my own small way, for my future work with clients.

4. I really like Carrie Dennett’s reporting, and I was glad to see her in-depth consideration of orthorexia in the latest issue of Today’s Dietitian.

Orthorexia is a complex compulsion, often more difficult to address than other types of disordered eating because it is so often rooted in basically valuable efforts and intentions to eat healthfully and well. While anorexia put me in my most dire state of biological illness, I think overcoming orthorexia was in many ways a trickier challenge, because it was so hard to separate obsession and compulsion from the sincere value I place on mindful, conscious, health-supportive eating.

Dennett delves into all of the difficulties and complexities of addressing this syndrome, including the fact that, as of yet, there’s no consensus on a definition and no validated assessment tool. “Eating doesn’t become pathological until it becomes entangled with obsessive thinking, compulsive and ritualistic behavior, and self-punishment,” she notes, which echoed my own intuitive sense of what orthorexia is when I encounter it in my own work.

She also interviews Emily Fossenbeck, who is doing really important work in speaking up about her own experience with orthorexia and raising awareness on social media. Emily’s struggle with orthorexia began with elimination diets (a phenomenon I’ve observed often). She’s quoted saying,

“I only felt worse and worse but kept chasing this magical unicorn of the ‘perfect diet.’ The anxiety I felt about food was suffocating and totally overwhelmed most other parts of my life. I was afraid to eat out or travel or—the worst of it—to eat a normal meal with my family. I had to have complete control of everything I was eating.”

I’ve often seen the question posed of what distinguishes orthorexia from healthful eating, and I’ve written about it myself. I think the answer might be that anxiety and feeling of suffocation that Fossenbeck mentions. A particular kind of health-conscious eating style might be either self-caring or destructive; the difference rests in the mentality and subjective emotional experience of the individual in question.

I suspect that the dietetic and mental health treatment communities are just at the start of understanding this complicated expression of disordered eating. For now, the best we can hope for is more awareness, more observation and research, and an ongoing effort to enlist more people who have struggled with orthorexia to honestly share their stories. I’ve been giving lots of thought to recovery with NEDA week on the horizon, and this is nice motivation for me to use my voice.

5. I mentioned last week that the heart chakra and heart-opening are on my mind this month. With loving-kindness in mind, a sweet list to wrap up with.

Happy Sunday morning, everyone. I look forward to checking in with a hearty, colorful new winter salad recipe in a couple days.

xo

 The post Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 published first on

[bluewatsons]

Sarah Jones, J.D. Vance, the False Prophet of Blue America, The New Republic (November 17, 2016)

The bestselling author of "Hillbilly Elegy" has emerged as the liberal media's favorite white trash–splainer. But he is offering all the wrong lessons.

J.D. Vance is the man of the hour, maybe the year. His memoir Hillbilly Elegy is a New York Times bestseller, acclaimed for its colorful and at times moving account of life in a dysfunctional clan of eastern Kentucky natives. It has received positive reviews across the board, with the Times calling it “a compassionate, discerning sociological analysis of the white underclass.” In the rise of Donald Trump, it has become a kind of Rosetta Stone for blue America to interpret that most mysterious of species: the economically precarious white voter.

Vance’s influence has been everywhere this campaign season, shaping our conception of what motivates these voters. And it is already playing a role in how liberals are responding to Donald Trump’s victory in the presidential election, which was accomplished in part by a defection of downscale whites from the Democratic Party. Appalachia overwhelmingly voted for Trump, and Vance has since emerged as one of the media’s favorite Trump explainers. The problem is that he is a flawed guide to this world, and there is a danger that Democrats are learning all the wrong lessons from the election.

Elegy is little more than a list of myths about welfare queens repackaged as a primer on the white working class. Vance’s central argument is that hillbillies themselves are to blame for their troubles. “Our religion has changed,” he laments, to a version “heavy on emotional rhetoric” and “light on the kind of social support” that he needed as a child. He also faults “a peculiar crisis of masculinity.” This brave new world, in sore need of that old time religion and manly men, is apparently to blame for everything from his mother’s drug addiction to the region’s economic crisis.

“We spend our way to the poorhouse,” he writes. “We buy giant TVs and iPads. Our children wear nice clothes thanks to high-interest credit cards and payday loans. We purchase homes we don’t need, refinance them for more spending money, and declare bankruptcy, often leaving them full of garbage in our wake. Thrift is inimical to our being.”

And he isn’t interested in government solutions. All hillbillies need to do is work hard, maybe do a stint in the military, and they can end up at Yale Law School like he did. “Public policy can help,” he writes, “but there is no government that can fix these problems for us … it starts when we stop blaming Obama or Bush or faceless companies and ask ourselves what we can do to make things better.”

Set aside the anti-government bromides that could have been ripped from a random page of National Review, where Vance is a regular contributor. There is a more sinister thesis at work here, one that dovetails with many liberal views of Appalachia and its problems. Vance assures readers that an emphasis on Appalachia’s economic insecurity is “incomplete” without a critical examination of its culture. His great takeaway from life in America’s underclass is: Pull up those bootstraps. Don’t question elites. Don’t ask if they erred by granting people mortgages and lines of credit they couldn’t afford to repay. Don’t call it what it is—corporate deception—or admit that it plunged this country into one of the worst economic crises it’s ever experienced.

No wonder Peter Thiel, the almost comically evil Silicon Valley libertarian, endorsed the book. (Vance also works for Thiel’s Mithril Capital Management.) The question is why so many liberals are doing the same.

In many ways, I should appreciate Elegy. I grew up poor on the border of southwest Virginia and east Tennessee. My parents are the sort of god-fearing hard workers that conservatives like Vance fetishize. I attended an out-of-state Christian college thanks to scholarships, and had to raise money to even buy a plane ticket to attend grad school. My rare genetic disease didn’t get diagnosed until I was 21 because I lacked consistent access to health care. I’m one of the few members of my high school class who earned a bachelor’s degree, one of the fewer still who earned a master’s degree, and one of maybe three or four who left the area for good.

But unlike Vance, I look at my home and see a region abandoned by the government elected to serve it. My public high school didn’t have enough textbooks and half our science lab equipment didn’t work. Some of my classmates did not have enough to eat; others wore the same clothes every day. Sometimes this happened because their addict parents spent money on drugs. But the state was no help here either. Its solution to our opioid epidemic has been incarceration, not rehabilitation. Addicts with additional psychiatric conditions are particularly vulnerable. There aren’t enough beds in psychiatric hospitals to serve the region—the same reason Virginia State Sen. Creigh Deeds (D) nearly died at the hands of his mentally ill son in 2013.

And then there is welfare. In Elegy, Vance complains about hillbillies who he believes purchased cellphones with welfare funds. But data makes it clear that our current welfare system is too limited to lift depressed regions out of poverty.

Kathryn Edin and H. Luke Shaefer reported earlier this year that the number of families surviving on $2 a day grew by 130 percent between 1996 and 2011. Blacks and Latinos are still disproportionately more likely to live under the poverty line, but predominately white Appalachia hasn’t been spared the scourge either. And while Obamacare has significantly reduced the number of uninsured Americans, its premiums are still often expensive and are set to rise. Organizations like Remote Access Medical (RAM) have been forced to make up the difference: Back home, people start lining up at 4 a.m. for a chance to access RAM’s free healthcare clinics. From 2007 to 2011, the lifespans of eastern Kentucky women declined by 13 months even as they rose for women in the rest of the country.

According to the Economic Innovation Group, my home congressional district—Virginia’s Ninth—is one of the poorestin the country. Fifty-one percent of adults are unemployed; 19 percent lack a high school diploma. EIG estimates that fully half of its 722,810 residents are in economic distress.

As I noted in Scalawag earlier this year, the Ninth is not an outlier for the region. On EIG’s interactive map, central Appalachia is a sea of distress. If you are born where I grew up, you have to travel hundreds of miles to find a prosperous America. How do you get off the dole when there’s not enough work to go around? Frequently, you don’t. Until you lose your benefits entirely: The Temporary Assistance for Needy Families program (TANF), passed by Bill Clinton and supported by Hillary Clinton, boots parents off welfare if they’re out of work.

At various points in this election cycle, liberal journalists havesounded quite a bit like Vance. “‘Economic anxiety’ as a campaign issue has always been a red herring,” Kevin Drum declared in Mother Jones. “If you want to get to the root of this white anxiety, you have to go to its roots. It’s cultural, not economic.”

At Vox, Dylan Matthews argued that while Trump voters deserved to be taken seriously, most were actually fairly well-off, with a median household income of $72,000. The influence of economic anxiety, he concluded, had been exaggerated.

Neither Drum or Matthews accounted for regional disparities in white poverty rates, and they failed to anticipate how those disparities would impact the election. Trump supporters were wealthier than Clinton supporters overall, but Trump’s victories in battleground states like Wisconsin, Michigan, and Ohio correlated to high foreclosure rates. In Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, and Michigan, Trump outperformed Mitt Romney with the white working class and flipped certain strategic counties red.

But Matthews was right in at least one sense: Trump Country has always been bigger than Appalachia and the white working class itself. You just wouldn’t know this from reading the news.

In March, Trump won nearly 70 percent of the Republican primary vote in Virginia’s Buchanan County. At the time, it was his widest margin of victory, and no one seemed surprised that this deeply conservative and impoverished pocket in southwest Virginia’s coal country handed him such decisive success. And no one seemed to realize Buchanan County had once been a Democratic stronghold.

A glossy Wall Street Journal packagelabeled it “The Place That Wants Donald Trump The Most” and promised readers that understanding Buchanan County was key to understanding the “source” of Trump’s popularity. The Financial Times profiled a local young man who fled this dystopia for the University of Virginia; it titled the piece “The Boy Who Escaped Trump Country.” And then there was Bloomberg View: “Coal County is Desperate for Donald Trump.” (The same piece said the county seat, Grundy, “looks as if it fell into a crevice and got stuck.”)

And then Staten Island went to the polls. A full 82 percent of Staten Island Republicans voted to give Trump the party’s nomination, wresting the title of Trumpiest County away from Buchanan. The two locations have little in common aside from Trump. Staten Island, population 472,621, is New York City’s wealthiest borough. Its median household income is $70,295, a figure not far off from the figure Matthews cites as the median income of the average Trump supporter. Buchanan County, population 23,597, has a median household income of $27,328 and the highest unemployment rate in Virginia. Staten Island, then, tracks closer to the Trumpist norm, but it received a fraction of the coverage.

No one wrote escape narratives about Staten Island. Few plumbed the psyches of suburban Trumpists. And no one examined why Democratic Buchanan County had become Republican. Instead, the media class fixated on the spectacle of white trash Appalachia, with Vance as its representative-in-exile.

“A preoccupation with penalizing poor whites reveals an uneasytension between what Americans are taught to think the country promises—the dream of upward mobility—and the less appealing truth that class barriers almost invariably make that dream unobtainable,” Nancy Isenberg wrote in the preface to her book White Trash. If the system worked for you, you’re not likely to blame it for the plight of poor whites. Far easier instead to believe that poor whites are poor because they deserve to be.

But now we see the consequences of this class blindness. The media and the establishment figures who run the Democratic Party both had a responsibility to properly identify and indict the system’s failures. They abdicated that responsibility. Donald Trump took it up—if not always in the form of policy, then in his burn-it-all-down posture.

No analysis of Trumpism is complete without a reckoning of its white supremacy and misogyny. Appalachia is, like so many other places, a deeply racist and sexist place. It is not a coincidence that Trumpist bastions, from Buchanan County to Staten Island, are predominately white, or that Trump rode a tide of xenophobia to power. Economic hardship isn’t unique to white members of the working class, either. Blacks, Latinos, and Natives occupy a far more precarious economic position overall. White supremacy is indeed the overarching theme of Trumpism.

But that doesn’t mean we should repeat the establishment failures of this election cycle and minimize the influence of economic precarity. Trump is a racist and a sexist, but his victory is not due only to racism or sexism any more than it is due only to classism: He still won white women and a number of counties that had voted for Obama twice. This is not a simple story, and it never really has been.

We don’t need to normalize Trumpism or empathize with white supremacy to reach these voters. They weren’t destined to vote for Trump; many were Democratic voters. They aren’t destined to stay loyal to him in the future. To win them back, we must address their material concerns, and we can do that without coddling their prejudices. After all, America’s most famous progressive populist—Bernie Sanders—won many of the counties Clinton lost to Trump.

There’s danger ahead if Democrats don’t act quickly. The Traditionalist Worker’s Party has already announced plans for an outreach push in greater Appalachia. The American Nazi Party promoted “free health care for the white working class” in literature it distributed in Missoula, Montana, last Friday. If Democrats have any hope of establishing themselves as the populist alternative to Trump, they can’t allow American Nazis to fall to their left on health care for any population.

By electing Trump, my community has condemned itself to further suffering. The lines for RAM will get longer. Our schools will get poorer and our children hungrier. It will be one catastrophic tragedy out of the many a Trump presidency will generate. So yes, be angry with the white working class’s political choices. I certainly am; home will never feel like home again.

But don’t emulate Vance in your rage. Give the white working class the progressive populism it needs to survive, and invest in the areas the Democratic Party has neglected. Remember that bootstraps are for people with boots. And elegies are no use to the living.

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18

The first time self-soothing was explained to me, it was by a friend who had her hands full taking care of a new baby. Self-soothing, she said, is when a baby develops the capacity to calm his or herself down. It’s seen as being key to uninterrupted nights of sleep for parents, since it allows babies to get back to rest if they should happen to wake up during the night.

A little while later, when I was exploring resources on coping with depression and anxiety, I learned that there’s such a thing as adult self-soothing, too. It may be an especially important skill to develop if you identify as a sensitive person or you feel the impact of emotions very strongly.

Self-soothing practices can take all sorts of shapes and forms; they may take one out of time and place, like going for a walk or practicing yoga in a special part of the home, or they might be as simple as listening to a particular song, sipping tea, breathing deeply, praying, singing, humming, reading poetry out loud, or smelling an essential oil. These, anyway, are my own favorite ways to self-soothe.

Two years ago at this time, my anxiety was so bad that I often didn’t want to leave the house. I did leave, going about my business and trying to perform as much competence as I could muster, but I felt as if I was falling apart. I was so on edge, so irritable, and so unable to hang onto a sense of safety or security. It really scared me, much more than my depression ever had.

Many months of therapy later, and I’m in a different place. But this week in particular gave me new skills to be grateful for. A few situations came up that triggered my anxiety, and I reacted, but I was able to stay connected to a fundamental sense that things would be OK. I’m not exactly sure what to attribute this to: my meditation practice? Learning to pay attention to my breath? Slowing down? Learning to say “no”? Reconnecting?

The answer is that all of these things, coupled with time and patience, have helped. I’m also starting to understand that quelling anxiety creates muscle memory; if you do it often enough, you start to believe, consciously and unconsciously, that it’s possible, and then it starts to happen more readily.

I know that I may manage my anxiety for a long time and possibly live with it always, just as I know I’ll always have brushes with depression and may always periodically encounter certain ED-related urges. In writing these words today, though, I realize how surprisingly calm I feel about my anxiety, which is sweetly ironic.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not alarmed by the fact that I have anxiety, not scared of it. I’ve been given signs that I have some of the tools I need to manage it. Maybe I’ll need to expand or change up my toolkit at some point, but that’s OK: toolkits can grow along with us. For now, merely knowing that I can get centered even in the midst of anxious feelings or thoughts is a major shift, one that gives me hope and a sense of spaciousness.

As always, wishing everyone peace and grounding as we head out into a fresh week. Enjoy these tasty recipes and reading links.

Recipes

There’s a mushroom miso barley soup recipe in Power Plates that I’ve become pretty attached to, but I can never get enough soup recipes, and I’m loving Natasha’s version, which is infused with Italian herbs and seasonings.

Wish someone had made these sweet buckwheat crepes for me on Valentine’s Day! Or that I’d gone ahead and made them for myself

This is my kind of potato salad: roasted potatoes, dill, vegan bacon, creamy garlic mayo. Perfect vegan comfort food.

Writing about Hannah’s book on Friday has me thinking about the art of creating really good food in very little time. It’s something I’m still figuring out. Lisa is one of the people I turn to for inspiration in this area, and her easy green curry noodles are a perfect example of a super speedy, flavorful, filling meal.

I tend to have lousy luck when I’m baking exclusively with grain free flours (I do OK when they’re part of a blend that has some wheat flour or gluten free grain flours in it). I’m always impressed with the way that Lindsay works wonders with grain-free baking that’s also vegan-friendly, and I’m dying to try her easy vegan white cake.

Reads

1. In spite of spending a fair amount of time around doctors—and anticipating a year of clinical work on the horizon—I had never really given much thought to what it must be like for doctors to return to full time work after being treated for an illness, especially the illness that they themselves specialize in.

That’s exactly the process that breast cancer surgeon Liz O’Riordon finds herself in now. I was touched by The Atlantic‘s profile of her, in which she admits to having new emotional challenges on the job, including sensitivities to hear certain diagnoses spoken of in dire terms and heightened awareness when delivering news to patients. The article says,

She [Liz] also takes more care with her language, and cringes at the memory of comments that were meant to be encouraging but now seem glib and unsympathetic. “I used to say: You’re lucky it hasn’t spread. No one is lucky to have cancer,” she says. “I used to ask people: Are you happy to sign this consent form? No one is happy to have cancer. As a doctor, you may give bad news 10 times a day. Until you’ve been on the other side, you don’t realize that when you get bad news, you remember every single detail of that conversation.”

There’s a lot of pressure for doctors and medical personnel to remain transparent, cool, and objective at all times, but my own limited experience in a helping profession is that personal struggle often gives way to empathy that can enhance one’s capacities as a practitioner. I hope that O’Riordan can indeed follow through on her hope to speak out more openly about her illness and encourage other doctors to do so with her.

2. Also on the topic of medicine and healthcare, a physician examines the concept of agape as it relates to healthcare. Agape is the ancient Greek term for selfless love of humanity; it’s seen as transcending difference or circumstance, which distinguishes it from filial or erotic love. Pooja Gidwani, a hospitalist, writes,

To me, agape means having the fortitude not only to empathize with patients or to provide compassionate care but to also habitually understand that each patient’s reactions may stem from their physical or mental suffering, past or current. To develop the ability to connect on a more spiritual level with the sufferer’s emotions despite their behaviors to truly be a healer. To put oneself in the shoes of each individual, remembering that everyone we meet is a product of what life has created for them.

I can’t think of a more beautiful summation of how agape can animate medical practice.

3. In the wake of the tragedy in Florida this past week, Vox sat down with Gerry Griffith, a crisis counselor with over 30 years of experience, to ask questions about what’s needed in the aftermath of shocking losses. She offers a lot of practical, detailed perspective on how crisis counselors respond to different stages of trauma among the people they’re helping, and she also has important things to say about the importance of addressing peoples’ sense of powerlessness after these kinds of events.

When asked how she continues to do this challenging work, she says,

I had a mentor, early, early on that said doing this work is learning how to keep your heart open in hell. I know what hell looks, tastes, like, and smells like.

I think, for me, there are people in my life that I can talk to about this. I have a husband, he’s proud of me and he supports me. When I’m out there in Oklahoma City or out in New York, I can call him and I can talk about how the dog, what she’s doing today. Because he’s not there.

Somebody asked me the other day: ”How would you know when you’re done?” I said, “When I stop crying.” When I stop feeling, when I don’t cry, my heart has closed and I have to quit.

I thought it was impressive that Griffith’s barometer of being fit for the task of counseling is having a strong capacity to feel. Something I want to keep in mind, in my own small way, for my future work with clients.

4. I really like Carrie Dennett’s reporting, and I was glad to see her in-depth consideration of orthorexia in the latest issue of Today’s Dietitian.

Orthorexia is a complex compulsion, often more difficult to address than other types of disordered eating because it is so often rooted in basically valuable efforts and intentions to eat healthfully and well. While anorexia put me in my most dire state of biological illness, I think overcoming orthorexia was in many ways a trickier challenge, because it was so hard to separate obsession and compulsion from the sincere value I place on mindful, conscious, health-supportive eating.

Dennett delves into all of the difficulties and complexities of addressing this syndrome, including the fact that, as of yet, there’s no consensus on a definition and no validated assessment tool. “Eating doesn’t become pathological until it becomes entangled with obsessive thinking, compulsive and ritualistic behavior, and self-punishment,” she notes, which echoed my own intuitive sense of what orthorexia is when I encounter it in my own work.

She also interviews Emily Fossenbeck, who is doing really important work in speaking up about her own experience with orthorexia and raising awareness on social media. Emily’s struggle with orthorexia began with elimination diets (a phenomenon I’ve observed often). She’s quoted saying,

“I only felt worse and worse but kept chasing this magical unicorn of the ‘perfect diet.’ The anxiety I felt about food was suffocating and totally overwhelmed most other parts of my life. I was afraid to eat out or travel or—the worst of it—to eat a normal meal with my family. I had to have complete control of everything I was eating.”

I’ve often seen the question posed of what distinguishes orthorexia from healthful eating, and I’ve written about it myself. I think the answer might be that anxiety and feeling of suffocation that Fossenbeck mentions. A particular kind of health-conscious eating style might be either self-caring or destructive; the difference rests in the mentality and subjective emotional experience of the individual in question.

I suspect that the dietetic and mental health treatment communities are just at the start of understanding this complicated expression of disordered eating. For now, the best we can hope for is more awareness, more observation and research, and an ongoing effort to enlist more people who have struggled with orthorexia to honestly share their stories. I’ve been giving lots of thought to recovery with NEDA week on the horizon, and this is nice motivation for me to use my voice.

5. I mentioned last week that the heart chakra and heart-opening are on my mind this month. With loving-kindness in mind, a sweet list to wrap up with.

Happy Sunday morning, everyone. I look forward to checking in with a hearty, colorful new winter salad recipe in a couple days.

xo

 The post Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 published first on https://storeseapharmacy.tumblr.com

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18

The first time self-soothing was explained to me, it was by a friend who had her hands full taking care of a new baby. Self-soothing, she said, is when a baby develops the capacity to calm his or herself down. It’s seen as being key to uninterrupted nights of sleep for parents, since it allows babies to get back to rest if they should happen to wake up during the night.

A little while later, when I was exploring resources on coping with depression and anxiety, I learned that there’s such a thing as adult self-soothing, too. It may be an especially important skill to develop if you identify as a sensitive person or you feel the impact of emotions very strongly.

Self-soothing practices can take all sorts of shapes and forms; they may take one out of time and place, like going for a walk or practicing yoga in a special part of the home, or they might be as simple as listening to a particular song, sipping tea, breathing deeply, praying, singing, humming, reading poetry out loud, or smelling an essential oil. These, anyway, are my own favorite ways to self-soothe.

Two years ago at this time, my anxiety was so bad that I often didn’t want to leave the house. I did leave, going about my business and trying to perform as much competence as I could muster, but I felt as if I was falling apart. I was so on edge, so irritable, and so unable to hang onto a sense of safety or security. It really scared me, much more than my depression ever had.

Many months of therapy later, and I’m in a different place. But this week in particular gave me new skills to be grateful for. A few situations came up that triggered my anxiety, and I reacted, but I was able to stay connected to a fundamental sense that things would be OK. I’m not exactly sure what to attribute this to: my meditation practice? Learning to pay attention to my breath? Slowing down? Learning to say “no”? Reconnecting?

The answer is that all of these things, coupled with time and patience, have helped. I’m also starting to understand that quelling anxiety creates muscle memory; if you do it often enough, you start to believe, consciously and unconsciously, that it’s possible, and then it starts to happen more readily.

I know that I may manage my anxiety for a long time and possibly live with it always, just as I know I’ll always have brushes with depression and may always periodically encounter certain ED-related urges. In writing these words today, though, I realize how surprisingly calm I feel about my anxiety, which is sweetly ironic.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not alarmed by the fact that I have anxiety, not scared of it. I’ve been given signs that I have some of the tools I need to manage it. Maybe I’ll need to expand or change up my toolkit at some point, but that’s OK: toolkits can grow along with us. For now, merely knowing that I can get centered even in the midst of anxious feelings or thoughts is a major shift, one that gives me hope and a sense of spaciousness.

As always, wishing everyone peace and grounding as we head out into a fresh week. Enjoy these tasty recipes and reading links.

Recipes

There’s a mushroom miso barley soup recipe in Power Plates that I’ve become pretty attached to, but I can never get enough soup recipes, and I’m loving Natasha’s version, which is infused with Italian herbs and seasonings.

Wish someone had made these sweet buckwheat crepes for me on Valentine’s Day! Or that I’d gone ahead and made them for myself

This is my kind of potato salad: roasted potatoes, dill, vegan bacon, creamy garlic mayo. Perfect vegan comfort food.

Writing about Hannah’s book on Friday has me thinking about the art of creating really good food in very little time. It’s something I’m still figuring out. Lisa is one of the people I turn to for inspiration in this area, and her easy green curry noodles are a perfect example of a super speedy, flavorful, filling meal.

I tend to have lousy luck when I’m baking exclusively with grain free flours (I do OK when they’re part of a blend that has some wheat flour or gluten free grain flours in it). I’m always impressed with the way that Lindsay works wonders with grain-free baking that’s also vegan-friendly, and I’m dying to try her easy vegan white cake.

Reads

1. In spite of spending a fair amount of time around doctors—and anticipating a year of clinical work on the horizon—I had never really given much thought to what it must be like for doctors to return to full time work after being treated for an illness, especially the illness that they themselves specialize in.

That’s exactly the process that breast cancer surgeon Liz O’Riordon finds herself in now. I was touched by The Atlantic‘s profile of her, in which she admits to having new emotional challenges on the job, including sensitivities to hear certain diagnoses spoken of in dire terms and heightened awareness when delivering news to patients. The article says,

She [Liz] also takes more care with her language, and cringes at the memory of comments that were meant to be encouraging but now seem glib and unsympathetic. “I used to say: You’re lucky it hasn’t spread. No one is lucky to have cancer,” she says. “I used to ask people: Are you happy to sign this consent form? No one is happy to have cancer. As a doctor, you may give bad news 10 times a day. Until you’ve been on the other side, you don’t realize that when you get bad news, you remember every single detail of that conversation.”

There’s a lot of pressure for doctors and medical personnel to remain transparent, cool, and objective at all times, but my own limited experience in a helping profession is that personal struggle often gives way to empathy that can enhance one’s capacities as a practitioner. I hope that O’Riordan can indeed follow through on her hope to speak out more openly about her illness and encourage other doctors to do so with her.

2. Also on the topic of medicine and healthcare, a physician examines the concept of agape as it relates to healthcare. Agape is the ancient Greek term for selfless love of humanity; it’s seen as transcending difference or circumstance, which distinguishes it from filial or erotic love. Pooja Gidwani, a hospitalist, writes,

To me, agape means having the fortitude not only to empathize with patients or to provide compassionate care but to also habitually understand that each patient’s reactions may stem from their physical or mental suffering, past or current. To develop the ability to connect on a more spiritual level with the sufferer’s emotions despite their behaviors to truly be a healer. To put oneself in the shoes of each individual, remembering that everyone we meet is a product of what life has created for them.

I can’t think of a more beautiful summation of how agape can animate medical practice.

3. In the wake of the tragedy in Florida this past week, Vox sat down with Gerry Griffith, a crisis counselor with over 30 years of experience, to ask questions about what’s needed in the aftermath of shocking losses. She offers a lot of practical, detailed perspective on how crisis counselors respond to different stages of trauma among the people they’re helping, and she also has important things to say about the importance of addressing peoples’ sense of powerlessness after these kinds of events.

When asked how she continues to do this challenging work, she says,

I had a mentor, early, early on that said doing this work is learning how to keep your heart open in hell. I know what hell looks, tastes, like, and smells like.

I think, for me, there are people in my life that I can talk to about this. I have a husband, he’s proud of me and he supports me. When I’m out there in Oklahoma City or out in New York, I can call him and I can talk about how the dog, what she’s doing today. Because he’s not there.

Somebody asked me the other day: ”How would you know when you’re done?” I said, “When I stop crying.” When I stop feeling, when I don’t cry, my heart has closed and I have to quit.

I thought it was impressive that Griffith’s barometer of being fit for the task of counseling is having a strong capacity to feel. Something I want to keep in mind, in my own small way, for my future work with clients.

4. I really like Carrie Dennett’s reporting, and I was glad to see her in-depth consideration of orthorexia in the latest issue of Today’s Dietitian.

Orthorexia is a complex compulsion, often more difficult to address than other types of disordered eating because it is so often rooted in basically valuable efforts and intentions to eat healthfully and well. While anorexia put me in my most dire state of biological illness, I think overcoming orthorexia was in many ways a trickier challenge, because it was so hard to separate obsession and compulsion from the sincere value I place on mindful, conscious, health-supportive eating.

Dennett delves into all of the difficulties and complexities of addressing this syndrome, including the fact that, as of yet, there’s no consensus on a definition and no validated assessment tool. “Eating doesn’t become pathological until it becomes entangled with obsessive thinking, compulsive and ritualistic behavior, and self-punishment,” she notes, which echoed my own intuitive sense of what orthorexia is when I encounter it in my own work.

She also interviews Emily Fossenbeck, who is doing really important work in speaking up about her own experience with orthorexia and raising awareness on social media. Emily’s struggle with orthorexia began with elimination diets (a phenomenon I’ve observed often). She’s quoted saying,

“I only felt worse and worse but kept chasing this magical unicorn of the ‘perfect diet.’ The anxiety I felt about food was suffocating and totally overwhelmed most other parts of my life. I was afraid to eat out or travel or—the worst of it—to eat a normal meal with my family. I had to have complete control of everything I was eating.”

I’ve often seen the question posed of what distinguishes orthorexia from healthful eating, and I’ve written about it myself. I think the answer might be that anxiety and feeling of suffocation that Fossenbeck mentions. A particular kind of health-conscious eating style might be either self-caring or destructive; the difference rests in the mentality and subjective emotional experience of the individual in question.

I suspect that the dietetic and mental health treatment communities are just at the start of understanding this complicated expression of disordered eating. For now, the best we can hope for is more awareness, more observation and research, and an ongoing effort to enlist more people who have struggled with orthorexia to honestly share their stories. I’ve been giving lots of thought to recovery with NEDA week on the horizon, and this is nice motivation for me to use my voice.

5. I mentioned last week that the heart chakra and heart-opening are on my mind this month. With loving-kindness in mind, a sweet list to wrap up with.

Happy Sunday morning, everyone. I look forward to checking in with a hearty, colorful new winter salad recipe in a couple days.

xo

 The post Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 published first on https://storeseapharmacy.tumblr.com

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18

The first time self-soothing was explained to me, it was by a friend who had her hands full taking care of a new baby. Self-soothing, she said, is when a baby develops the capacity to calm his or herself down. It’s seen as being key to uninterrupted nights of sleep for parents, since it allows babies to get back to rest if they should happen to wake up during the night.

A little while later, when I was exploring resources on coping with depression and anxiety, I learned that there’s such a thing as adult self-soothing, too. It may be an especially important skill to develop if you identify as a sensitive person or you feel the impact of emotions very strongly.

Self-soothing practices can take all sorts of shapes and forms; they may take one out of time and place, like going for a walk or practicing yoga in a special part of the home, or they might be as simple as listening to a particular song, sipping tea, breathing deeply, praying, singing, humming, reading poetry out loud, or smelling an essential oil. These, anyway, are my own favorite ways to self-soothe.

Two years ago at this time, my anxiety was so bad that I often didn’t want to leave the house. I did leave, going about my business and trying to perform as much competence as I could muster, but I felt as if I was falling apart. I was so on edge, so irritable, and so unable to hang onto a sense of safety or security. It really scared me, much more than my depression ever had.

Many months of therapy later, and I’m in a different place. But this week in particular gave me new skills to be grateful for. A few situations came up that triggered my anxiety, and I reacted, but I was able to stay connected to a fundamental sense that things would be OK. I’m not exactly sure what to attribute this to: my meditation practice? Learning to pay attention to my breath? Slowing down? Learning to say “no”? Reconnecting?

The answer is that all of these things, coupled with time and patience, have helped. I’m also starting to understand that quelling anxiety creates muscle memory; if you do it often enough, you start to believe, consciously and unconsciously, that it’s possible, and then it starts to happen more readily.

I know that I may manage my anxiety for a long time and possibly live with it always, just as I know I’ll always have brushes with depression and may always periodically encounter certain ED-related urges. In writing these words today, though, I realize how surprisingly calm I feel about my anxiety, which is sweetly ironic.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not alarmed by the fact that I have anxiety, not scared of it. I’ve been given signs that I have some of the tools I need to manage it. Maybe I’ll need to expand or change up my toolkit at some point, but that’s OK: toolkits can grow along with us. For now, merely knowing that I can get centered even in the midst of anxious feelings or thoughts is a major shift, one that gives me hope and a sense of spaciousness.

As always, wishing everyone peace and grounding as we head out into a fresh week. Enjoy these tasty recipes and reading links.

Recipes

There’s a mushroom miso barley soup recipe in Power Plates that I’ve become pretty attached to, but I can never get enough soup recipes, and I’m loving Natasha’s version, which is infused with Italian herbs and seasonings.

Wish someone had made these sweet buckwheat crepes for me on Valentine’s Day! Or that I’d gone ahead and made them for myself

This is my kind of potato salad: roasted potatoes, dill, vegan bacon, creamy garlic mayo. Perfect vegan comfort food.

Writing about Hannah’s book on Friday has me thinking about the art of creating really good food in very little time. It’s something I’m still figuring out. Lisa is one of the people I turn to for inspiration in this area, and her easy green curry noodles are a perfect example of a super speedy, flavorful, filling meal.

I tend to have lousy luck when I’m baking exclusively with grain free flours (I do OK when they’re part of a blend that has some wheat flour or gluten free grain flours in it). I’m always impressed with the way that Lindsay works wonders with grain-free baking that’s also vegan-friendly, and I’m dying to try her easy vegan white cake.

Reads

1. In spite of spending a fair amount of time around doctors—and anticipating a year of clinical work on the horizon—I had never really given much thought to what it must be like for doctors to return to full time work after being treated for an illness, especially the illness that they themselves specialize in.

That’s exactly the process that breast cancer surgeon Liz O’Riordon finds herself in now. I was touched by The Atlantic‘s profile of her, in which she admits to having new emotional challenges on the job, including sensitivities to hear certain diagnoses spoken of in dire terms and heightened awareness when delivering news to patients. The article says,

She [Liz] also takes more care with her language, and cringes at the memory of comments that were meant to be encouraging but now seem glib and unsympathetic. “I used to say: You’re lucky it hasn’t spread. No one is lucky to have cancer,” she says. “I used to ask people: Are you happy to sign this consent form? No one is happy to have cancer. As a doctor, you may give bad news 10 times a day. Until you’ve been on the other side, you don’t realize that when you get bad news, you remember every single detail of that conversation.”

There’s a lot of pressure for doctors and medical personnel to remain transparent, cool, and objective at all times, but my own limited experience in a helping profession is that personal struggle often gives way to empathy that can enhance one’s capacities as a practitioner. I hope that O’Riordan can indeed follow through on her hope to speak out more openly about her illness and encourage other doctors to do so with her.

2. Also on the topic of medicine and healthcare, a physician examines the concept of agape as it relates to healthcare. Agape is the ancient Greek term for selfless love of humanity; it’s seen as transcending difference or circumstance, which distinguishes it from filial or erotic love. Pooja Gidwani, a hospitalist, writes,

To me, agape means having the fortitude not only to empathize with patients or to provide compassionate care but to also habitually understand that each patient’s reactions may stem from their physical or mental suffering, past or current. To develop the ability to connect on a more spiritual level with the sufferer’s emotions despite their behaviors to truly be a healer. To put oneself in the shoes of each individual, remembering that everyone we meet is a product of what life has created for them.

I can’t think of a more beautiful summation of how agape can animate medical practice.

3. In the wake of the tragedy in Florida this past week, Vox sat down with Gerry Griffith, a crisis counselor with over 30 years of experience, to ask questions about what’s needed in the aftermath of shocking losses. She offers a lot of practical, detailed perspective on how crisis counselors respond to different stages of trauma among the people they’re helping, and she also has important things to say about the importance of addressing peoples’ sense of powerlessness after these kinds of events.

When asked how she continues to do this challenging work, she says,

I had a mentor, early, early on that said doing this work is learning how to keep your heart open in hell. I know what hell looks, tastes, like, and smells like.

I think, for me, there are people in my life that I can talk to about this. I have a husband, he’s proud of me and he supports me. When I’m out there in Oklahoma City or out in New York, I can call him and I can talk about how the dog, what she’s doing today. Because he’s not there.

Somebody asked me the other day: ”How would you know when you’re done?” I said, “When I stop crying.” When I stop feeling, when I don’t cry, my heart has closed and I have to quit.

I thought it was impressive that Griffith’s barometer of being fit for the task of counseling is having a strong capacity to feel. Something I want to keep in mind, in my own small way, for my future work with clients.

4. I really like Carrie Dennett’s reporting, and I was glad to see her in-depth consideration of orthorexia in the latest issue of Today’s Dietitian.

Orthorexia is a complex compulsion, often more difficult to address than other types of disordered eating because it is so often rooted in basically valuable efforts and intentions to eat healthfully and well. While anorexia put me in my most dire state of biological illness, I think overcoming orthorexia was in many ways a trickier challenge, because it was so hard to separate obsession and compulsion from the sincere value I place on mindful, conscious, health-supportive eating.

Dennett delves into all of the difficulties and complexities of addressing this syndrome, including the fact that, as of yet, there’s no consensus on a definition and no validated assessment tool. “Eating doesn’t become pathological until it becomes entangled with obsessive thinking, compulsive and ritualistic behavior, and self-punishment,” she notes, which echoed my own intuitive sense of what orthorexia is when I encounter it in my own work.

She also interviews Emily Fossenbeck, who is doing really important work in speaking up about her own experience with orthorexia and raising awareness on social media. Emily’s struggle with orthorexia began with elimination diets (a phenomenon I’ve observed often). She’s quoted saying,

“I only felt worse and worse but kept chasing this magical unicorn of the ‘perfect diet.’ The anxiety I felt about food was suffocating and totally overwhelmed most other parts of my life. I was afraid to eat out or travel or—the worst of it—to eat a normal meal with my family. I had to have complete control of everything I was eating.”

I’ve often seen the question posed of what distinguishes orthorexia from healthful eating, and I’ve written about it myself. I think the answer might be that anxiety and feeling of suffocation that Fossenbeck mentions. A particular kind of health-conscious eating style might be either self-caring or destructive; the difference rests in the mentality and subjective emotional experience of the individual in question.

I suspect that the dietetic and mental health treatment communities are just at the start of understanding this complicated expression of disordered eating. For now, the best we can hope for is more awareness, more observation and research, and an ongoing effort to enlist more people who have struggled with orthorexia to honestly share their stories. I’ve been giving lots of thought to recovery with NEDA week on the horizon, and this is nice motivation for me to use my voice.

5. I mentioned last week that the heart chakra and heart-opening are on my mind this month. With loving-kindness in mind, a sweet list to wrap up with.

Happy Sunday morning, everyone. I look forward to checking in with a hearty, colorful new winter salad recipe in a couple days.

xo

 The post Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 published first on

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18

The first time self-soothing was explained to me, it was by a friend who had her hands full taking care of a new baby. Self-soothing, she said, is when a baby develops the capacity to calm his or herself down. It’s seen as being key to uninterrupted nights of sleep for parents, since it allows babies to get back to rest if they should happen to wake up during the night.

A little while later, when I was exploring resources on coping with depression and anxiety, I learned that there’s such a thing as adult self-soothing, too. It may be an especially important skill to develop if you identify as a sensitive person or you feel the impact of emotions very strongly.

Self-soothing practices can take all sorts of shapes and forms; they may take one out of time and place, like going for a walk or practicing yoga in a special part of the home, or they might be as simple as listening to a particular song, sipping tea, breathing deeply, praying, singing, humming, reading poetry out loud, or smelling an essential oil. These, anyway, are my own favorite ways to self-soothe.

Two years ago at this time, my anxiety was so bad that I often didn’t want to leave the house. I did leave, going about my business and trying to perform as much competence as I could muster, but I felt as if I was falling apart. I was so on edge, so irritable, and so unable to hang onto a sense of safety or security. It really scared me, much more than my depression ever had.

Many months of therapy later, and I’m in a different place. But this week in particular gave me new skills to be grateful for. A few situations came up that triggered my anxiety, and I reacted, but I was able to stay connected to a fundamental sense that things would be OK. I’m not exactly sure what to attribute this to: my meditation practice? Learning to pay attention to my breath? Slowing down? Learning to say “no”? Reconnecting?

The answer is that all of these things, coupled with time and patience, have helped. I’m also starting to understand that quelling anxiety creates muscle memory; if you do it often enough, you start to believe, consciously and unconsciously, that it’s possible, and then it starts to happen more readily.

I know that I may manage my anxiety for a long time and possibly live with it always, just as I know I’ll always have brushes with depression and may always periodically encounter certain ED-related urges. In writing these words today, though, I realize how surprisingly calm I feel about my anxiety, which is sweetly ironic.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not alarmed by the fact that I have anxiety, not scared of it. I’ve been given signs that I have some of the tools I need to manage it. Maybe I’ll need to expand or change up my toolkit at some point, but that’s OK: toolkits can grow along with us. For now, merely knowing that I can get centered even in the midst of anxious feelings or thoughts is a major shift, one that gives me hope and a sense of spaciousness.

As always, wishing everyone peace and grounding as we head out into a fresh week. Enjoy these tasty recipes and reading links.

Recipes

There’s a mushroom miso barley soup recipe in Power Plates that I’ve become pretty attached to, but I can never get enough soup recipes, and I’m loving Natasha’s version, which is infused with Italian herbs and seasonings.

Wish someone had made these sweet buckwheat crepes for me on Valentine’s Day! Or that I’d gone ahead and made them for myself

This is my kind of potato salad: roasted potatoes, dill, vegan bacon, creamy garlic mayo. Perfect vegan comfort food.

Writing about Hannah’s book on Friday has me thinking about the art of creating really good food in very little time. It’s something I’m still figuring out. Lisa is one of the people I turn to for inspiration in this area, and her easy green curry noodles are a perfect example of a super speedy, flavorful, filling meal.

I tend to have lousy luck when I’m baking exclusively with grain free flours (I do OK when they’re part of a blend that has some wheat flour or gluten free grain flours in it). I’m always impressed with the way that Lindsay works wonders with grain-free baking that’s also vegan-friendly, and I’m dying to try her easy vegan white cake.

Reads

1. In spite of spending a fair amount of time around doctors—and anticipating a year of clinical work on the horizon—I had never really given much thought to what it must be like for doctors to return to full time work after being treated for an illness, especially the illness that they themselves specialize in.

That’s exactly the process that breast cancer surgeon Liz O’Riordon finds herself in now. I was touched by The Atlantic‘s profile of her, in which she admits to having new emotional challenges on the job, including sensitivities to hear certain diagnoses spoken of in dire terms and heightened awareness when delivering news to patients. The article says,

She [Liz] also takes more care with her language, and cringes at the memory of comments that were meant to be encouraging but now seem glib and unsympathetic. “I used to say: You’re lucky it hasn’t spread. No one is lucky to have cancer,” she says. “I used to ask people: Are you happy to sign this consent form? No one is happy to have cancer. As a doctor, you may give bad news 10 times a day. Until you’ve been on the other side, you don’t realize that when you get bad news, you remember every single detail of that conversation.”

There’s a lot of pressure for doctors and medical personnel to remain transparent, cool, and objective at all times, but my own limited experience in a helping profession is that personal struggle often gives way to empathy that can enhance one’s capacities as a practitioner. I hope that O’Riordan can indeed follow through on her hope to speak out more openly about her illness and encourage other doctors to do so with her.

2. Also on the topic of medicine and healthcare, a physician examines the concept of agape as it relates to healthcare. Agape is the ancient Greek term for selfless love of humanity; it’s seen as transcending difference or circumstance, which distinguishes it from filial or erotic love. Pooja Gidwani, a hospitalist, writes,

To me, agape means having the fortitude not only to empathize with patients or to provide compassionate care but to also habitually understand that each patient’s reactions may stem from their physical or mental suffering, past or current. To develop the ability to connect on a more spiritual level with the sufferer’s emotions despite their behaviors to truly be a healer. To put oneself in the shoes of each individual, remembering that everyone we meet is a product of what life has created for them.

I can’t think of a more beautiful summation of how agape can animate medical practice.

3. In the wake of the tragedy in Florida this past week, Vox sat down with Gerry Griffith, a crisis counselor with over 30 years of experience, to ask questions about what’s needed in the aftermath of shocking losses. She offers a lot of practical, detailed perspective on how crisis counselors respond to different stages of trauma among the people they’re helping, and she also has important things to say about the importance of addressing peoples’ sense of powerlessness after these kinds of events.

When asked how she continues to do this challenging work, she says,

I had a mentor, early, early on that said doing this work is learning how to keep your heart open in hell. I know what hell looks, tastes, like, and smells like.

I think, for me, there are people in my life that I can talk to about this. I have a husband, he’s proud of me and he supports me. When I’m out there in Oklahoma City or out in New York, I can call him and I can talk about how the dog, what she’s doing today. Because he’s not there.

Somebody asked me the other day: ”How would you know when you’re done?” I said, “When I stop crying.” When I stop feeling, when I don’t cry, my heart has closed and I have to quit.

I thought it was impressive that Griffith’s barometer of being fit for the task of counseling is having a strong capacity to feel. Something I want to keep in mind, in my own small way, for my future work with clients.

4. I really like Carrie Dennett’s reporting, and I was glad to see her in-depth consideration of orthorexia in the latest issue of Today’s Dietitian.

Orthorexia is a complex compulsion, often more difficult to address than other types of disordered eating because it is so often rooted in basically valuable efforts and intentions to eat healthfully and well. While anorexia put me in my most dire state of biological illness, I think overcoming orthorexia was in many ways a trickier challenge, because it was so hard to separate obsession and compulsion from the sincere value I place on mindful, conscious, health-supportive eating.

Dennett delves into all of the difficulties and complexities of addressing this syndrome, including the fact that, as of yet, there’s no consensus on a definition and no validated assessment tool. “Eating doesn’t become pathological until it becomes entangled with obsessive thinking, compulsive and ritualistic behavior, and self-punishment,” she notes, which echoed my own intuitive sense of what orthorexia is when I encounter it in my own work.

She also interviews Emily Fossenbeck, who is doing really important work in speaking up about her own experience with orthorexia and raising awareness on social media. Emily’s struggle with orthorexia began with elimination diets (a phenomenon I’ve observed often). She’s quoted saying,

“I only felt worse and worse but kept chasing this magical unicorn of the ‘perfect diet.’ The anxiety I felt about food was suffocating and totally overwhelmed most other parts of my life. I was afraid to eat out or travel or—the worst of it—to eat a normal meal with my family. I had to have complete control of everything I was eating.”

I’ve often seen the question posed of what distinguishes orthorexia from healthful eating, and I’ve written about it myself. I think the answer might be that anxiety and feeling of suffocation that Fossenbeck mentions. A particular kind of health-conscious eating style might be either self-caring or destructive; the difference rests in the mentality and subjective emotional experience of the individual in question.

I suspect that the dietetic and mental health treatment communities are just at the start of understanding this complicated expression of disordered eating. For now, the best we can hope for is more awareness, more observation and research, and an ongoing effort to enlist more people who have struggled with orthorexia to honestly share their stories. I’ve been giving lots of thought to recovery with NEDA week on the horizon, and this is nice motivation for me to use my voice.

5. I mentioned last week that the heart chakra and heart-opening are on my mind this month. With loving-kindness in mind, a sweet list to wrap up with.

Happy Sunday morning, everyone. I look forward to checking in with a hearty, colorful new winter salad recipe in a couple days.

xo

 The post Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 published first on

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18

The first time self-soothing was explained to me, it was by a friend who had her hands full taking care of a new baby. Self-soothing, she said, is when a baby develops the capacity to calm his or herself down. It’s seen as being key to uninterrupted nights of sleep for parents, since it allows babies to get back to rest if they should happen to wake up during the night.

A little while later, when I was exploring resources on coping with depression and anxiety, I learned that there’s such a thing as adult self-soothing, too. It may be an especially important skill to develop if you identify as a sensitive person or you feel the impact of emotions very strongly.

Self-soothing practices can take all sorts of shapes and forms; they may take one out of time and place, like going for a walk or practicing yoga in a special part of the home, or they might be as simple as listening to a particular song, sipping tea, breathing deeply, praying, singing, humming, reading poetry out loud, or smelling an essential oil. These, anyway, are my own favorite ways to self-soothe.

Two years ago at this time, my anxiety was so bad that I often didn’t want to leave the house. I did leave, going about my business and trying to perform as much competence as I could muster, but I felt as if I was falling apart. I was so on edge, so irritable, and so unable to hang onto a sense of safety or security. It really scared me, much more than my depression ever had.

Many months of therapy later, and I’m in a different place. But this week in particular gave me new skills to be grateful for. A few situations came up that triggered my anxiety, and I reacted, but I was able to stay connected to a fundamental sense that things would be OK. I’m not exactly sure what to attribute this to: my meditation practice? Learning to pay attention to my breath? Slowing down? Learning to say “no”? Reconnecting?

The answer is that all of these things, coupled with time and patience, have helped. I’m also starting to understand that quelling anxiety creates muscle memory; if you do it often enough, you start to believe, consciously and unconsciously, that it’s possible, and then it starts to happen more readily.

I know that I may manage my anxiety for a long time and possibly live with it always, just as I know I’ll always have brushes with depression and may always periodically encounter certain ED-related urges. In writing these words today, though, I realize how surprisingly calm I feel about my anxiety, which is sweetly ironic.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not alarmed by the fact that I have anxiety, not scared of it. I’ve been given signs that I have some of the tools I need to manage it. Maybe I’ll need to expand or change up my toolkit at some point, but that’s OK: toolkits can grow along with us. For now, merely knowing that I can get centered even in the midst of anxious feelings or thoughts is a major shift, one that gives me hope and a sense of spaciousness.

As always, wishing everyone peace and grounding as we head out into a fresh week. Enjoy these tasty recipes and reading links.

Recipes

There’s a mushroom miso barley soup recipe in Power Plates that I’ve become pretty attached to, but I can never get enough soup recipes, and I’m loving Natasha’s version, which is infused with Italian herbs and seasonings.

Wish someone had made these sweet buckwheat crepes for me on Valentine’s Day! Or that I’d gone ahead and made them for myself

This is my kind of potato salad: roasted potatoes, dill, vegan bacon, creamy garlic mayo. Perfect vegan comfort food.

Writing about Hannah’s book on Friday has me thinking about the art of creating really good food in very little time. It’s something I’m still figuring out. Lisa is one of the people I turn to for inspiration in this area, and her easy green curry noodles are a perfect example of a super speedy, flavorful, filling meal.

I tend to have lousy luck when I’m baking exclusively with grain free flours (I do OK when they’re part of a blend that has some wheat flour or gluten free grain flours in it). I’m always impressed with the way that Lindsay works wonders with grain-free baking that’s also vegan-friendly, and I’m dying to try her easy vegan white cake.

Reads

1. In spite of spending a fair amount of time around doctors—and anticipating a year of clinical work on the horizon—I had never really given much thought to what it must be like for doctors to return to full time work after being treated for an illness, especially the illness that they themselves specialize in.

That’s exactly the process that breast cancer surgeon Liz O’Riordon finds herself in now. I was touched by The Atlantic‘s profile of her, in which she admits to having new emotional challenges on the job, including sensitivities to hear certain diagnoses spoken of in dire terms and heightened awareness when delivering news to patients. The article says,

She [Liz] also takes more care with her language, and cringes at the memory of comments that were meant to be encouraging but now seem glib and unsympathetic. “I used to say: You’re lucky it hasn’t spread. No one is lucky to have cancer,” she says. “I used to ask people: Are you happy to sign this consent form? No one is happy to have cancer. As a doctor, you may give bad news 10 times a day. Until you’ve been on the other side, you don’t realize that when you get bad news, you remember every single detail of that conversation.”

There’s a lot of pressure for doctors and medical personnel to remain transparent, cool, and objective at all times, but my own limited experience in a helping profession is that personal struggle often gives way to empathy that can enhance one’s capacities as a practitioner. I hope that O’Riordan can indeed follow through on her hope to speak out more openly about her illness and encourage other doctors to do so with her.

2. Also on the topic of medicine and healthcare, a physician examines the concept of agape as it relates to healthcare. Agape is the ancient Greek term for selfless love of humanity; it’s seen as transcending difference or circumstance, which distinguishes it from filial or erotic love. Pooja Gidwani, a hospitalist, writes,

To me, agape means having the fortitude not only to empathize with patients or to provide compassionate care but to also habitually understand that each patient’s reactions may stem from their physical or mental suffering, past or current. To develop the ability to connect on a more spiritual level with the sufferer’s emotions despite their behaviors to truly be a healer. To put oneself in the shoes of each individual, remembering that everyone we meet is a product of what life has created for them.

I can’t think of a more beautiful summation of how agape can animate medical practice.

3. In the wake of the tragedy in Florida this past week, Vox sat down with Gerry Griffith, a crisis counselor with over 30 years of experience, to ask questions about what’s needed in the aftermath of shocking losses. She offers a lot of practical, detailed perspective on how crisis counselors respond to different stages of trauma among the people they’re helping, and she also has important things to say about the importance of addressing peoples’ sense of powerlessness after these kinds of events.

When asked how she continues to do this challenging work, she says,

I had a mentor, early, early on that said doing this work is learning how to keep your heart open in hell. I know what hell looks, tastes, like, and smells like.

I think, for me, there are people in my life that I can talk to about this. I have a husband, he’s proud of me and he supports me. When I’m out there in Oklahoma City or out in New York, I can call him and I can talk about how the dog, what she’s doing today. Because he’s not there.

Somebody asked me the other day: ”How would you know when you’re done?” I said, “When I stop crying.” When I stop feeling, when I don’t cry, my heart has closed and I have to quit.

I thought it was impressive that Griffith’s barometer of being fit for the task of counseling is having a strong capacity to feel. Something I want to keep in mind, in my own small way, for my future work with clients.

4. I really like Carrie Dennett’s reporting, and I was glad to see her in-depth consideration of orthorexia in the latest issue of Today’s Dietitian.

Orthorexia is a complex compulsion, often more difficult to address than other types of disordered eating because it is so often rooted in basically valuable efforts and intentions to eat healthfully and well. While anorexia put me in my most dire state of biological illness, I think overcoming orthorexia was in many ways a trickier challenge, because it was so hard to separate obsession and compulsion from the sincere value I place on mindful, conscious, health-supportive eating.

Dennett delves into all of the difficulties and complexities of addressing this syndrome, including the fact that, as of yet, there’s no consensus on a definition and no validated assessment tool. “Eating doesn’t become pathological until it becomes entangled with obsessive thinking, compulsive and ritualistic behavior, and self-punishment,” she notes, which echoed my own intuitive sense of what orthorexia is when I encounter it in my own work.

She also interviews Emily Fossenbeck, who is doing really important work in speaking up about her own experience with orthorexia and raising awareness on social media. Emily’s struggle with orthorexia began with elimination diets (a phenomenon I’ve observed often). She’s quoted saying,

“I only felt worse and worse but kept chasing this magical unicorn of the ‘perfect diet.’ The anxiety I felt about food was suffocating and totally overwhelmed most other parts of my life. I was afraid to eat out or travel or—the worst of it—to eat a normal meal with my family. I had to have complete control of everything I was eating.”

I’ve often seen the question posed of what distinguishes orthorexia from healthful eating, and I’ve written about it myself. I think the answer might be that anxiety and feeling of suffocation that Fossenbeck mentions. A particular kind of health-conscious eating style might be either self-caring or destructive; the difference rests in the mentality and subjective emotional experience of the individual in question.

I suspect that the dietetic and mental health treatment communities are just at the start of understanding this complicated expression of disordered eating. For now, the best we can hope for is more awareness, more observation and research, and an ongoing effort to enlist more people who have struggled with orthorexia to honestly share their stories. I’ve been giving lots of thought to recovery with NEDA week on the horizon, and this is nice motivation for me to use my voice.

5. I mentioned last week that the heart chakra and heart-opening are on my mind this month. With loving-kindness in mind, a sweet list to wrap up with.

Happy Sunday morning, everyone. I look forward to checking in with a hearty, colorful new winter salad recipe in a couple days.

xo

 The post Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 2.18.18 published first on