#miserable and between horrible thoughts and self harm and everything I’m keeping to myself I am just thinking about how this is so bitter

[ourloveisforthelovely]

Angel (one shot)

Harry Potter Marauders Era 

Request  helloooo can i ask for like a quick regulus x reader oneshot where the reader sings and regulus hears her voice and basically falls in love with it but he didnt see her face so he just comes back everyday to the same place in the hope of listening to her singing and seeing her face this time? this sounds specific i know but i feel like some soft reggie is all i need now 😭

Pairings: Regulus Black x Reader 

Rating: M- mention of self harm 

________

Suffocating… that was the best word that Regulus could use to describe his life. After joining up with the death eaters at the lovely age of 16, Regulus had quickly grown to regret his decision. Anytime that the dark mark began to burn in the slightest, Regulus found himself dying for an excuse not to go. There was, however, not one...at least nothing in Lord Voldemort’s eyes that would be “good enough.” 

On the outside, Regulus had to keep his smooth and reserved demeanor. It didn’t matter on the inside how much he was screaming. No one cared. The people that did know what he was doing continued to go on and on about how he was doing “the right thing, the noble thing.” 

It was 7:00pm and Regulus found himself running down a quiet hallway. He had to get out of the Slytherin common room. He had to get away from Evan Rosier and Barty Crouch Jr. They had been so gleeful over a muggle that had been murdered the night before. Neither seemed to care about this person nor the family that they left behind. Regulus, when the deed was taking place, didn’t care. He stood stony faced as the man begged for his life. The moment Voldemort uttered his “favorite” spell, Regulus had to swallow back the feeling of nausea as he watched the light leave the man’s eyes. 

Regulus had done well not thinking about the “deed” all day. It wasn’t until he returned to the common room and overheard Evan’s conversation did Regulus find himself regretting the day that he was born. 

No one asked a question when Regulus walked out of the common room. Why would they? People would be dumb to question Regulus on something. People knew not to question Regulus on his doing unless they wanted to be jumped. 

Regulus stopped the moment that his hands hit the balcony. Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes mentally begging for the memory to leave his mind. 

Just stop...I fucking hate this! 

Regulus thought miserably. He was half tempted to throw himself off of the balcony. It looked like a good distance and if he was lucky wouldn’t survive the fall. Death would be better than living the way that he was at the moment! 

The brooding stopped the moment that a soft voice caught Regulus’ attention. He knew a lot of the “choir kids” would come up to this particular area of the castle to practice at points. Before today, however, Regulus had never paid any of them any attention. Today, it was different. This voice was soft, gentle...everything that Regulus needed. 

Right away he recognized the French folk song that he had heard numerous times as a child. Leaning his head back against the stone wall, all of the anxiety and tension slowly left. Regulus took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. They were no longer shaking. 

I should leave...but I don’t want to. She, whomever she is, has to have the most beautiful voice. She sounds like an angel.

Regulus thought with a tiny smile. Although he had no belief in heaven, hell, angels, or demons hearing this voice had to be what an angel would sound like if there were one. This soft voice was everything that Regulus needed to hear when he needed to be told “that everything would be alright.”  

Over the following days, Regulus found himself in the same place at the same time. It didn’t matter what kind of hell that he had going on. The moment that soft voice would sing all of the bad would vanish. Even if it was just one song, Regulus was feeling a million times better when he had to return to the Slytherin common room. 

The question plaguing Regulus’ mind now was who did the voice belong to? He had been trying to put an angelic voice with a face nonstop and was coming up with nothing. None of the girls in Slytherin house fit the idea that Regulus had in his mind. 

I have to find out.

He muttered as the signing stopped. Standing up, he quickly walked into the room not having any idea what he was about to say. Regulus knew that whatever girl this was would probably think that he was a creep for spying on her night after night. What kind of girl would want that? 

“I know you’re there.” 

The singing had stopped and was replaced with a soft comment on Regulus’ appearance. Regulus turned around to see Y/n Lupin sitting by the window. You were the girl...the voice...it all fit! Regulus blinked a few times as he took everything in. Of course, it was you. It all made sense. 

“Um...hi.”

Regulus muttered. He wasn’t for sure if he had ever spoken to you before. The two of you were in the same year but your paths didn’t cross much. You were in Hufflepuff and often kept to your little group of friends or with your older brother. 

You, meanwhile, smiled noticing Regulus’ awkward silence. 

“You’ve been up here the past few nights.” 

You commented. Regulus’ face blushed as you patted the seat beside you. Regulus slowly sat down and kept his eyes straight ahead.

He had to be a blithering idiot. There would be no way in hell that anything between the two of you would ever work. You were Remus Lupin’s sister. Regulus didn’t foresee Remus being too onboard with his sister dating a Slytherin (even if Slytherins and Hufflepuffs made great matches). 

“You were upset that first night. Are you better now?”

You asked. You knew the question was probably intrusive but it came out before you really thought better of it. That night, a few nights ago, you had been up doing what relaxed you the most...singing. When you heard the angry footsteps you considered stopping but thought about how your singing seemed to comfort your own brother when he was upset. Maybe this person needed a little comforting too (even if you didn’t know them). 

When you realized that it was Regulus Black the feeling of overwhelming sympathy washed over you. You didn’t know much about Regulus other than the fact that he was Sirius’ younger brother. Over the years that you were in school, you couldn’t help but notice how sad Regulus looked most of the time. You could see those sad dark eyes from your seat at the Hufflepuff table and wanted nothing more than to give him something to smile about. He reminded you of a puppy that had been kicked one too many times. If he was anything like Sirius then you knew that was exactly how Regulus was.

 It was no secret that Walburga Black was cruel to her children. You knew first hand of the abuse. You had heard about it from Sirius himself. If that was what was plaguing Regulus’ mind every night that he came to the balcony, maybe you could give him something to feel better about?

“There really isn’t getting any better.” 

Regulus commented as you scooted closer. You had a feelin what that vague comment was leading toward.

“About being a death eater?”

Regulus’ face went pale as he turned to look at you with wide eyes. 

“How do you know? Did my brother tell you?”

You shook your head at the raised tone of his voice. 

“Ssh now. We don’t need god and everyone to hear. I saw your arm doing potions one day.”

Regulus sneered in your direction. He didn’t know how to react. Maybe just be cold like normal? What the hell was he supposed to say?

“Let me guess, you are going to tell me that I am a horrible person and that I shouldn’t be doing what I’m doing...no matter if it's what my family expected of me.”

Your momentary silence was driving Regulus nutty. After a few moments, you finally spoke. 

“No. I was actually going to say I can’t imagine what you are going through. Sometimes our families are our own worst enemies.” 

Regulus sighed.

“You’ve got that right. Look, I wasn’t spying on you. I want to just throw that out there.” 

You smiled. 

“It's alright. Your aura doesn’t seem as tense after you’re here for a bit.” 

It was Regulus’ turn to be silent. He was trying to decide if he wanted to give you a compliment. If he messed things up, there was a good chance that he would never hear your angelic voice again...and that wasn’t something that he wanted to risk losing. 

“Your voice is nice….its soothing.” 

“Thank you.”

You replied as Regulus turned back to face you. His face this time was different. He had gone from death eater to the sad puppy that needed love. 

“That first night...I was actually considering pitching myself off of that balcony. Hearing you...that was the first time I heard the most beautiful voice. It was like gravity.” 

You reached out and gently took your hand in his. Were you overstepping your boundaries with a boy that you knew nothing about and who in turn knew nothing about you? Possibly. Did you care? Not really. 

“I’m glad that you didn’t do that. You know, believe it or not, I realize how hard things can be with family. My family isn't normal…”

“Your brother is a werewolf.”

Regulus commented and instantly regretted his choice of words when your face went pale. 

“Not that it matters though. It's just who Remus is.” 

Regulus quickly added, hoping to save what hope of a friendship that he had with you. You, to his relief, smiled. 

“Yes, it is who he is. I feel no guilt in telling you this now. With his condition, I tend to be second in the family. My parents don’t mean to put me on the back burner but it happens. It's hard...so I know now you must feel. How did you figure it out, if you don’t mind me asking. He literally tells no one.” 

Regulus shrugged. 

“Just put the puzzle pieces together.” 

You continued to rub slow circles over Regulus’ palm hoping to relax him further. This was the first time (other than James and Sirius) someone had figured out Remus “furry little problem.” 

“You’re really intelligent and perceptive then. If you want...you know...we could do this every evening when you're free. We don’t have to tell anyone that we are meeting up. Sometimes it's nice just to have someone outside of your friend circles.” 

Regulus looked up and was clearly surprised. 

“You would want to see me again?”

You nodded. 

“If you want to see me that is...no pressure.” 

Regulus quickly nodded, cutting you off. 

“I would love to see you again...maybe around 7 tomorrow?”

You gave his hand a squeeze. 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

_________

@amelie-black @realgaytrash @truly-insatiable @fandomsxxregulus @lucasfilms77 @exhsle @spiderxalmighty @jessyballet @knreidy1 @bennyberry @quuenofblacks @hazncalsgal @criminalyetminimal @whymyparentscheckmyphone @acciosiriusblack @brokencasbutt67-writer @authoressskr @fandom-trash-worth-it @summer-novak @hankypranky @stuckinsaudi1 @emiwrites3reads @shaylybaby2032 @li0nh34rt @tas898 @shadows-and-padlocked-hearts @knight-of-gleefulness @shitfaceddaniel @untoldshortsofthefandoms @deanwherescas @sprnaturallover @wontlookaway @mycuddlycorner

[xbaebsae]

16 for Rheese and/or 28 for Tucker? For the Drabble thingies? THANKS CINDY 😘😘😘😘

I’m bad at being concise so unfortunately this got kinda long. It’s just a day in Rheese life kinda thing, featuring the grumpy old shithead and Tucker the traitor. But anyway, I might use parts of this in the actual story xD Thanks Brenda, ILY!!! ♥ I’m also bad with titles, but didn’t just wanna use the prompts so whatever.

It was a rainy afternoon when Tucker decided to reassemble our training group for a little extra lesson on fighting while being handicapped. And with that he meant getting out of a hostage situation. When I asked him in what weird scenario we would need to know this oddly specific skill, he only answered, that when the end really comes, we need to be prepared for everything. And so we found ourselves with our hands tied behind our backs, kneeing in god damn mud as the rain drained our clothes and absolutely nobody was in the mood for any of this. Except for Tucker in his raincoat.

He picked a poor soul as his example candidate and showed us a bunch of techniques for freeing ourselves from rope cuffs, or if we ended up with normal handcuffs, how to use them as an advantage. The poor guy was kicked and strangled in front of us but he took it like a hero. Devotion like this would never fail to surprise me in the project. Most of the people I met appeared fairly normal, but it were situations like these that reminded me that they all would actually die for Joseph. I knew I wouldn’t.

Tucker had just finished his little presentation and helped the man stand up, when the rain got a whole lot worse and turned into a thunderstorm. “Ah bloody hell!”, I heard him shout as he tried to keep his raincoat from flying away. “We’re doing a break until this storm’s over!” I watched the other recruits untie their hands and walk back inside. If only I had actually made an attempt to befriend any of them, they could have helped me out of mine too. On the other hand, I didn’t want their help nor their ‘friendship’. A lot of them were possibly ex-criminals, or still criminals, who would judge them here? Besides, I had heard one of them, his name was Vinny, talking about my tits once and how he’d really like to do all sorts of nasty things to me while I was unconscious. Part of me wished he’d try. His track record was so miserable that Tucker tried his best to convince Jacob to throw him out of the defense. Sadly he lacked the spine to do it, because Joseph says we have to love each other and respect even the ‘broken souls’. Personally, I’d love Vinny a whole lot more with my boot up his ass.

“What’s the matter, Tuck? Bit of wind and water defeating you?”, I yelled after him as he made his way over to the small utility cabin on the other side of the training area. “Very funny, Lamb! I merely can’t be bothered to have 10 sick men by tomorrow if we continued.” “Yeah, yeah you tell yourself that. Just like that other time.” He put a couple of rifles into a wooden box. “You’re still mad?” “I would have beaten you, you know that!” “Still holding grudges, eh? Expected no less from you, if I’m honest. What those punks got in devotion, you got in determination. I’m starting to see why the boss likes you so much.” I rolled my eyes and leaned against a wall. “Let’s not ruin the day by talking about the old dickhead, okay?” He just laughed in response. “Really having a hard time understanding what’s going on between the two of you.” “Because there is nothing going on between us.” “Ah, children”, he started, then shifted his gaze to something behind me. “Speak of the devil”, he nodded in said direction and I didn’t need to look to know Jacob was on his way over to us. 

He stopped right behind me, barely inside the cabin, but I refused to move forward. Another asshole I was still mad at. “What kinda lesson’s this?”, he asked and I decided I’d let Tucker answer that question. I had the strong urge to cross my arms but they were still tied behind my back. Should have made that my priority instead of chatting with Tucker. “None”, the latter said and let out a sigh. “Storm’s nasty and I don’t want a whole group of sick recruits. Even you must agree, that would be counterproductive.” 

“And this?”, Jacob said mockingly, the fucking smile audible, as he pushed me forward. I hastily turned around and wished once again I could use my hands. This? What was I a toy? “‘This’ doesn’t fucking concern you!” “Damn, she wasn’t that mad a minute ago. What did you do to her last time?” Jacob’s smile grew bigger and also a whole lot meaner. “Bit of a private thing between us, right Shorty?” Unwanted memories flashed into my head. Too goddamn close, we’d been too close that day. I remembered falling asleep in his truck...leaning against him. How nice it had all felt and how wrong it was. 

I’d been drunk. Alcohol always made me do and say dumb things, so he really had nothing to hold against me. The thing that bothered me about it was that he acted like it never happened and returned to be the same insufferable dickhead as he was before. Maybe that was just his thing. Go after the sad, lonely, drunk girls and use them as oversized teddy bears for self comfort, because no one in their right mind would spend their time with him while being sober. Why the hell did it bother me to think about the sheer possibility he might have treated someone else the same? Ugh. “Oh just fuck off, is that why you came here? Well done, congrats, old man. You ruined my day. Again!”, I glared up at him and cursed his height. He let out an honest laugh and I could feel Tucker’s eyes on us. “World doesn’t revolve around ya, Shorty.” He patted my head like I was a goddamn dog. I had enough, scoffed and turned around. 

“Thank god she’s still tied up, would have scratched you with her kitty claws by the looks of it”, Tucker stated and smiled equally mocking. “You know what, I’ll go back inside, you two shake your balls or whatever you wanted to do but I’m out”, it took all my self control to not purposefully bump my shoulder against Jacob when I passed him. But just when I thought I’d made it out, he suddenly grabbed my arm and pulled me back in. “I don’t think I dismissed ya yet.” How great it would have been if I had a hand to slap his off my arm. “And I don’t think I need your permission to leave.” He enjoyed his advantage a little too much and didn’t let go. “Get your hands off me!”, I hissed, getting mad at myself because I played right into Tucker’s cat comparison. I struggled enough to free myself eventually, but the way he looked at me told me that that was only temporary. “What do you want? I don’t need to be here when you two talk strategy!” “I ain’t here because of Tuck. Ya comin’ with me later.” That was news to me. News I didn’t like nor would agree to. “Oh will I now?” He let out a sigh, then turned to Tucker, who understood the silent nod and left. What a damn traitor!

Jacob turned back towards me, the ever so cursed smile on his face. “Yeah, you will.” “Good luck with your delusions, I have better things to do”, I did another attempt at leaving but to no surprise I didn’t get very far. “Maybe I’ll tell the others to keep ya like this.” His hand stroked along my arm. Touches like this one felt too casual for my liking now. “Ain’t such a bad sight actually.” A heavy sigh escaped me and I tried to think of a better escape plan. “Didn’t you say you liked challenge?” An unwanted suggestive undertone snuck its way into my voice and I didn’t like it. He finally removed his hand from my arm and leaned against one of the boxes. I took the opportunity to create some more distance between us. “Makes it all more exciting, don’t ya think?”, he answered with a very similar and less subtle tone. Once again I didn’t know how to react to that because my stupid mind was split between hatred and something else I refused to admit. “Not much, if your prey is already caught.” 

A wave of regret slapped me in my face when he got up and walked over to me. So much for distance. With slow, undoubtedly controlled movements he trapped me between his arms against the wall and his face ended up too close to mine. “Are ya caught, Shorty?”, he whispered, tilting his head making it even more obvious that he had too much fun. There were thoughts running through my head that I refused to grant surface and instead I put on an act. “I mean obviously I am now, you happy?” “Suits ya better.” I rolled my eyes again and averted my face. “Where the hell do you want me to go with you anyway?” A horrible pause was the answer and when I looked back at his face, I caught him looking down at my body. There were multiple places he wanted to take me alright, and I definitely didn’t want to see any of them. 

“Jessop conservatory”, he finally replied and it took me a moment to remember what the question was. “Thought ya missed Faith so I figured I’d drag ya along.” He wasn’t wrong, I did miss her. A bit perplexed that he wanted to do me a favor I frowned. “That’s it?” “That not enough?” “You could have called me and asked.” “And miss this?” he was clearly referring to my tied hands. “Ain’t ya ever afraid one of those guys gonna take advantage of situations like this?”, he seemed serious when he asked and I was speechless for a second. “You mean like you right now?!” No change in his expression. “Well, thank god for the ‘no fornicating’ rule, right?”, I added, still in disbelief. “Alcohol’s forbidden too, y’know” An almost deadpan reply he thought a little too long about. “That is something entirely different! I harm no one when I get wasted for my own good.” I used my body weight to push him away so I could breathe my own air again. Thankfully he let me this time. “Only harms my pants. Ya owe me for that one.” Of course, he had to bring that up. “I don’t owe you shit, Jacob.” He grew impatient as he fixed his posture and fell silent.

“Be ready by four”, he dryly stated after a while. Then he headed out, exchanged a few words with Tucker, who had found shelter in front of the chalet and was undoubtedly watching us the entire time, and left. I kicked against one of the crates in the cabin and tried to fix my frustrated face expression - to no avail. That trip would be fun. Especially because he seemed to have switched to bad mood again when he left and I’d get all of that later. As if the day wasn’t already bad enough!

“I’ll kick his ass if you want me to”, Tucker said when I walked over to him. He must have seen my face. “Oh now you’re on my side again?”, I said mockingly and turned my back towards him. “You can fix our friendship by finally getting me out of these fucking cuffs.”

[oh-mother-of-darkness]

hello this isnt abt batfam or batman but i saw your age and was wondering how do i survive till 23? i am 18 now and 5 more years is very hard to survive please help

Interesting question. I turn 24 in ten days, and sometimes even I’m not sure. I guess I’ll talk about how I personally stayed alive this long before I try to give advice.

The very first thing I would say is that I am religious, and that worldview makes a difference. I don’t mean that in a “everything happens for a reason” kind of way, and as a matter of fact, I very much dislike that line of thinking. It does a lot of damage, and I’m aware that it rightly puts a lot of people off from religion in general. 

I hold two beliefs that I think are helpful in terms of survival. First, I believe that humans are by nature bad. Counterintuitive in this conversation? Stick with me. Every day, but especially at my lowest moments, I hate the things that I am. In a metaphorical sense, my mind whispers to me that I am selfish, that I am cowardly, that I think bad things and I am capable of worse. I’m hateful, I’m terrifying, and I am absolutely broken. At my core, there is something fundamentally wrong, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t fix it. 

I am disgusting. I’m several thousand evil things in a trench-coat pretending to be anything but myself, and I’m not fooling anyone. 

Well, yeah. Yeah, I’m all those things and more: manipulative, lying, self-obsessed, angry, unforgiving, and judgmental. I could, of course, go on.

Here’s the thing-- everybody is. I am no better and no worse than any other person in the universe, and though I am ever abhorrent thing, I am. I have the same dignity, the same worth, and the same life as any human anywhere. The dark things are part and parcel of my humanity, but although I am not good, I do good. 

I will never be perfect because that just isn’t possible, but I can be kind. I can be loving, I can be strong, and I can be wise. 

Shit, doesn’t that set me free?

There’s a lot more to this conversation, and the rest goes, in brief, like this: at the bottom of the darkness that is every soul, we have one great fear-- if I am truly evil, no one will ever love me. Good news on that front, there is a God who does. If that’s something you want to talk about, hey hit me up. I’ll evangelize on my own time. 

Back to it. My second belief is a kind of understanding about the passage of time, and it’s sort of hard to boil down into a few sentences, but I’ll try my best. I believe in a grand struggle between good and evil. I know the beginning of that struggle. I know the end of that struggle: that good will win. I am a part of the middle. 

I see my role in the universe as extraordinary small but absolutely necessary. I have a two-fold purpose-- love God, love humans. I interpret both as a call to help others in any way I can, and I think in the way my life has worked out so far, that’s really the most important thing keeping me alive. 

I see all of this through the frame of my religion, but I would argue that everything I’ve said so far is applicable outside of that frame, because a lot of folks get to the same place from a fully secular point of view. I cannot be perfect. I should care about and fight for other people. That’s really all we’re working from here. 

A few years back, when people asked me this question-- how do you stay alive?-- I used to answer “spite,” and that’s not untrue. I am a very angry person, and the grand majority of that anger is directed at what I perceive as unjust acts. I have a deep-seated hatred of establishments (including the established church), and you’d be shocked at how much of a motivator that can be. 

I grew up in an environment that was very intentional in teaching me to identify injustice. Though I have radically departed from many of the teachings of my childhood, the part about fighting for others was something I learned at day one, and that bit has stuck around. For the most part, I grew up in an environment where everyone was on the same page about it. 

And theeeeeeen I went to undergrad. Hello, Texas A&M. I hit campus as an 18 year old fully incapacitated by anxiety. I was the kind of person who didn’t-- in fact couldn’t-- speak in front of others. I had always lived my life in a way that minimized myself, because if I never spoke, if I never disagreed, if I never drew attention, I would never make anyone angry. I knew from experience that angry people hurt me, and I was afraid of pain. 

Then I experienced the absolute shenaniganry of conservative Texans. The culture shock sent me to space and back, and on the return trip I decided that I couldn’t be quiet anymore. 

I learned to speak my freshman year so that I could scream FUCK YOU. It was incredibly painful, and I can’t tell you exactly how I managed it other than I was angry, and I didn’t want to lose. 

I fought a similar battle on my homefront against parents that didn’t know how to deal with a daughter that disagreed, or even worse, a daughter that wasn’t okay. I wasn’t a perfect child anymore. I knew I had anxiety, I knew I was depressed, and we all knew who I blamed for that. They hadn’t been the perfect parents they thought they were. 

I found myself growing, little by little, into a person that could write and argue and hold her ground. That’s personal growth for sure, but it didn’t necessarily help my mental health. As a matter of fact, my health declined all through undergrad, and in my third and final year, I cracked.

I was desperate. I was isolated. I was flooded by fear and despair, and I was falling apart. I don’t remember huge chunks of undergrad because I was so depressed that the memories didn’t stick, but I do remember my tipping point.

It was something small. The ceiling fan in my bedroom was broken. The lighting chain worked fine, but if anyone pulled the fan chain, the whole thing would stop working. I mixed up which chain was which, pulled the wrong cord, and broke it for the fourth time. 

For some reason, that was it. I lay down on my floor and cried for an hour, and while I did, my mind went to, as the kids say, a dark place. Finally, I called my mom and begged for psychiatric medication, something I had always been afraid to ask for. At the time, my parents believed that antidepressants were overprescribed, and they mocked parents that let their children take them. 

At around the same time, I was deciding what to do with my life. I was about to graduate, and I had always wanted to be a kindergarten teacher. Instead, everyone in my life pushed me towards law school. I didn’t know what to do, but I began fantasizing, not about going to law school exactly, but about being the kind of person that could go to law school. 

I knew that law school would be entail public speaking and constant conflict and the kind of work that would be hard for a person who sometimes couldn’t leave her bed. I wanted to be someone who could do all of that, but I didn’t believe I was.

Enter Donald Trump. Post-November 2016, I struggled to understand how something like that could happen, and I watched everyone else deal with it too. I began confused, moved to distraught, then returned to what I always am: angry.

January 2017 was the inauguration and shortly afterwards, the “Muslim ban.” I read the news on my bedroom floor, and there was one specific part that stuck out to me. There were pictures of lawyers flooding the airports. There was a court case headed for SCOTUS.

I suddenly realized that one group-- one very select group-- was doing what I was powerless to accomplish. I hated establishments, and there was one group that could challenge and change them. Some people could fight in the way I wanted to, and those people were lawyers.

I have a very distinct memory of looking into the bathroom mirror of my third-year apartment and thinking, “I will be miserable for the rest of my life, no matter what I do or what career I pick. I might as well be a miserable lawyer.”

So I took my antidepressants and I went to law school. I’m not going to rehash everything that happened there in this particular post, because in this topic, I don’t think it matters. The relevant part is that I went, and I had my reason why.

Sure as hell can tell you that law school wasn’t good for my health. The last three years have been, in terms of sheer stress and despair, the worst of my life. I picked up a self-harm habit, endured consistent humiliation, cycled through six different antidepressants, had horrible relationships, and developed a psychotic disorder. Don’t get me wrong, there were good things too. I met people that are important me, and beyond that, I grew. 

I know that 18 year old me would be absolutely flabbergasted by the woman I am now, cracks and flaws included. I wouldn’t say I’m healthy or okay, but I am more healthy and more okay. I’m coming out of this mess with the institutional power I wanted, and now I get to decide what to do with it. 

I was wrong three years ago when I looked in that bathroom mirror. I know now that I won’t be miserable for the rest of my life. I’m going to be happy someday, and to the parts of me that say otherwise: fuck you. I’ve learned to say it now. 

I graduated law school this week, and this month, I’ve felt better than I ever have before. I’m singing again, I dropped two medications, and suddenly, everything is so, so funny. I’ve been laughing so hard my face hurts the day after. 

This is a huge turning point in my life, so I’ve been meditating on my past. I’ve come to the conclusion that in most of the ways that matter, I won. My family has been forced to accept what I am. I became the person I wanted to be, even though I thought I wasn’t capable of that. 

I know for sure that there will be times in my life where I hit rock bottom again, and that’s not gonna be fun. It’s likely that with my mental health issues, I will always have to work harder than my peers to get the same results. That’s unfair. 

I also know that high points exist, and I will have them. I am having them, and I will again. 

I guess in recap, I know that I have deep flaws and ugly parts, but I am at peace with that. I know that I must help others, and in pursuit of that goal, I became a person I like more than the girl I used to be. 

You have exactly the same potential. I want you to know that whatever you are now, that’s not your forever. Circumstances change, and you will change too. We’re human, you and I, and that’s an exciting thing to be. 

Your worth comes from your humanity itself, both evil and good, not the things you do or the fights you win. You never have to compare yourself to others because you are exactly the same as everybody else-- no better, but certainly no worse. You’re a person. That’s enough. 

I’m telling you all those things, and as advice, I’ll say this: get angry and fight. Fight for others. You can help them, and you should. Fight for yourself. You are worthy of respect, and everyone else should give it to you. Fight yourself. Any part of you that preaches despair is wrong. 

Find the thing that makes you angry and use it. Things are fucked up! There’s a lot to be angry about. I put it this way to my classmates, now my attorney peers: you get one hill to die on. What’s your hill? Go and defend it. 

Here’s an interesting thing, anon. Your hill can be yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re right. Five years is a lot, and all the years beyond that are more. Take your antidepressants and go.

[werevulvi]

I didn't have the best waking up last evening, after having been asleep all yesterday. Just a few minutes after I woke up my intrusive sexual thoughts of men hit me again, which led to me masturbating twice, feeling worse after the first time and even worse after the second time. It gets me so horny to think about how much it would hurt, mentally and physically; to be raped again, brutally. To be humiliated and used again. Thinking about that turns me on and I hate it. It's shallow, intense but superficial arousal that leaves me feeling empty right after. Sad, gross, humiliated and empty. Like my own mind is laughing at me how I struggle and fail.

I'm not making myself accessible to men anymore, and I think that in itself is making my brain stir up like this. That I no longer pursue men for sex. It makes me feel like my own mind is punishing me for acting upon self-care. Do I not want to get better? Perhaps a part of me is enjoying the suffering and pain, that old familiar sting, and has trouble letting go; doesn't want to let go. And that makes it even harder to figure out what to do about this mess. How did I stop all my self-harming methods? That might give me ideas even though this isn't exactly the same. It's similar in the sense it's kind of an unhealthy habit that I keep doing even though it makes me miserable. All of them I stopped doing around 2015-2016. With cutting the main thing that made me stop was how ashamed I felt about new cuts, that I felt a need to hide them and that I couldn't talk about it at all with anyone cause they'd just get worried about me, confuse it for suicide attempts and I hated that. The backlash/after-effects of it were no longer worth the relief. I wanted to do it less and less frequently, until eventually I didn't want to do it all, and quit it. With the drinking, what made me resume a healthy way of casual drinking was basically the same as with the cutting: the backlash/after-effects were no longer worth the relief. In this case it was the hangovers and the financial expense, and how dysfunctional it made me socially when I was constantly drunk daytime for normal every day stuff. With my eating disorder, I guess it was the same reason yet again: not worth it. It just made me feel even more powerless, if anything. It was my peak of powerlessness. When I had been yo-yoing around the same weight for around a year, not able to get past it and lose more weight, I kinda just had enough of it. I realised then how absolutely useless it was and that is wasn't worth it to wreck my mind for something so superficial, and gradually I changed my body ideal to a more healthy one. Eventually all of my symptoms of eating disorder went away. What else... oh yeah, my pill-popping. Meaning over-dosing on my prescribed medications in order to get some kind of rush, excess sleep and/or death. I think with that I mostly just quit it cause I had already quit the other methods and it simply wasn't appealing anymore. Although on extremely rare occasions I still do it, only for the rush reason. Like at least a year between occasions, and not with anything dangerous. So I don't count it as self-harm anymore.

So... I think that's all methods I can think of right now. There was probably more but that doesn't matter. It seems it was pretty much the same reason for why I quit all of those: that eventually the backlash or side-effects of the habits bothered me more than the relief/rush excited me or drew me towards it. Kinda like weighing pros and cons and eventually the cons outweighed the pros to such a degree I was put off by the habit enough to actually want to quit it. The thrill wasn't even alluring anymore when I looked at all those cons.

I guess I haven't yet reached that point with my intrusive fantasies. Not saying I in some kind of direct sense actually want them popping up or sticking around, but I think I at least indirectly "invite" them to come and stay. Like I reap their toxic seeds, knowing I'll suffer from it. It feels very similar to that "pain and reward" system like how it was with my old self-harm methods that I just described.

Meaning it kinda goes like this vicious cycle: 1.) random nasty fantasy pops up 2.) I get grossed out and scared 3.) I get turned on by it 4.) I try to resist cause it's still nasty but kinda know I can't 5.) I give into to it and masturbate 6.) I cum and get release but then feel like crap.

That I hold onto them because I get some kind of thrill out of it despite hating it, also reminds me of my past self-harming. And I think they keep coming back because I give into them, and cause I take that reward.

It does take some courage to even just say that in some sense I do want them around, that in some way I do enjoy feeling hurt and aroused by their presense. That there is some excitement attached to the process of being grossed out and scared by those brutal images in my mind, and allowing myself to be turned on by them and masturbating to that fear. It makes no sense that I wish to be raped again, and by men that I'm not even attracted to... but perhaps that makes it extra horrible which makes me want it even more.

I'm extremely repulsed by penis, even just imagining one in a non-sexual context make me shudder. It's like the last thing I wanna think about. Yet I do. Repeatedly. That's why I see there's an essence of self-harm in that thought- and masturbation process. It's alluring BECAUSE it grosses me out and scares me. Just like a blade to my skin did, or 200 pills with a bottle of vodka, not knowing if I'd wake up from it. Oh yeah, I'm traumatised alright. I stopped self-harming, actively, but I'm still self-destructive to my core. Perhaps I'm seeking my limit, what is my breaking point. My greatest fear has become my drug. Because I experienced it once, and it damaged me. For less damaged people I think this is comparable to getting a thrill out of watching horror movies. But do I really want it in reality? To get raped again. Hard question to answer, but I'll try. Yeah... I want it so badly I've even spent years seeking it out in real life. But whenever I've been sexually abused again after that, literally because I sought out to be, I freaked out and really did not like that. Some other times that happened I was really quite despondent and didn't have much of an emotional reaction at all, until months later, and then freaked out. So no, I don't think I really genuinely want that. What I want is closure, but my mind is acting like a broken record, not getting that you can't actually kill fire with fire. Or in my case, pain with pain.

But now that I've stopped seeking it out, because I don't want the harm anymore and I love myself too much to put myself through that again, if I can possibly avoid it... my mind has gotten rampant in forcing it upon me mentally instead. Perhaps those intrusive thoughts are like a withdrawal symptom from coming off a drug. But it's not a physical addiction, so just giving it time won't help.

It stems absolutely directly from my traumas. Because those intrusive fantasies are pretty much a bi-product of my many years of having tried to repeat the rape I went through as a teen, and is also connected to the sexual assault in my childhood that led me to become addicted to masturbation, and now having stopped that behaviour cold turkey... aggrevated something within me. Something that still wants to repeat the rape but cannot get the thrill of that dangerous game anymore. And it got so aggrevated that it's almost constantly throwing those nasty images and scenarios at me now, out of what feels like pure desperation.

I think in order to get rid of them, I must first completely, and actively not want them around anymore. Not even want the thrill they bring, I mean. Cause that's how I got rid of my former addictions and self-harm methods. I think I'm willing to wait and work towards that even if it means sickening myself with those intrusive thoughts deliberately until I've properly had enough of it. Cause it's so very effective to get rid of a habit once I literally no longer want the rush or relief from it anymore. Exhaust myself with it. Like that's how I can maintain drinking moderately after years of on and off alcoholism. Cause I'm still so put off by the idea of being constantly drunk and everything that comes with it that I can't even make myself do it.

So I mean... I don't want to stop masturbating completely either, so abstinence is not exactly an option with this, and should not have to be. But that means I can't really actively do much about it. Except I can try "indulging" in it to the point it's far, far, far beyond sickening to me. That could trigger a "no longer interested" response. Cause I have to get uninterested in the reward aspect of it, and that's the tricky part. Since the reward aspect is orgasm, that's tricky, but not impossible. Because I know I literally get different kinds of orgasms when it's from something I actually, genuinely enjoy. Like fantasies of healthy sex with a sexy woman. So because I already can differentiate the kind of orgasms that makes me feel bad from the kind that makes me feel good, I'm already well on my way to sort out this mess. Meaning I could come to a point where I no longer want that "bad-feeling" kind of orgasms, no matter how tempting, cause I can still get the "good-feeling" ones.

This was a good analysis. It taught me some new things about those intrusive thoughts and gave me ideas on what I could do about them: treat them like quitting a self-harm habit. Me being a lesbian doesn't really have anything to do with it, except it makes it relatively easier in the sense I don't actually have to ever figure out ways to have healthy sex with men, which I can't cause I don't have that attraction. And I think maybe quitting men entirely is easier than re-training my interactions with them would be, had I been straight. It seems my interactions with other women sexually is untouched by my traumas and has always been healthy and good. Perhaps that's both because I was never traumatised by another woman, and because I'm inexperienced, it has remained a clean slate.

I feel like that's extremely valuable, and ironically I probably actually have my internalised homophobia to thank for that. It kept me from ruining my genuine attraction with self-destructive sex, pretty much kept it safe from harm until I was ready to release and explore it in ways that are good for me. My self-hate which made me suppress my attraction to women... protected it from being harmed by my traumas?! Wow... just wow. I always believed something good will come out of everything that's generally bad, but... this is kind of amazing. And very relieving, comforting. Everything happens for a reason.

[awed-frog]

Hey, I just read a fic that left me sad and bitter, and I thought to ask you: why do you figure we read this kind of stories, all the while hating them? This one was about a relationship between a grown man and a minor, and it was hard to read, because it wasn't made to be romanticised but rather shown as a hard, ugly truth – and I've read other fics like that, where characters fall in love (or rather, become dependant) of a monster, or start taking drugs (1/2)

(2/2) it’s stuff that happens everyday, everywhere. And it’s kind of horrible to read about it in a story where the narrator doesn’t make any moral judgements about the characters’s choices and actions. It’s just… Happening before our eyes. And as readers we can’t do anything about it, we just have get to the end, make sure it’s somewhat okay. I wonder what pushed me to hit “next chapter” again and again instead of giving up on something that ought to make me feel bad.

Hi, sorry I didn’t answer you sooner - this ask touches on some very interesting and important topics, and I wanted to think this over so I could try to say something sensible about it.

So, first of all - as Daniel Pennac famously pointed out, readers have rights. You don’t have to ‘get to the end’ if you don’t like the story, if you don’t understand it, if it scares you or makes you miserable. I think we were all conditioned as children to ‘see things through’, and while that’s generally sound advice, it doesn’t apply to everything. There are books that are very good, but you won’t get anything out of them, say, when you’re seventeen, so there’s no shame in waiting. There are stories that are probably great, but just don’t speak to you for some reason. And then there’s the trickiest case, which is sort of what you describe - stories that make you deeply uncomfortable, and what do you do then? There is no good advice here. On the one hand, I’d say that forcing yourself to be uncomfortable is good, especially when reading fiction, because it allows you to explore your limits safely and helps you to form your opinions on difficult topics. This is even more important when it comes to the real world - there are subjects we all find uncomfortable, like war and mass exctinction and sexual assault, but we need to be reasonably aware of those topics all the same, because they affect a lot of people and as citizens of democratic societies, we need to lend a hand in solving them. Plus, reading difficult stories has been found to increase your empathy, because it will give you a lens into how other people live, so there’s that as well. On the other hand, there are moments in your life when you simply can’t deal with some subjects, and that’s perfectly okay - someone who’s recently lost a loved one, for instance, has every right to surround themselves with meaningless fluffy stories instead of watching important, gritty movies about illness and grief. There’s a time and a place for everything. So the problem here is learning to tell the two things apart - to understand when you really need to use your shield and retreat behind it, and when it’s better to be brave and do something outside your comfort zone. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s a fail-safe way to learn when you can bear things and when you can’t. It’s something everybody learns by living and growing up, but also something we tend to get wrong a lot of the time. Me, I tend to err on the side of risk, because I find things are generally not as scary as I think they are, and mostly everything will be alright in the end, but I understand that people who’ve had different life experiences might prefer to err on the side of caution. There’s no right and wrong here. So, all this to say: first off, you don’t have to keep reading at any cost. Getting a sense of closure is important, but as you grow up, you also need to accept sometimes you have to create your own sense of closure, because life is not (well-written) fiction and not everything has a satisfying ending. Some things are random or weird or can’t be fixed, so it’s important to tell yourself, ‘I don’t need to know where the writer was going and how the story ends; what matters here is that this story isn’t giving me anything’ and move on.

That said, from what I noticed in myself and others there are several reasons for being drawn to stories that make us uncomfortable, and the problem is that it’s not always easy to understand which of these applies to you at any given moment. So, in no particular order, here is a list.

mordid curiosity. This is not necessarily bad because we’re genetically wired to be aware of our environment and assess potential risks to ourselves, but it’s also something that needs to be kept in check. Children are especially susceptible (probably because 1, they have very few experiences of their own and 2, they’re still trying to figure out how reality works) but really, it’s a universal thing. So, the key here is to be aware it happens and exert a bit of self-control - ultimately, it helps no one to stand around and watch a traffic accident (either you can help, or get out of the way) or spend an entire weekend scrolling through autopsies pictures or get into fics with very graphic descriptions of torture. Be curious, but be sensible.

fear. Many of us have trouble understanding how others see the world, and it’s particularly difficult to imagine why bad people do bad things. This is part of why we’re so enthralled by ‘real life’ documentaries about famous murders, crime shows and gruesome news. There is a conflation with ‘morbid curiosity’ here, but consciously or subconsciously we also want to protect ourselves - from bad people and from becoming bad people. We want to reassure ourselves we’re not like that, and we find some fascination in watching how a person goes from being ‘totally normal’ to committing a brutal crime. Fiction, and especially books, are a particularly safe way to watch and understand the worst instincts of humanity, because you’re in complete control of your journey of exploration. If you snap a book shut, that’s it - the thing is out of your life. That’s why it’s not surprising crime fiction and thrillers are always in the best sellers list.

boredom. A problem that’s becoming very challenging, especially in the way minors consume porn, is that many of us tend to get bored really quickly. I mean, how many loving and respectful and vanilla sex videos a boy (or a girl) can watch before wondering what all those other categories even are? Experts have found that, as a result of availability and curiosity, teens and even children are increasingly turning towards more and more extreme porn videos - and since they don’t have any experience of the real world, they will naturally think this is what adults do in their bedrooms, all the time (that’s how two 13-yo boys living two streets down from me were arrested for bestiality). Now, in a sense this applies to fiction too, and especially to fanfiction. You may start out with your average canon compliant fluff or T-rated story, but when you refresh the page, you see all sort of other stories featuring your favourite characters have now popped up - and where’s the harm in looking? The question is very controversial. According to some, there is absolutely no harm in looking. Anyone is perfectly able to monitor what they consume, and what you read is not necessarily what you want to do IRL, anyway, so it’s okay. Others disagree, and say some kind of content (possibly like the one you were consuming: ephebophilia and statutory rape) should be tightly monitored because fiction has an impact in building your personality. Every other week there’s a study that seems to prove one or the other theory, but so far we have no definite answer. Me, I’m sort of in the middle: I believe censorship is inherently dangerous, but I also think it’s disingenuous to assume the books you read and the movies you watch won’t in some way shape your ambitions, your feelings and even your personality. If you’re bored with what you’re doing, it might be time to go outside or do something else instead of finding more and more extreme versions of the same thing. 

there, but for the grace of God, go I. This is related to fear, but this time is not fear of what someone else might do, but fear of what you might do, or might want to do. Fiction allows us to live vicariously - ie, to experience a different, more exciting life from the safety of our own unremarkable one - and I think this is particularly evident in the case you brought up: stories about ephebophilia (teen/adult relationships). Now, an adult might be drawn to those stories because they’re aware it’s wrong to want this IRL and they want to get the thrill of it without the risk (that’s also why so many female characters are so badly written: they’re just there to fulfill the sexual or romantic fantasies of the male audience). For teens, it’s generally a lot less creepy than that: crushes and fiction is how we start the next phase of our lives, the one which will probably include relationships and sex, and since this is a scary and new place to be, the first step is to create a buffer so we can protect ourselves. We might, for instance, have a crush on someone who’s completely unavailable, and therefore a ‘safe’ option (we’re talking actors, singers, teachers, much older friends). Or we might appreciate teen/adult fiction or fanfiction, because there’s some comfort in the idea we can just let go of our control and trust a wiser and more experienced partner to figure it all out for us (I always thought this was part of the reason 50 Shades of Grey was so successful: Anastasia is mostly a passive partner in that relationship, and luckily for her there’s this billionaire who knows exactly how she should live her life for maximum benefit and is willing to take care of everything). The truth is, of course, that understanding who you are as a sexual being, what you like, what you want and what your limits are will take some work, and no ‘perfect lover’ will do that work for you. A good partner will support you and help you along the way, but the main effort needs to come from you. 

(Another aspect of this, by the way, is reading about stuff with some conscious or unconscious awareness that this is who you actually are. For instance, you might be drawn to LGBT themed books either because you suspect you might be queer, or because you are queer but you don’t know it yet. And here, again, you need to be responsible and understand what is okay and what is not okay - if you’re secretly gay, then congrats!, there’s nothing wrong with you. On the other hand, if you’re fascinated by stories about self-harm or ‘unacceptable behaviour’ - like arson, hurting animals and so on - because you recognize those insticts within yourself, then I strongly suggest you talk to someone and seek professional help.) 

challenge. Sometimes you start reading stuff out of spite, because you were told you were too young or too stupid to get it. This generally turns out okay, but remember that if people tell you you’re too young for something, they might be right. Again, there’s no shame in stealing a book form your parents’ bookshelf or downloading an R-rated or otherwise ‘difficult’ movie and then stop ten minutes in because it’s too much for you. Life is a journey, and there is some comfort in knowing we’ll have something to look forward to at every step, you know?, because maybe there are things I don’t find enjoyable or understandable now, but it’s likely I will get them at some point, and that’s okay.

escapism. The sad thing is, negative emotions tend to be stronger and drown out our other feelings more than positive ones. This is probably a survival mechanism - after all, if you see a lion, it’s very urgent to be terrified and run the fuck away without stopping to notice the beautiful flowers along the way. Anger, outrage, fear and anguish are all emotions you will probably feel when reading ‘difficult’ stories, and they will be very efficient in blotting out whatever’s bothering you IRL at the moment. So, you know - it can be easy to still worry about a bad break-up, a fight with your parents or a disappointing test result when you’re reading a fluffy bakery!AU; it’s much harder to concentrate on other stuff when watching The Ring. Deliberately seeking out very strong emotions can be an efficient way to take a holiday from your own life, and if you find this is a pattern, my advice would be to try and see what it is, exactly, that’s making you so unhappy and how you can solve it.

reassurance. From the beginning of time, fiction also had the role of teaching us social norms and explain that we’d be rewarded if we follow them, but punished if we break them. This aspect can be so obvious as to be annoying (think forced happy endings, or blatantly Christian fairy tales), but the truth is, fiction almost always sticks to this rule: the good guys win, the bad guys lose. I’m not surprised that you kept reading a disturbing story in hope that justice would be restored at the end. We all need for reality to make sense, for our lives to make sense, and the cornerstone of this is that good actions must lead to some benefit and bad actions must lead nowhere - otherwise, what’s the point? That is why movies like Michael Haneke’s Funny Games are rated R - not because they’re violent, although they often are, but because that violence has no meaning and no punishment. My advice here would be to explore this kind of fiction a bit - not getting any moral judgement or happy ending can be tough, but again, life tends to be amoral and random. We have the feeling it isn’t, but that’s because we don’t see reality as it is - we see reality as we are (this is a profound, unsettling thought - at least for me - and as one of the main teachings of Buddhism, it’s been around for more than twenty centuries, but it’s such a terrifying perspective most of humanity chooses to ignore it completely). Still, be careful. If a movie is rated R, better leave it until you’re old enough, and even then, you have the right to walk away at any time.

peer pressure. This is a thing for smoking and drugs, but also for fiction. It doesn’t matter if you’re not interested in sex or BDSM, if you don’t like on-screen violence, if you’d rather not think about suicide: Fifty Shades of Grey, Game of Thrones and - most recently - Thirteen Reasons Why, to quote just a couple of examples, are seemingly things everyone around you is watching or reading or raving about. It’s always annoying to be excluded from the conversation, and scary to be different, so you might very well say fuck it and deliberatedly watch something that makes you uncomfortable so you can be part of the group again. I have the feeling fanfiction is a bit less overbearing because no one really knows what you’re reading, but it’s possible you found the story you’re describing in a ‘best [insert ship] stories’ masterpost, that it’s been recced to you by a friend, or that you know the author and started reading it despite your better judgement. If so, remember you don’t have to be 100% similar to other people in your class, your family or your fandom to be part of the group. You can be a fantasy fan and dislike George RRR Martin’s writing style. You can follow someone on tumblr, and even be friends with them, but be squicked by their favourite tropes and avoid their fics. You can be the first or the last person to have sex in your entire school and you still have a right to be there, and to belong there. People reccing things they’ve enjoyed is a great thing; people making you feel bad because you’re not interested in what they’re interested in is not so good.

So, well - I guess this is my opinion. Sorry for the novel. Those categories are not watertight, by the way, and there’s no ‘scientific’ explanation for why we like what we like, and why we sometimes stay in situations that makes us uncomfortable. In my opinion, we often use stories as training wheels so we’ll be ready if the same situation arises in reality, but it’s important to read diverse material so we won’t see the world only from one poit of view. For instance, reading about an abusive relationship can help us to avoid toxic behaviour IRL; but reading exclusively about abusive relationships can make you believe that’s the normal way people act, so be careful. 

As a last point - I was trapped inside a fic once, so I think I know what you’re talking about. I started reading it because it had interesting tags and characters, and as the story got darker, I kept clicking next and next and next hoping we’d get to the ‘comfort’ part; but when we got there, I realized this wasn’t working for me. It was a brilliant, well-written story, but to me the idea an abuser, however confused and misguided, could effectively develop a romantic relationship with the person they’d abused was too much. I don’t believe in that, and I’d rather not see it justified in a 100K story. My way to get closure was to write a note to the writer telling them everything I’d loved about their fic, how it was so well written I’d kept reading it for weeks despite my discomfort, and that unfortunately I couldn’t follow it to the end because it was too much for me. We had a lovely conversation, and that was it. I don’t know if it’s the best thing to do in every case, but on that occasion, I think it worked for both of us. So - I hope this unnecessarily long answer made some sense to you, and I leave you with a quote by one of my favourite writers. Have a good day, and keep stepping out of your comfort zone - it’s good for the soul!

[sadandsoberr]

Domestic Violence Story **

Please if you are triggered by anything including abuse, self harm, etc please don’t continue

*All names are changed*

Where do I even Start….

I guess it all started when we moved from New York City to New Jersey . I thought so highly of the move. I was going to start at a new school, my old friend went there so I assumed we would hang out and i’d make all new friends and it would be my clean start. I was very wrong. I had no friends at my new school, nobody talked to me and I was more alone than ever. I hated it in New Jersey . I loved the house, loved the area, but felt miserable. Due to being so alone I called up an old friend whom I hadn’t talked to in quite some time due to a fight we got into. Sabrina and myself started talking as if nothing happened and fell into easily hanging out regularly again. One night in Mid January of 2014, Just after my 17th birthday we decided to meet up with Shannon Shannon that night was with numerous people, one of them being Brent. Brent was everything I thought was attractive back then. He dressed cool, talked cool, and had alcohol + drugs that I was more than happy to take. The rest of that night everyone just hung out and had fun. The timeline of this story is all a little fuzzy so exact dates and the order of events may not be 100% accurate but I will try to keep it as close as I can remember.

It is now February and I have been seeing Brent more regularly. Sleeping over, drinking, partying, and had a makeout session on February 1 during the superbowl. I was alone with him on the night of February 5, 2014 when he asked me to be his girlfriend. I was over the moon. I’ve never had a real boyfriend before. I went home the next day so happy and eager to see him again. I stopped going to school and only wanted to see Brent. He lived in New York City, drank, was fun- what more could I of asked for? I quickly decided that living in New Jersey  wasn’t cutting it for me anymore and packed my bags and left while my father was at work. At first everything was great, until one night.

It is march now & my period is late. I didn’t want to worry Brent so I went out on my own and tried to steal a pregnancy test which came out positive. Having no money and being scared, I told Brent and asked my father to transfer money to buy another test just to make sure. I now know there are clinics which test you for free but I was young and didn’t know about resources. Brent, knowing that I now had money in my account wanted to buy pizza so he told me to get the cheapest one. After buying the test (with two in a pack) Brent was furious that he didn’t get what he wanted, pushed me against the wall in the doorway of our building and began strangling me. This was the first incident. I was so confused. Why did I buy two tests when he wanted food? Whats wrong with me? I automatically blamed myself, went upstairs and begged my father to send more money so Brent could eat.

After this incident it all starts to blur together. Things like that would happen to often I don’t even remember them all. There was an incident in the bathroom where he hit my head against the sink. I came out and it turned into a big fight with me, Sabrina and Brent. We all woke up the night morning with blood everywhere, furniture broken, but nobody spoke about it. Times when he would strangle me to the point I lost my vision and eventually come to lying on the floor with him standing over me with this look. If anyone has ever been in an abusive relationship, they know what look im speaking of. There is no compassion, no love, no safety when staring into those empty eyes. Strangling was Brent’s go to method of abuse. I remember once being strangled and coming to with my dog lying on my lap looking so scared. There were times I had bruises everywhere, where he would be hitting me in front of his friends but nobody spoke up thinking it wasn't their business. Not to mention the verbal abuse I would encounter. Being told i’m no good, im a horrible person, nobody will love me.

One night I remember is when we all went to Niagara. Brent, Sabrina, Mark, and myself. It started off great as usual until Brent started to get upset at me then at Sabrina. I remember fighting in the hotel washroom and he began to strangle me. This is when Sabrina jumped on his back attempting to stop him. My memory jumps to Sabrina being on the bed and Brent flipping the mattress over, hauling her into the air. From there it jumps to me running down the street in Niagara as Sabrina tells me to run and hide. The next morning I was in the hotel room with Brent while Sabrina & Mark stayed in the 24 hour Denny’s. I know there was a point we all were locked out, a point Sabrina climbed over a fence and cut herself, and alot more but like I said, everything's a blur.  

One day Brent’s Ex Brook came back into town from Delaware and Brent wanted to see her. She came to our house and the whole time they were attached to each other leaving me to feel vulnerable and helpless. Being upset at the situation I went to shower and made Brent come into the bathroom with me just to make her upset.  One day we all got a hotel and Brook was there. She stated that she needed to buy a lighter so Brent went with her, leaving me alone for over an hour. Afterwards We went to my mother's house and I was waiting in the bathroom while Brent kept talking to Brook. I yelled at her telling her to get out and she did- Brent & I walking her of course. I later found out that he cheated on me while looking for the lighter.

We would frequently visit my mother who absolutely adored Brent. She praised him because I loved him, so did she. We would all go out together and have a great night but when we went separate ways it wasn’t as much fun. At this point it must be May 2014 and we are living in a new apartment after being evicted. We are all doing drugs and I was talking and talking and talking. The next morning Brent was furious at me, screaming saying were over. Being over was not an option for me. Where would I live? I couldn’t go back to New Jersey . The whole morning I was in tears crying so hard I couldn't breathe. This lasted the majority of the day. It went in waves where he wasn’t angry then extremely angry. Nothing I said was right. Till this day, I will never know why he was so mad. Living in that apartment lasted a total of 17 days. Brent threw a party which led to us being evicted once again.

Having nowhere to live we decided to stay with my mother. It was a studio apartment with one bed we all shared + the dog. One night near the end of June 2014 Brent’s sister Amanda was throwing an after prom party in a hotel. We all were having a fun time, Brent was extremely intoxicated and everyone went home besides us. Brent fell asleep on the couch and when I went to wake him up he attacked me. I guess I blacked out after that because the next thing I remember is waking up on the bed with blood stained sheets around me. My body was sore and my eyes were hard to open. When I made it to the bathroom I couldn’t believe what I saw in the mirror. I had two black eyes, bruises covering my whole body and a swollen mouth. There was blood throughout my hair, under my nose, my mouth. When Brent woke up he asked me what happened and i told him the last thing I remembered. Amanda later told me that someone came back to the room and heard crying and yelling but couldn’t get inside the hotel room.

After that incident we ended up living with my father for a bit until finding another apartment under a hair salon Mid July 2014. While living there a few occurrences stand out for me. One is where we were screaming at each other and I thought dying would be better than living like this anymore so I attempted to slit my throat. One morning my father promised to send money but only sent half which drove Brent crazy. He threw me on the floor and began stomping on me and kicking my head. I tried to get up over and over but he just continued to stomp or push me forward until I landed on my face. This happened for hours. I told him I would get the money but he didn’t care at this point. Eventually I convinced Brent to let me go switch the laundry from the place down the street and ran as fast as I could onto the bus. While Sitting on the bus his sister called me saying how horrible of a person I am for leaving and making him stuck with the laundry. She called me so many terrible things and convinced me I’m horrible if I don’t return so I did. As for what happened the rest of the day, I don’t know.

That was another house we didn’t stay at long. Brent convinced himself that moving to Florida would be a better idea and we packed up and left once again. I felt like I couldn’t breathe without him. That was the longest week of my life without a doubt. I sold my laptop and anything else I could find, begged my sister for money and flew out to Florida. I convinced myself I could go to school there and we will live happily ever after but issues arose with Brent’s father, fights broke out between us, and we both flew back to New York City mid September 2014.

We stayed with my father at this point until late October 2014 until we moved into our Dufferin apartment. It was gross and small. While living here I remember locking myself in the bathroom terrified of Brent, being strangled on the bed, having to pee into an empty liquor bottle because he wouldn’t let me use the washroom. Any name you can be called, he called me and any bit of self worth I had was taken from me, yet I couldn’t live without him. Isn’t that how it always is though? They convince you that you are nothing without them.

March 2015 Brent was arrested for assaulting a transit driver and having a concealed weapon. He spent a week in jail for this and my father was the one who bailed him out.  We went to go see Tyler a few weeks after he was out and that night is when I was dragged by my hair on the sidewalk, pushed onto the bus and hit across the face, leaving my body on the bus floor. Tyler told the bus driver to call the police but she just told Brent to stop. Another witness who wasn’t phased by me being hurt.

It’s hard trying to piece together the timeline for when these happened. I am getting to the point where I cannot give you a specific month for these occurrences. I know there was a time when he strangled me at my mother’s house, another time we got into an argument at my fathers which left me with a chipped tooth from being punched in the mouth with a ring on, a fight that left me so vulnerable I sliced my leg open with a pair of scissors which resulted in 25 stitches. Being strangled up against a door with a key lock, sliding down to free myself and getting a cut from shoulder to hip across my back which left me with a scar,  kissing which led to Brent biting down super hard and leaving me with a hole right above my chin, being strangled in the washroom in New Jesey , being pressed between the door and wall until I couldn’t breathe, should I go on?

December 2015 we were living in Brooklyn and were having a pretty ok night. We decided to have sex and during it Brent looked down at me and said your going to die tonight and began strangling me. I somehow got out of his hold and ran to the washroom. He came to say sorry and I got into the bedroom and locked the door. He banged and banged on it for an hour until it was knocked down. The next morning when the people upstairs asked  what had happened, Brent explained that I fell asleep with it locked. Silly me.

January 2016 Brent moved  away to Florida for good and I moved out on my own. This was the end of our relationship. Although I kept in contact with him and we spoke daily we agreed not to date. July 2016 was the final time he hurt me. I went to visit him in Florida and the whole time he was rude to me because we weren’t together and he felt hurt. I booked my plane ticket home because I couldn’t deal with how he was treating me. When he found out I was leaving he pushed me into the closet and strangled me until I lost vision. His dad came running in and I was crying. I got on the plane the night day and haven’t seen him since.

Although we spoke on the phone I never saw him again. It took me a very long time to cut all strings with him and move on. I know people are thinking “ why would you stay for so long?” and honestly, I can’t give a simple answer for that. I didn’t want to live with my father, I wanted to be loved. He convinced me that nobody would ever love me and I would be alone without him. He made sure I was dependent on him and that I couldn’t be on my own. He took me to places and we had a great time. I thought that I was at fault. If I didn’t say that I wouldn’t of got hurt.

It has taken me over two years since Brent leaving to be able to even speak about what happened during our relationship. I still flinch if someone moves to fast, and cry if someone raises their voice towards me. I am relearning my worth and to be honest, I will always have a piece of doubt in me because of him. I will always think back and wonder how it could of been better, what I did, why was I so hard to love. Why didn’t this happen to other girls ? I must be the issue. My mother passed away while we were together and I think somewhere within me held on to Brent because he knew her. How could I be with someone who didn’t know my mom?

I now have an amazing boyfriend who bends over backwards for me. He is my sunshine on all of my cloudy days and I am grateful that he loves me. I convinced myself I wasn’t capable of being loved. I did a lot of bad things towards myself physically & emotionally. I will never be who I was before this and I’m learning that it's okay. I have to grow from my experiences and don’t think any less of myself.

Other times stuff happened out of Timeline

* One night we are at his friend Tyler’s house and just like always a fight starts. I was pushed down the stairs and when I came back inside even his friend John said he saw the look on his face. The empty eyes look. The next morning were outside screaming and fighting and he pushes me down the front stairs again and starts stepping on me. A neighbour witnessed this and called the police. When they showed up I freaked out saying don’t take him from me. This resulted in a restraining order, anger management courses and many court dates. Even that wasn’t enough to keep us apart. I was going to marry him, I was sure of it.

Punched me in the face with his ring on and chipped my teeth

[bizarropurugly]

Dame’s Eating Problem(s)

okay so I’ve been wanting to make this post for like ever now but kept getting too tired to write it but basically this post is going to be a detail on my difficulties with eating and food

so tw for disordered eating, and food obviously, and vomiting too, and unsanitary stuff too, there might be ableist language, suicide and self harm, body image and/or dysphoria probably? I think that covers it

let’s get this show on the road below cut

So to start with, I have digestive issues, a tender mouth, sensitive teeth, and autism. This makes eating hard enough already. 

I am sensitive to grease, sugar, dairy, spiciness, and salt. Which kind of sucks because I actually need a lot of salt in my diet due to my vasovagal syncope and chronic low blood pressure, but it burns my mouth so brutally I swear I even bleed. Some other examples of problems I have would be eating a candy bar in one sitting makes my teeth ache, or fighting between puking and shitting myself to death over most fastfood because they use so much fucking grease. 

It’s very possible I have irritable bowel syndrome but I have hangups with getting any of that checked out, mostly that THAT particular area of my body, I am actually too shy and embarrassed over to want to risk any kind of... examination of it... haha... and with all my other problems it takes a back seat. 

Then there’s the autism, which is almost unpredictable in what will set off my gag reflex sometimes. I know for certain peanut butter*, mushrooms, and anything with legs (such as some shrimp and DEFINITELY any squid) are guaranteed triggers. 

(*Small amounts of peanut butter in things like packed candy bars or puppy chow are fine. Small amounts, though.)

And then sometimes I just get tired of eating something and will come close to puking on just the thought of eating it. This mostly happens with meat, potatoes, pastries, and whatever you’d consider shit like waffles and pancakes. Vegetables and fruits seem to be safe for the most part, but unfortunately they’re not very filling and their acidity / fructose content can trigger my OTHER digestive issues. 

I’m guessing it’s an autism thing because it’s primarily about the textures that I don’t want to feel when I get tired of a food, hence why it tends to be with... squishier, sometimes slimier stuff I guess.

Usually food intolerance comes from the fact I have very few options of “safe” food and eat the shit out of any I find, and ultimately make myself hate it temporarily from that being the only thing I ever eat. Sometimes, though, this is permanent, such as with peaches, pears, chili, goulash, pineapple, and at times beef stew specifically of the Dinty Moore line.

This is a backdrop for how my troubles began. I kind of ignored this, like, aggressively for a long time, particularly because of being abused by adults over it? I had no explanation and everyone thought I was being a picky brat - in fact being called picky was a trigger for me as a kid because it was always in such a brutally negative fashion that implied I was a lying spoiled piece of shit because I would shit my pants or throw up over some adult’s stupid fucking idea of “kid friendly” food like tacos and peanut butter sandwiches. 

So I just... didn’t eat. A lot. It got worse over time. I was so tired of fighting about food, and I was tired of not knowing what was going to hurt me, that I just straight up forewent eating, often. Very often.

By high school, I was probably only eating lunch twice a week. When I graduated high school I was down to like 95-98 pounds. 

But it wasn’t just that, actually. It got worse, if you can believe it! 

What this did was pave the way for me to get worse as my depression, anxiety, and other untreated mental illness took their toll on me in high school. Years of ignoring my hunger pangs / being used to them left me with no realization of just how bad my mental health was, because not eating was normalized to me.

It came to be that even when I had food that I liked and knew was safe, I couldn’t eat it. My body was completely rejecting anything I tried to eat. And I didn’t notice for a while because it “wasn’t” interfering with my life, because it was all par for the course. Starving was par for the course. Like, my mother worried about me moving out on my own because she knew I had to be pushed to eat, otherwise I’d go the whole day and not notice.

I can’t remember when I realized something wasn’t right. I do remember a particular moment in my favourite restaurant, which I didn’t get to go to often because we are poor and it’s a steak place, and I think it was my 18th or 19th birthday, and I had my most favourite things to eat in the world in front of me and... couldn’t eat it. 

In fact, I threw up for my hubris in trying to make myself eat it. 

And I started crying, because I was hungry, I was SO hungry, and this was my favourite food, and it wasn’t fucking cheap, but... I couldn’t eat it. My body wouldn’t let me, and on top of that, I fucking THREW UP on the table. I felt so ashamed and like a horrible person, because of course wait staff has to clean that up, and I was so weak and tired and just wanted to eat my fucking steak and go home... 

(This was when I learned to never, ever, EVER push it if I’m feeling this way lol)

And this kept going on, actually. The explanation was never found until I actually got help for my mental health, but only after urging from my best friend after confessing to them a suicide attempt.

I don’t remember how we went about trying to find the cause before I came in about depression. I remember that I was literally wasting away for like... 5 or so years. It wasn’t just the depression that made me fall asleep in class or in the halls between class. I was always cold, too, cold and weak, and could often be found wedged underneath a radiator at school. I got so small and tired and miserable. My mother says I dropped towards 80 pounds before I finally got help.

I kind of really hate it because I used to be strong, but I was beat down. It was beat out of me, verbally, emotionally. Bullies nobody did anything about, teachers proud of embarrassing me, everyone around me thinking I was obnoxious and retarded, having no actual friends. I used to be able to carry classmates twice my size and take down football players. Now I really am a sack of shit, now in a more literal sense. 

When I fell through the mire, I lost it all. The muscle and the wile and the flexibility. Started failing my classes, when I had previously been among academic elite. None of those kids thought I was smart enough for it either and couldn’t wait to position themselves as better than me when I literally fucking DYING, STARVING TO DEATH, TRYING TO KILL MYSELF.

....But that’s a tangent. Sorry. 

Anyway, once the problem was actually found, and I got put on medication, it was like magic. I could eat again!! I could seriously eat again and not be afraid of throwing up or wasting food or anything!! 

And by god, did I eat. 

A common side effect of psychiatric medication that they don’t seem to explain very well is that your appetite increases. In my case, where I was literally starving, that was like going from 0 to 100 overnight. And I get why it’s a side effect - difficulty eating is a very common symptom of depression and anxiety! - but nobody told me how intense it would be, let alone that I should be careful.

You know how you’re not supposed to feed a starving animal a full bowl of food right away or else they’ll make themselves terribly sick because they’re stupid as hell and will gobble it down in seconds?

Basically, that. I gobbled and gobbled and gobbled everything my fucking hands could snatch, even my not safe foods. Didn’t care that I was shitting my brains out because I could FINALLY EAT AGAIN. I was so excited to EAT AGAIN. 

Well, by starving myself, I had completely destroyed my metabolism. Experts have said it over and over again, starving puts your body in panic mode, and it relegates everything to storage. 

So now I’m fat. I eat the same as I did before the troubles really got going, but because I went through several years of NOT eating, I have completely fucking screwed my body up. I’m fat, fat as hell. 

And I’m pretty sure it’s not my “normal” weight because when I finally sit up out of the fucking mire and get to exercising and eating on a normal schedule, I lose weight, or at least change fat to muscle pretty easily. 

But I’m wracked with stress and little to no feeling of control on my life. My mental health is spiraling again and I’m not eating, let alone eating right, again, and certainly I don’t have the energy to properly exercise myself. 

Back when I first started my job things were better and I was excited because I was losing weight and feeling a little healthier because I was on a regular schedule, but now...

My executive dysfunction is also being a fucking pain in the ass because it keeps waving a metaphorical to-do list in my face and saying, “No!! you can’t exercise now!! look at all this stuff you need to do!! you have so many things to do!! there’s so many things and they need to be done and you can’t do anything ever without doing all the things right now!!”

The consequences are worse now, though. I have to actually drive and be at work and be an adult, which takes a LOT of my energy, and if I don’t eat? I pass out. More vasovagal syncope bullshit combined with the chronic low blood pressure. It was one thing falling asleep in high school, but now I have much more I need to do in a given day thanks to life being, you know, life.

Sunshine and One Eye keep me from letting myself wither, right now. I have to have a job and go to it in order to take care of them. If I didn’t have them, I’d probably quit my job and move back in with my parents and basically fade away. 

Sometimes it’s a curse because I really, really don’t want to live, I don’t want to sustain myself. I’m... really fucking tired, I am beyond tired. 

And I have to force myself to eat, but it’s rarely anything worthwhile anymore. It’s almost always snack food because it’s just so hard to eat anything right now, let alone something fulfilling. It takes me months to go through a bag of pretzels or something because I’m so unwilling to eat. I don’t even buy actual food now, no butter or bread or soup or meat, because I’m so unwilling to eat that it ends up expiring without ever being used. I cleared out my freezer recently and had food in there that expired in 2015. The only thing my fridge has is juice, soda, and milk for cereal for breakfast (the only dairy I’ll be able to eat for the next 12-24 hours unless I’m feeling less sore for once and want an ice cream cone lol). 

So. Uhhh.. I guess that’s it. That’s my problem. Ruined metabolism brought on by starving because depression which was easy to do because I fucked up my eating instincts from a childhood of Angry Stomach vs Angry Adults, and now I’m heading right back in that direction again. 

And I fucking hate it because all my life I’ve been skinny but strong-ish and smol but now I’m just a weakling blob and none of my favourite clothes fit.

[lady-therion]

Homecoming: Part 1 [Nessian]

Summary: Cassian really misses his feisty mate.

(Post-bonding. Post-ACOWAR.)

A/N: Because y’all know this precious overgrown bat baby would straight up sulk (like whine-at-the-door-and-paw-at-it sulk) if Nesta was gone for too long.

***

   He missed her.

   That was all. He missed her.

    “So write her a godsdamn letter,” said Azriel, dancing along the edge of the sparring ring. He’d been on the receiving end of Cassian’s fists all morning and had yet to be reprieved. “It’s only been a week, Cas. We’re all getting tired of your moping.”

    “Who says I’m moping?”  

   “Everyone,” his brothers said in unison.

    Cassian turned to scowl at Rhys, who had been sharpening his sword on a nearby bench. “Yes, everyone,” he added smugly. “Feyre, Amren, Elain...”

   “Elain?”

    Azriel smirked. “The actual word she used was ‘cranky.’”  

   “I am not cranky.”  

   “An understatement if there ever was one,” Rhys drawled. “I think what sweet Elain actually meant was: insufferable ass.”

   Cassian growled.

   “Right. Because you acted like a godsdamned ray of sunshine when Feyre handed herself over to our enemies in the Spring Court.” He bared his teeth. “How did it feel knowing your mate was in danger and all you could do was wait? Because I sure as hell feel like shit and am in no mood for this today.”

    Rhys’ violet eyes remained cool, but Cassian could detect a flicker of guilt that almost made him feel sorry. Almost.

   “Point taken,” said Rhys. “I apologize, brother.”

   “So do I,” said Azriel.

   Cassian sighed.

   It had been Rhys’ idea for Nesta to travel south to strengthen their ties with the mortal realm, which was now horribly fractured thanks to those treacherous wyrm-queens. As emissary, it would have been Nesta’s duty to go. But Rhys always believed in having a choice, so he gave her one.

   Of course she decided to go. Of course Cassian understood the importance of her going. She wanted to do something for her people. She wanted to see the world. And deep down, he could never blame Rhys for granting her that wish in the first place.  

   But that didn’t mean Cassian had to like it, especially since it meant that she would be gone indefinitely.

   “Mother knows Nesta can take care of herself,” he went on. “Hell, if she were here, she’d be the first one to kick my sorry ass all the way to the Rainbow. But this…this isn’t easy for me.”

   He already failed her once—the memory still horrifically fresh despite everything that happened between them since. There were some nights where he could still hear her screams as Hybern’s men forced her into the Cauldron. He would wake up on those nights in a cold sweat, unable to be calmed by anything except his mate’s arms.

   He had seen over half a millennia of death and destruction, had been the harbinger of both himself, but never had he been so overcome by such breathless rage and sheer terror as he was in that moment. They laid hands on his mate...had violated her beyond imagining...and he had been completely and utterly helpless to stop it.  

   Never again.

   “She’ll be all right, Cas,” said Azriel. “Mor is with her and so is Lucien for whatever that’s worth.”

   Cassian shook his head. “That’s not the point.”

   The point was that he made a promise to protect her, and he didn’t like breaking promises twice.

***

   Several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t returned.

   Cassian could still feel her though, much to his relief. He knew she couldn’t cross the bridge of their bond too often; not with so many enemies nipping at her heels. Still, he could feel her—her warmth burning inside him like an eternal flame.

   He noticed it most often when his moods grew so black that even he couldn’t tolerate himself.

   Sometimes, it felt like a flare—as though she were chastising him from afar for behaving like a prick. Sometimes, it felt like the glowing embers of the firelight at their hearth, soothing him like nothing else after another grueling day at the war-camps. Other times, it blazed and smoldered, and he knew without words that she longed for him as much as he longed for her.  

   Thank the Mother she also sent him letters, though they were few and far between. The first one came shortly after his quarrel with his brothers.

   Dearest—

   I wish I could write more, but there are eyes and ears everywhere. Your family tells me you’ve been acting like an insufferable ass. I wrote them back asking if they only just noticed. Is my absence really all that unbearable? I promise you: I am whole and safe and healthy.

   So stop sulking. You big, ugly brute.

   N.

   It was the first time Cassian had laughed in days. He looked at that letter for hours, marveling at her elegant hand, no doubt trained by a slew of governesses by the time she was out of swaddling. It made him more than a little self-conscious about his own blocky chicken scratch, since he hadn’t learned how to read or write until Rhys’ mother taught him.

   Sweetheart—

   What can I say except that this big, ugly brute misses you? And yes, it’s unbearable. Almost no one says anything nice about my hair now that you’re not here to braid it! But in all seriousness: I want you home. I want you in our bed. I want to do all the wild and filthy things I said I would do once we became mates. Do you remember? If not, I’ll make damn sure to remind you. Thoroughly.

   Stay safe. Come back to me.

  C.

   He watched the paper vanish, only to return a few moments later.

   It was the same letter he just wrote, only with a note added to the end.

   ‘I’ll make damn sure to remind you.’ Is that a promise, my dear Commander? Or a threat?

   Either way, I’ll come...

   N.

   Never was Cassian more sure that he had mated himself to an actual goddess.

***

   Another several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t come home.

   But rather than sink into despair, Cassian threw himself into the one thing he was good at: violence. Needless to say, his legions bore his relentless ferocity with varying shades of bitterness and a little more than fear.

   “Take a timeout, Cas,” Rhys drawled. “I mean it.”

   This, after an evening of drilling that had their soldiers practically begging for the Mother’s mercy. True, Cassian’s training had been nothing short of brutal, savage, and unyielding. But Illyrians were nothing if not resilient and cunning bastards—and Cassian was the prince of them all.  

   “There’s still more to do.”

   “There’s always more to do,” said Rhys. “But at the pace you’re setting? We’d be lucky if our men can stand let alone fly at first light.” He turned to him, gaze softening. “Be honest. How bad is it?”

   “Bad.”

   It seemed like a lifetime ago when Cassian made some jest about Rhys’ mating bond chafing at him. Now having experienced it himself, he realized that it didn’t really chafe as much as it burned a fucking hole through his mind, fraying layers upon layers of rational thought. It took every ounce of willpower he had to keep himself in check...and sometimes even that was not enough.

   “It’s not an uncommon reaction,” said Rhys. “Especially among new mates.”

   Cassian swallowed.

   Some mates didn’t leave each other’s sides for weeks, months even, after they consummated their bond. Nesta left mere days after the tenuous thread between them snapped into place.

   “Have you called out to her?”

   He had—his mental cries ringing like a bloodsong in his ears. But the wall that held Nesta’s thoughts remained cold and silent, surrounded by freezing mist. Nothing could penetrate it, no matter how hard he tried. All he could hear was the echo of his own desperation. A primal howl that longed to be answered.

   Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?

   “I tried. There’s nothing.”

   Her letters had stopped as well. The last one unnerved him so much he nearly flew to the mortal continent himself—orders be damned.

   I’ve had quite enough of the mess these traitorous queens left behind. The matter of their succession is a thorny one. I pray we all won’t bleed out by the end of it. Vassa plans to host a summit at her palace to end this farce once and for all. Lucien is suspicious of anything that breathes. Morrigan even more so. I myself wouldn’t be surprised if the whole affair was crawling with assassins.

   My love, I’ll have to tread very carefully now. I’ll send word as soon as I can.

   N.

   That had been ten days ago, and still no word had come—from either Nesta, Lucien, or Mor.

   “If anything happens to her, Rhys…,” he said, clenching his fists hard enough to draw his own blood.  

   In truth, he didn’t know what he would do...save tearing the world apart to find her and wreaking bloody vengeance on anyone who did her harm.

   “It’s a good thing the Archerons are so formidable then. And hardy.” A reassuring hand on his shoulder. “She’ll come back, Cas. You’ll see.”  

   It was a long moment before Cassian nodded.

   “I know she will.”

   She has to.

***

   The next few days passed in a gray blur that held no meaning for the General Commander. Crops of fresh recruits had arrived from the neighboring clans, gawking and gaping at him as he stalked through their ranks, his Siphons pulsing bright and deadly at random intervals.

   “I heard he killed a Hybern commander…”

   “I heard his mate killed Hybern herself…”

   If the days were miserable, the nights were their own kind of agony. He tossed and turned, his fitful sleep lanced by the same nightmares. Nesta screaming. Nesta sobbing. Nesta broken and bloody. Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

   Where are you?

   Then suddenly…

   I’m here.

   Cassian shot out of bed, nostrils flaring as he took in that unmistakable scent. The scent of wind and rain and thunder and lightning. The scent of storms and the clash of steel. He scrambled out of his tent, not even bothering to don his full armor before spreading his wings and darting straight for the camps.

   A small crowd gathered in the main pavilions, Rhys and Azriel among the circle. A familiar flash of gold told him that Morrigan was also there, giving them her full report. The Fox, however, was nowhere in sight. And his mate...where was his mate?

   I’m here, I’m here, I’m here...

   He could feel her then, his heart beating wildly as the thread between them went taut as an anchor.

   There.

   She was standing apart from the rest of the group, speaking softly to a squadron of Illyrian females—one of the few that had been allowed to continue their training despite the odds.

   He dived for her, landing so hard a small crater had formed in the bed of canyon rock. But none of the surrounding gasps or murmurs reached his ears as his vision narrowed to the most beautiful female in the world.

  She turned to him then and his breath hitched at the sight.

   Blue-grey eyes widened on a face that was partially sooty, as though she had walked through fire to get here. Her Illyrian leathers gleamed in the moonlight, the scales worn and muddy but not beyond repair. Tendrils of golden-brown hair escaped from a crown of braids, falling on the bare skin of her neck that captured most of his attention.

    He wanted to say something clever—romantic, even. But he had never been good with those kinds of words and besides, the words didn’t come. Once again, his mate had rendered him speechless.

   She marched toward him, her pace so quick and purposeful that he wondered if she was preparing to strike. Instead, she yanked his face down to deliver a kiss that seared his very soul, her tongue demanding entrance, her body giving off the not-so-subtle heat of her arousal.

   He growled into her mouth as he embraced her, wrapping his wings around her to shield them from the catcalls and dirty jokes. She molded herself into his arms, almost grinding on him as he broke away to trail eager kisses down her cheek, her jaw, and finally to that lovely, lovely neck. Impossibly, she held him tighter.

   Nesta...

   I’m here. I’m home.

   Then she leaned in to whisper in the shell of his ear.

   “Care to remind me of what I’ve been missing while I was away?”

   He grinned. “Well...I did make you a promise, didn’t I?”

***

Thank you for reading, my loves.

Other chapters be found in the Masterlist in my Bio / I am Lady_Therion on AO3

[tony-is-writing-today-blog]

Letter To Anna

this was a writing piece i did as some venting a few weeks back. i have not written anything in first person in, uh, a few years, so this was a bit of a challenge to get back to. it’s got some rough themes to it, so please be aware of this. 

((cw: discussions of r*pe, self harm, addiction, self destructive tendencies, sexual themes, drug use))

A Letter To Anna

Dear Anna, 

My therapist told me to write this letter to you as a way to “unload” my problems, a way to try and “identify” the root of my struggles, find some sort of “closure” between us, or some other bullshit like that. I figured that for maybe just a second I could stop being an asshole and listen to her for once.

So, hi Anna.

I’m an addict.

I really hate thinking about myself like that, but it’s true.

I am an addict. 

I have an obsessive personality. 

Since I was a child, I would become hyper-fixated on certain subjects or some work of fiction to let my mind escape from everything else that supposedly mattered. When I got older, I found it addicting to be an asshole to people—mostly breaking the hearts of those closest to me. After some of that nonsense, I got addicted to alcohol, which, as it turns out, is a bit more serious than any of the things I listed above.

(It might sound bad, but the reality is that I truly don’t care about that addiction.)

(Why?)

(Because I don’t care about what happens to me.)

Following my on going sinful love affair with the devil’s poison, I did something foolishly impulsive one night and made a small one inch cut on my forearm. At first, I was shocked at what I had just done, not really knowing what came over me. 

But in reality, when I try to think back to the first time I cut myself, I don’t remember much. 

I must have been too drunk.

What I do remember of the aftermath: I was at school with a cruel hangover and wearing my NYU sweater even though it was a typical scorching hot Floridian day. I hid because I was horrified at what insanity I had done to my body. My 17-year-old self was already perpetually miserable at the thought of simply being alive and having to go to a school I hated, but now I had to attempt to hide my dramatics from everyone when I was already paranoid enough that the world hated me. 

(Junior and senior year of high school were my infamous debut years as an enormous disappointment to my family and friends.)

Just when I got into the real groove of things (drinking like it was my favorite hobby, because it was), my mother caught me with alcohol (I’m not going to elaborate further on the incident), and I got thrown back into therapy. It helped a bit with trying to figure out how to stop being such a gigantic fucking heartless asshole to the people I loved, but not much with my addictions.

When my therapist would ask about self-harming or drinking, I would immediately become furious.

My most iconic moments in therapy were when he asked me why I was cutting and I stayed silent for the full hour session. He would say, “Look at me,” and I would shoot the most loathing glare I could muster. The other moment was when I showed up to a session already fabulously drunk and almost fell asleep on the couch in his office. I distinctly remember telling him to Fuck Off. 

(I think I had a bad day at school.)

I was sober for almost a little bit over a year, but by no means was I happy. I began to cut more to compensate for the lack of alcohol and to try and calm the withdrawal effects of going cold turkey (and it didn’t really work). 

My depression got worse, but then I was having a weird few days or around a week where I would feel like I was on top of the world, ready to conquer everything and do the absolute best I could because nothing could stop me. Then, I would crash into the lowest of lows I had ever experienced. I learned to live with the self-harm, the very High Highs and the very Low Lows, the failing grades that did not reflect my actual intelligence, and calmly enjoying the new scars on my skin.

For a little while, I became addicted to toxic relationships. I thought that being emotionally abused was normal and that consent was irrelevant because all that mattered was my boyfriend getting pleasure and I had to lie there and take it, even if I said no. I accepted it as a punishment to myself for past sins I committed against others.

My therapist doesn’t think that’s a good way to look at rape. 

Even through all that, by some God given miracle, I actually managed to graduate high school. The only memorable thing about graduation was the overwhelming relief knowing that I would never have to step foot on my high school campus ever again if I didn’t want to. Graduation day was special to me only because I could finally fucking leave.

June 26th, 2015: I cut my hair short, losing about 8 ½ inches. When I almost finished my hair appointment, I got a text that read something like, “IT’S LEGAL!!! EQUAL MARRIAGE IS LEGAL!!!!” I cried a little bit, to be quite honest. I was also incredibly pleased that I looked like Janet van Dyne with my new hairstyle. 

When I got to college, self-harm was a friend I had a shamefully intimate friendship with. However, when I started smoking weed, that need to feel pain and see myself wounded abated a bit and the craving for alcohol was lost in the back of my mind. Marijuana, however, never became an addiction. It was like a blanket tucking two toxic lovers to sleep for a little while until they inevitably woke up to abuse each other once more. The difference between falling after the marijuana was that I felt like I had to justify my use to those around me because no one understood that this was the best alternative I had access to. 

I once fell into a Low when I was high. 

Being the good college student that I am, the setting was during a party in a friend of a friend’s dorm. I went to smoke with a friend beforehand because I knew there was going to be alcohol and I didn’t want the craving to ruin my night. See, my friends know I’m an alcoholic (months upon months of being sober at the time) and so if I had consumed alcohol, I felt like they’d just get front row seats to my own destruction. However, at the party when I was in the middle of feeling pretty good, all my friends were drinking around me. The host was making mixed drinks and everyone kept complimenting him on how good the drinks were. The craving was crawling up my back and I could feel it. I was able to not think about it too hard until my friend (sitting on my right) said, “These drinks are so good!” Then he paused. “Oh, shit, I forgot you can’t have any.”

I froze, but I managed to nod and give him a forced smile, but words were stuck in my throat. I stayed quiet after that while everyone else was socializing and enjoying the loud music. I suddenly felt like I was in a box and the air supply was running out. There was a mix of fury, embarrassment, helplessness, and panic running through my veins.

My other friend (sitting on my left), who was gradually getting more and more drunk as the minutes ticked by, turned to ask me, “Are you okay?” 

That’s when I noticed that I had been staring at my hands for a long solid minute and she snapped me out of my thoughts. I smiled stiffly and said I was fine. “I think I’m going to go smoke again,” I told her. “You know, to get away.”

She nodded in understanding. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

For the rest of the night, I had the begging intrusive thought of punching my friend in the face to steal his drink. I felt awful. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I love my friends. 

That one instance, those few words, made me spiral into a very Low Low for almost a week. 

He apologized later on.

I forgave him, but I felt sick.

I hurt myself afterwards.

When it comes down to cutting back on marijuana, it isn’t difficult at all. I wanted to smoke because it’s fun, but in no way does it feel like an addiction. Not drinking is harder because the way disgustingly cheap rum and coke goes down my throat is horribly satisfying. There are two things that I could give up completely and that would be marijuana and alcohol. Do I want to give those two up? Jury’s still out on that, but they for sure want to keep the marijuana. 

(Anna, don’t give up marijuana.)

I remember once during psychology class, we were told a story about this severely suicidal girl in a mental hospital who had a ton of scars. She was desperately trying to hurt herself in the hospital, even resorting to trying to cut herself with a plastic knife. When we were told the story, my classmates laughed at her apparent foolishness and I laughed as an imitative reaction, but my heart hurt. There was something killing me in the back of my mind. 

It was the word C R A Z Y .

It’s been three years and I still think about the girl in that story and wonder how that ended up being me. 

It’s been three years and I have not been able to go one full month, not even a solid three weeks, without self-harming.

For a very long time, I never considered it to be something like, “It’s to take the pain away,” and then cry about it because I thought that was dramatic (I was very mistaken back then). I only wanted to hurt myself so that I could have a lasting effect on my body, like a scar. I enjoyed seeing my body wounded, which apparently is also not a normal thing. I thought that was the only reason. I just wanted to look like I went through a fucking battlefield. Of course, my bitch-ass teenage self was wrong, as per usual.

“You hurt yourself to numb painful emotions that you might be feeling.”

I hate people telling me what they think they know about me. 

“These are some techniques to help you.”

I hate people telling me what to do.

“Put some ice on your skin—“

I hate people.

“You have to listen—“

Who gave you the right to even look at me?

I never understood why everyone seemed to care so much about me. I never understood why people would go out of their way to try and make me happy. Didn’t they know that I am never going to be happy? Why did everyone care so goddamn much? That’s disgusting. I don’t fucking comprehend how anyone could hold that kind of love for me. 

People loving me?

[Insert SURE_JAN.gif here]

Anyway, Anna…let’s get back to why I’m really here writing you this letter.

Since I got so wonderfully off topic with some unnecessary woes, I realized that trying to quit alcohol is nothing compared to trying to quit self-harming. I have an addiction, a straight up obsession, with seeing my body ruined. It’s a warm curling strange sick satisfaction to see blood trickling down my arms and thighs. When I am at my Low Lows, there is nothing more that I want to see than new scars being carved into my skin.

People do notice, though, and it’s incredibly annoying to say the least. They ask questions, as if it’s any of their business. They even find the nerve to touch me in the middle of their inquiry to emphasize their “concern” and curiosity. 

What the fuck do they expect me to say? Do they expect me to sing out a wonderful, “Ah, yes, Karen. These are but silly little scars I gave myself whilst in the middle of contemplating death and its permanently eternal benefits. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put those disgusting sausages you like to call fingers on me, or I’ll have them detached from your palm.” 

If anyone thinks I have a kind personality, they need to be directed to the nearest psychologist. 

Friends notice the scars, but know better than to address them directly. They look upon my body with small twinges of pity.

Lovers, however, are another issue entirely. They don’t point out scars, but I now have a problem having sex in general.

(Anna, don’t be a prude, now. Sex is a natural part of life. We can talk about sex with each other. I know sex is a difficult topic for you, but sex is important.)

When I was a teenager, sex used to be liberating. Sexual activity used to be fun and happy and adventurous. Anna, I’m sure you remember that time I was once called a “nerdy version of a slut” by some of the girls in my class. That was a very proud title for me because I was proud of who I was and what I looked like. I used to be so ready and so free. 

Now, I can’t even remember the last time I enjoyed anything relating to sex.

I’ve had to take things step by step with lovers just so I could be relaxed enough to even get halfway to an orgasm. I cannot express enough how grateful I am for marijuana, Anna, because that shit really helps you calm down just enough to let your mind feel your body. 

But it’s step by step.

I guess being raped does put a real dampener on things, huh?

Self-harm is an addiction like no other. It’s one that shows plainly for the world to see if you can’t hide it correctly. When people see it, they don’t think, “Oh no, poor you!” they think, “Why are you not in an insane asylum?”

People never look at you the same way. You are now eternally damaged goods. 

I think I figured out that my biggest addiction, above everything else, is that I am addicted to making myself miserable and being miserable.

Anna, it’s really hard just being alive. It honestly sucks and I used to think that it sucked all the time without any sort of possible happiness on the horizon. For a long fucking time, a horizon didn’t even exist for me. I thought I was going to be stuck in the same cycle of turmoil for the rest of my life, which I thought was going to be very short. I always saw myself being hospitalized because my bipolar mind was going to do something so drastic on my Low Lows, or I’d just never even make it out alive. I thought that I’d be stuck dragging myself through every single day, experiencing new hardships, repressing traumas, disassociating and not remembering what I was doing or what I was feeling just an hour ago and being so damn afraid and confused. I thought that my manic episodes were going to wring out every last bit of energy that I had in me. I didn’t even think I was going to make it past 18.

But listen, Anna…

I’m 20 now and I’m still very much alive. Am I happy? I’m trying to be. Am I still drinking? Sometimes, yeah I do. Am I still cutting? Yes, at least twice a week. Do I still disassociate? More often than I want to, and God I wish I had control over that shit because it’s a goddamn nightmare. Am I still having issues with sex? Dude, I can’t even hold hands with someone without thinking, “Human contact is absolutely fucking abhorrent.”

I was really focused on the negative aspects of myself before and I never looked at all the good things. So, I’ll list some good things about my life and me.

I’m a good cook. I am a singer and I can dance like a motherfucker in 6-inch heels. I get constantly complimented on how great my eyeliner is. I have a cat named Lemonade and I’m a great cat mom. I can speak three languages fluently and I’m proficient in two other languages. I know how to use a gun and last weekend at the shooting range, I hit the middle of the target three times in a row and then got some ice cream after to celebrate. I know Tolkien lore better than anyone else I’ve ever met in person or online. I know every single opening and ending theme song of every single anime I’ve ever watched (I’m talking full versions of the songs). My hair is long again, so when I braid it I look like Katniss Everdeen (the real Katniss from the shitty books—you know, the Katniss who isn’t white) (God, the Hunger Games trilogy is so shitty). I’m a fucking boss at yoga. I’m a great photographer. I have a great ass. I have great legs (and my girlfriend told me two days ago that she wanted me to crush her with my thighs, so I’ll just add that here). I won a cosplay contest three months ago and I had never felt such incredible nerdy pride in my whole life. My eyebrows are iconic and I don’t even have to do anything to them to make them look good. My eyes are really pretty. I can list every single language in the Indo-European and Altaic language trees. I’ve read the entirety of Das Kapital without falling asleep once and I’m still not sure how I achieved that feat. I volunteer at a children’s hospital and I love working with kids. I’m a debate state champion. I can make the best fruitcake known to man. I’m starting to slowly, very slowly, learn how to love myself.

It’s not easy, Anna. I still don’t understand how or why I have friends and why they stay. I don’t know why my family bothers with me. I don’t really understand why I’m still alive, but the fact of the matter is that I am alive and I have to try and figure out what I’m going to do with my time. I accept that I’m probably going to be on meds for the rest of my life and going to therapy indefinitely and that’s alright. I’m still going to have manic episodes and depressive episodes, but I’ll eventually learn how to work through them and that is also alright. I’m learning a lot of things about myself that I had never considered before. It’s hard, Anna. It’s really really hard, but I’m starting to think that it might be worth it. 

I know we’re not the best of friends and we haven’t been for many years. I’m willing to rekindle the positive relationship we had when we were children. I want to try and understand you again, Anna, and see where our future takes us. I want you to accept me as I’m trying my best to accept you. 

Writing this letter was really fucking hard, Anna. I hate admitting to my faults. I hate admitting that there are things that are wrong with me. I hate admitting that we almost completely lost each other because of everything I was suffering through.

I don’t think I’m ready to say, “I love you, Anna.”

I think I need more time for love, but I will get there one day. I hope that you will meet me halfway.

And Anna… 

Remember to smile.

From your best and worst friend,

Anna Leesman 

[theupwardmind-blog]

Note: As of this posting, I’m doing swell, which is just a testament to how quickly a mood can change. Still, I’m going to post it in its entirety because when I wrote it, I really needed to.

…

Guess what? The last few days have been, by and large, not great.

I work my ass off to not feel like total garbage: Daily meditation, a pretty rad diet, a lot of running, sobriety, journaling, baths… and of course I’ve done my rounds in therapy and with medication. In spite of these efforts, the thought that has dominated my mind lately has been along the lines of: “I’m going to blow my brains out.” (Please know that I wouldn’t be putting this on my blog if it was really a concern.)

I keep wanting to drink (I haven’t) and sometimes I get devastatingly lonely. I know I have created my current circumstances—and we all have, whether we like it or not—but of course I don’t know why. I recently texted a loved one that my “5-year plan” involves getting back into binge drinking and shooting myself in the head off of a cliff. I was kidding, but there really are times when I feel, sincerely, that I am Not Okay, like at all, and I don’t think there is anything that will help. At night I ask the universe to just make me normal and good, but I never wake up normal and good. I wake up the same me who falls short in every regard, who doesn’t love correctly, who isn’t open enough, patient enough, consistent enough, un-thinky enough, kind enough, calm enough, or safe enough. I do not always act like who I am, and I haven’t yet figured out how to fix that permanently.

Why am I posting this even though I try to be all about light and the possibility of well-being? First, it’s real. We are supposed to share our experiences with one another, and I know that the feelings I have are shared by millions of others. The second we fall into the trap of believing our isolation, depression, grief, and self-loathing are any different than those felt by the rest of humanity, we become doubly lost.

Positivity and spirituality are sometimes treated as synonyms, and that’s just not genuine. The path embraces all feelings and states of mind, and it is generally understood that (for a while anyway) waking up hurts. And, even when it’s really horrible, I know that all of my feelings and thoughts are teaching me something. For whatever reason, I haven’t gotten the lesson. If I’d gotten it, this shit would cease. Maybe the lesson is simply in impermanence itself: Never, ever expect to feel All Good, because you will never, ever be static.

Mainly I’m posting this because hiding brings its own kind of pain. When we do this, we deny our true selves to the people who want to love us. It feels worse to hide, even though it definitely feels super uncool to write about my feelings, too. I also know I’m running the risk of sounding dramatic, and at some point—maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, probably right after I hit “Publish”—I’ll regret posting it. Soon, I’ll file away this time period away into that which I psychologically label “a tantrum.”

The point is: I’m better than I’ve ever been, and still, I am This.

…

In spite of the intensity of these emotions, I remain unwilling to consider myself ill. I will not accept the bipolar story and I will not label myself “disordered.” This narrative doesn’t serve me, and if anything it damns me to believing I am fixed being. Part of that fixed narrative comes with the notion that I’ll never be fully healed, and I don’t buy that. The only reason I’m even here and in an overall healthier place than I’ve ever been in is because I’ve refused to buy it.

Of course I don’t deny the existence of mental disorders, but rather consider all life experiences as variations in consciousness. This way of thinking makes the difference between the chance at deep healing and perpetual, cyclical illness. One promotes a false “normal/abnormal, neurotypical/neurodiverse” dichotomy; the other promotes a much more realistic spectrum. Training oneself in higher consciousness (by way of self-care, meditation, journaling, etc.) can lead to the cessation of suffering, or at the very least, the dampening of it.

Because really, that’s what it’s all about: Suffering. Whether you call it depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or a personality disorder, the main concern of the human experience is suffering. The harsher felt aspects of life that are pervasive and repetitive—the ones that get called “disorders” in our culture—persist because we are, on the whole, in a very low place. Greed rules the day. “Every man for himself” is the prevailing ethos. “Us and them” is a mentality that very few people ever escape. When our overall level as a people reaches something higher, we will see mental illness fall away. I’ve said this before and I’m going to keep saying it.

I doubt that this will happen in my lifetime, since our system still seems hell-bent on letting individuals know that they’re the ones with “problems.” In our haste to diagnose—to codify, to limit, to “explain”—we tend to just not bring up the ugly truth of the situation, which is that the world is burning to the ground and our paradigm is truly fucked up. Sick societies create sick individuals, and vice versa. Healthy people depend on a healthy planet, and our planet is really not healthy.

When healing occurs, it does so on an individual and collective level at the same time: We heal ourselves and—brick by brick, mind by mind—build healthier societies that make wellness a possibility for future generations. Until we do this work, we can only expect to see rising rates of suicide, depression, addiction, and everything else we claim to be against. I for one am getting a bit tired of the short-lived outpour of concern that follows celebrity suicides. I am also tired of the idea that a person simply not killing themselves is a great victory: If all we’re doing is constantly pulling each other back from the brink, we’re still failing miserably.

…

Not a single professional I’ve worked with has really broached the fact that I suffer because A. Suffering is inherent in human existence (and so I have no reason to expect not to suffer), and B. Our culture basically breeds people to suffer for the machine. It was always about “my condition,” “my problems,” “my depression,” “my story of why I hurt.” We all have stories about why we hurt, and to some extent, these stories need to be explored. Some stories are more harrowing than others, but even the most well-off, well-loved people suffer.

Finally, meditation and yoga are being regarded as helpful treatment modalities for mental illnesses. I want to address that here: The science behind psychiatric medication is based on the theory that your brain makes the wrong chemicals and these other chemicals will kinda fix it. The science behind yoga is based on the theory that you are a universal being and ultimately, you are pure consciousness. Get in touch with the part of you that is pure consciousness—through systematic postures and meditation—and suffering begins to transform. This is true for all forms of suffering, be they given medical labels or are simply the “normal” malaise of routine adult life.

These theories/sciences are not mutually exclusive. I will always advocate doing all the things to help yourself. However, through my (largely unintentional and also explosive) exploration of inner space, I’ve found that the latter theory is a whole lot more complete.

…

There is tremendous power in stepping into the realization that it’s not you. You are not an addict or a depressed person or anything else because something is wrong with you. Instead, we have tendencies to harm ourselves because…

Our overall culture is unconscious of the way it thinks and acts.

We do not understand and/or accept the depths of the ways we all affect one another. Even people who fancy themselves hella woke tend to carry some amount of hatred and derision in their hearts. This doesn’t work, and it still hurts everyone.

We literally carry legacies of pain in bodily memory.

Fear is the default mode of living.

We have forgotten the truth of what we are.

It’s not that you’re a defective model, and you do have the power to rise above all of these things.

When it comes to mental health and overall wellness, that’s what it’s all about: The cessation of suffering through the exploration of higher consciousness. Not endless treatment, not an illness-oriented model, and certainly not a narrative that you will always be one thing or another.

…

Let’s end this on a high note, shall we?

Before I sat down to write this post, I went for a run. Even when I’m in the depths of it, meditating and running tend to lift my spirits. Near the end, I found this rosebush in someone’s yard, and it was too beautiful not to take pictures:

Being a good millennial, I put these on the Instagram where a friend commented, “Peace roses.” Again, being a good millennial, I Googled it. Lo and behold, this is what’s called the Peace Rose. And although I regard the entirety of my life experience as equally meaningful and meaningless, I’ll gladly take signs like this in times of need.

If you’re reading this, the message is meant for you as well.

– Lish

When It Gets Bad Note: As of this posting, I’m doing swell, which is just a testament to how quickly a mood can change.

[sadly-misunderstood]

Dear "Dad"

To my "Dad" You might be wondering the reason that "Dad" is in quotations. There's a major difference between a father and a dad. A father is your biological male parent. A dad is the male figure who you depend on the most and spills their wisdom, experience, and love into you. The person who protects you from the world's harm. The only advice that you've ever given me was to lose weight to get kids to stop picking on me about being fat and to never get married (which I later figured was because of your commitment issues. Yeah, I noticed.) Now, back to why "dad" is in quotations. It's for all of the countless times that you've belittled me, insulted me and let me down. While you are my father and I am your seed, you are not my dad. With all due respect (which is actually none), I wish you weren't a piece of shit. I wish you weren't my only parent on earth. I wish that I didn't put so much faith into you and trying to have a relationship with you over the years. I wish you didn't make promises that you don't keep. I wish you didn't bring up my mother in every argument you possibly could, knowing how much I hate myself for not talking to her the night before she died. I wish you actually supported me the way a parent should instead of forcing me to feel like I had to move out before I was even 18 with your constant verbal and emotional (and sometimes physical) abuse. I wish you didn't give me and my sister the bare minimum growing up. I wish you would've made our lives different. I wish that you would've done something differently and I wouldn't have been put into foster care and end up being raised by my grandparents for 10 years (I don’t know the whole story, but I know something could’ve been done differently). I wish that you wouldn't take from me more than you've given to me. I wish I didn't feel like I had to fend for myself since I was 11. I wish you were actually there for me when I was getting bullied in middle school, or there for me when I had my first major heartbreak. I wish you were there for me when all the nights I dealt with thoughts that made me want to kill myself and when I was struggling with self harm instead of yelling at me because you were too worried it would fall back on you instead of listening to my cries for help. Even after my guidance counselor made me tell you, you and Charlene just claimed it was a game I was playing. It wasn’t, Bryan. I was actually severely depressed and it was the only way I knew to cope with being shut in my room, attacked by my own self-destructive thoughts while my sister, the only person who would listen to me, was away at school 5 hours away. I wish you were there for me when I came out of the closet, instead of being like everybody else, calling me a faggot and other mean things. I wish you were there for me when my first boyfriend got sent away for over a year for being depressed instead of blaming it on me. Michael was the closest person to me, the person who held me and was there for me and made sure I knew that it was okay to be who I truly am, while you did the complete opposite. When he got sent away, it made me feel even more alone. This is where my downfall started. I started abusing anxiety pills and pain meds. I suffered with this for months, from April 2015-December 2015, but you want to know who pulled me away from my addiction and got me to quit? The boy you tried to keep me away from, Jonathan. I wish you accepted me more to meet the man I plan on marrying. The man the essentially saved my life from drug abuse, severe depression and showed me unconditional love that I could’ve never even dreamt of. I wish that you didn’t have such shitty character that neither mine nor my sister's future husbands want anything to do with you. I wish I could actually comfortably welcome you into my home or be around you or willingly tell you that I plan on getting married soon. I wish you actually congratulated my accomplishments. I never got congratulations from my father for doing everything you told was impossible. I wish you understood how hard it is to be in the position that me and my sister are in right now. How much we just want you to reconcile on your mistakes so you can hold you first born granddaughter. I wish you didn't take the tiny bit of a relationship we had for granted. I wish that I didn't sit up at night and think about how miserable I was with you. I wish that you didn't beat me when my sister was away for college and you heard I was gay. I wish that I wasn't let down every time I put my faith into you. I wish that you didn't make me feel like a horrible person anytime I made a mistake. I wish that i didn't think that anytime someone is remotely annoyed or mad, it was directed towards me because of you (this is still a problem till this day... thanks). I wish that I didn't have a drug problem in high school because I had no other ways to cope with my problems. I wish that you didn't make it feel like the only family that I have is the one that I make on my own. I wish you didn't defend a woman who you won't even marry over your own children. I wish that I didn't have to be homeless for a month because you were nowhere to be found. I wish I would’ve been able to turn to you when I lost absolutely everything. But you know what? I'm going to do this regardless, and I hope you hate and regret all the broken promises and not being there for me and my sister. With everything being said, I wish for you not to try to contact me ever again.

[sadandsoberr]

Two years of Abuse

*All names are changed*

THIS CONTENT DEALS WITH DOMESTIC ABUSE, SELF HARM, AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS 

Where do I even Start….

I guess it all started when we moved from Toronto to Aurora. I thought so highly of the move. I was going to start at a new school, my old friend went there so I assumed we would hang out and i’d make all new friends and it would be my clean start. I was very wrong. I had no friends at my new school, nobody talked to me and I was more alone than ever. I hated it in Aurora. I loved the house, loved the area, but felt miserable. Due to being so alone I called up an old friend whom I hadn’t talked to in quite some time due to a fight we got into. Sabrina and myself started talking as if nothing happened and fell into easily hanging out regularly again. One night in Mid January of 2014, Just after my 17th birthday we decided to meet up with Sabrina. Sabrina that night was with numerous people, one of them being George. George was everything I thought was attractive back then. He dressed cool, talked cool, and had alcohol + drugs that I was more than happy to take. The rest of that night everyone just hung out and had fun. The timeline of this story is all a little fuzzy so exact dates and the order of events may not be 100% accurate but I will try to keep it as close as I can remember.

It is now February and I have been seeing George more regularly. Sleeping over, drinking, partying, and had a makeout session on February 1 during the superbowl. I was alone with him on the night of February 5, 2014 when he asked me to be his girlfriend. I was over the moon. I’ve never had a real boyfriend before. I went home the next day so happy and eager to see him again. I stopped going to school and only wanted to see George. He lived in Toronto, drank, was fun- what more could I of asked for? I quickly decided that living in Aurora wasn’t cutting it for me anymore and packed my bags and left while my father was at work. At first everything was great, until one night.

It is march now & my period is late. I didn’t want to worry George so I went out on my own and tried to steal a pregnancy test ich came out positive. Having no money and being scared, I told George and asked my father to transfer money to buy another test just to make sure. I now know there are clinics which test you for free but I was young and didn’t know about resources. George, knowing that I now had money in my account wanted to buy pizza so he told me to get the cheapest one. After buying the test (with two in a pack) George was furious that he didn’t get what he wanted, pushed me against the wall in the doorway of our building and began strangling me. This was the first incident. I was so confused. Why did I buy two tests when he wanted food? Whats wrong with me? I automatically blamed myself, went upstairs and begged my father to send more money so George could eat.

After this incident it all starts to blur together. Things like that would happen to often I don’t even remember them all. There was an incident in the bathroom where he hit my head against the sink. I came out and it turned into a big fight with me, Sabrina and George. We all woke up the night morning with blood everywhere, furniture broken, but nobody spoke about it. Times when he would strangle me to the point I lost my vision and eventually come to lying on the floor with him standing over me with this look. If anyone has ever been in an abusive relationship, they know what look im speaking of. There is no compassion, no love, no safety when staring into those empty eyes. Strangling was George’s go to method of abuse. I remember once being strangled and coming to with my dog lying on my lap looking so scared. There were times I had bruises everywhere, where he would be hitting me in front of his friends but nobody spoke up thinking it wasn't their business. Not to mention the verbal abuse I would encounter. Being told i’m no good, im a horrible person, nobody will love me.

One night I remember is when we all went to Niagara. George, Sabrina, Mark, and myself. It started off great as usual until George started to get upset at me then at Sabrina. I remember fighting in the hotel washroom and he began to strangle me. This is when Sabrina jumped on his back attempting to stop him. My memory jumps to Sabrina being on the bed and George flipping the mattress over, hauling her into the air. From there it jumps to me running down the street in Niagara as Sabrina tells me to run and hide. The next morning I was in the hotel room with George while Sabrina & Mark stayed in the 24 hour Denny’s. I know there was a point we all were locked out, a point Sabrina climbed over a fence and cut herself, and alot more but like I said, everything's a blur.  

One day George’s Ex Amy came back into town from Calgary and George wanted to see her. She came to our house and the whole time they were attached to each other leaving me to feel vulnerable and helpless. Being upset at the situation I went to shower and made George come into the bathroom with me just to make her upset.  One day we all got a hotel and Amy was there. She stated that she needed to buy a lighter so George went with her, leaving me alone for over an hour. Afterwards We went to my mother's house and I was waiting in the bathroom while George kept talking to Amy. I yelled at her telling her to get out and she did- George & I walking her of course. I later found out that he cheated on me while looking for the lighter.

We would frequently visit my mother who absolutely adored George. She praised him because I loved him, so did she. We would all go out together and have a great night but when we went separate ways it wasn’t as much fun. At this point it must be May 2014 and we are living in a new apartment after being evicted. We are all doing drugs and I was talking and talking and talking. The next morning George was furious at me, screaming saying were over. Being over was not an option for me. Where would I live? I couldn’t go back to Aurora. The whole morning I was in tears crying so hard I couldn't breathe. This lasted the majority of the day. It went in waves where he wasn’t angry then extremely angry. Nothing I said was right. Till this day, I will never know why he was so mad. Living in that apartment lasted a total of 17 days. George threw a party which led to us being evicted once again.

Having nowhere to live we decided to stay with my mother. It was a studio apartment with one bed we all shared + the dog. One night near the end of June 2014 George’s sister Amanda was throwing an after prom party in a hotel. We all were having a fun time, George was extremely intoxicated and everyone went home besides us. George fell asleep on the couch and when I went to wake him up he attacked me. I guess I blacked out after that because the next thing I remember is waking up on the bed with blood stained sheets around me. My body was sore and my eyes were hard to open. When I made it to the bathroom I couldn’t believe what I saw in the mirror. I had two black eyes, bruises covering my whole body and a swollen mouth. There was blood throughout my hair, under my nose, my mouth. When George woke up he asked me what happened and i told him the last thing I remembered. Amanda later told me that someone came back to the room and heard crying and yelling but couldn’t get inside the hotel room.

After that incident we ended up living with my father for a bit until finding another apartment under a hair salon Mid July 2014. While living there a few occurrences stand out for me. One is where we were screaming at each other and I thought dying would be better than living like this anymore so I attempted to slit my throat. One morning my father promised to send money but only sent half which drove George crazy. He threw me on the floor and began stomping on me and kicking my head. I tried to get up over and over but he just continued to stomp or push me forward until I landed on my face. This happened for hours. I told him I would get the money but he didn’t care at this point. Eventually I convinced George to let me go switch the laundry from the place down the street and ran as fast as I could onto the bus. While Sitting on the bus his sister called me saying how horrible of a person I am for leaving and making him stuck with the laundry. She called me so many terrible things and convinced me I’m horrible if I don’t return so I did. As for what happened the rest of the day, I don’t know.

That was another house we didn’t stay at long. George convinced himself that moving to Florida would be a better idea and we packed up and left once again. I felt like I couldn’t breathe without him. That was the longest week of my life without a doubt. I sold my laptop and anything else I could find, begged my sister for money and flew out to Florida. I convinced myself I could go to school there and we will live happily ever after but issues arose with George’s father, fights broke out between us, and we both flew back to Toronto mid September 2014.

We stayed with my father at this point until late October 2014 until we moved into our Dufferin apartment. It was gross and small. While living here I remember locking myself in the bathroom terrified of George, being strangled on the bed, having to pee into an empty liquor bottle because he wouldn’t let me use the washroom. Any name you can be called, he called me and any bit of self worth I had was taken from me, yet I couldn’t live without him. Isn’t that how it always is though? They convince you that you are nothing without them.

March 2015 George was arrested for assaulting a transit driver and having a concealed weapon. He spent a week in jail for this and my father was the one who bailed him out.  We went to go see Tyler a few weeks after he was out and that night is when I was dragged by my hair on the sidewalk, pushed onto the bus and hit across the face, leaving my body on the bus floor. Tyler told the bus driver to call the police but she just told George to stop. Another witness who wasn’t phased by me being hurt.

It’s hard trying to piece together the timeline for when these happened. I am getting to the point where I cannot give you a specific month for these occurrences. I know there was a time when he strangled me at my mother’s house, another time we got into an argument at my fathers which left me with a chipped tooth from being punched in the mouth with a ring on, a fight that left me so vulnerable I sliced my leg open with a pair of scissors which resulted in 25 stitches. Being strangled up against a door with a key lock, sliding down to free myself and getting a cut from shoulder to hip across my back which hasn’t faded, kissing which led to George biting down super hard and leaving me with a hole right above my chin, being strangled in the washroom in Aurora, being pressed between the door and wall until I couldn’t breathe, should I go on?

December 2015 we were living in scarborough and were having a pretty ok night. We decided to have sex and during it George looked down at me and said your going to die tonight and began strangling me. I somehow got out of his hold and ran to the washroom. He came to say sorry and I got into the bedroom and locked the door. He banged and banged on it for an hour until it was knocked down. The next morning when the people upstairs asked  what had happened, George explained that I fell asleep with it locked. Silly me.

January 2016 George moved  away to Florida for good and I moved out on my own. This was the end of our relationship. Although I kept in contact with him and we spoke daily we agreed not to date. July 2016 was the final time he hurt me. I went to visit him in Florida and the whole time he was rude to me because we weren’t together and he felt hurt. I booked my plane ticket home because I couldn’t deal with how he was treating me. When he found out I was leaving he pushed me into the closet and strangled me until I lost vision. His dad came running in and I was crying. I got on the plane the night day and haven’t seen him since.

Although we spoke on the phone I never saw him. It took me a very long time to cut all strings with him and move on. I know people are thinking “ why would you stay for so long?” and honestly, I can’t give a simple answer for that. I didn’t want to live with my father, I wanted to be loved. He convinced me that nobody would ever love me and I would be alone without him. He made sure I was dependent on him and that I couldn’t be on my own. He took me to places and we had a great time. I thought that I was at fault. If I didn’t say that I wouldn’t of got hurt.

It has taken me over two years since George leaving to be able to even speak about what happened during our relationship. I still flinch if someone moves to fast, and cry if someone raises their voice towards me. I am relearning my worth and to be honest, I will always have a piece of doubt in me because of him. I will always think back and wonder how it could of been better, what I did, why was I so hard to love. Why didn’t this happen to other girls ? I must be the issue. My mother passed away while we were together and I think somewhere within me held on to George because he knew her. How could I be with someone who didn’t know my mom?

I now have an amazing boyfriend who bends over backwards for me. He is my sunshine on all of my cloudy days and I am grateful that he loves me. I convinced myself I wasn’t capable of being loved. I did a lot of bad things towards myself physically, emotionally. I will never be who I was before this and I’m learning that it's okay. I have to grow from my experiences and never believe that I am less than anyone else.

Other times stuff happened out of Timeline

* One night we are at his friend Tyler’s house and just like always a fight starts. I was pushed down the stairs and when I came back inside even his friend John said he saw the look on his face. The empty eyes look. The next morning were outside screaming and fighting and he pushes me down the front stairs again and starts stepping on me. A neighbour witnessed this and called the police. When they showed up I freaked out saying don’t take him from me. This resulted in a restraining order, anger management courses and many court dates. Even that wasn’t enough to keep us apart. I was going to marry him, I was sure of it.