#no i avoid eating because it makes me feel physically disgusting because of the crumbs and everything that is the result of food and

[ociels]

i genuinely don’t think i lost that much weight due to of ocd and avoiding food bc it’s contaminated i genuinely think i just grew.. as teenagers do…

[zacc-attacc]

Nature: A Javid Oneshot

A/N: My first ever oneshot on this website! I hope y’all enjoy!

Word Count- 1.2k

Jack loved the open sky. He loved the stars, the sounds of nature, and everything in between. But, more than anything, it calmed him, something that not many things were able to do. As a kid, he had always dreamed of falling asleep under the stars every single night. And when he was bounced around in foster care, the night sky had been the one common variable. Always there, like a blanket. Luckily for Jack, Some of the Newsies had put together a camping trip in the woods near campus. They had tents (from the Dollar Tree, probably), a bunch of marshmallows, some hotdogs, and a whole lot of energy. And Jack? Jack an invite and a limited will to live. At least Davey would be there, which, to be honest, had its ups and downs.

Ups, because Davey was single-handedly the sweetest human alive and a fun dude to hang out with. And downs, because Davey was Mom Friend Supreme™ and also had an annoying tendency to make Jack’s normally stoic heart do a tap dance in his chest. Which really was inconvenient because Jack’s last relationship had ended only four weeks ago. It wasn’t a nasty breakup, he and Katherine were actually still friends, but the boys still expected him to be depressed about it. But Jack didn’t like to linger. He was upset for a few days, but now he was over it. Katherine obviously was as well, since she was seen going on a few coffee dates with some girl. 

But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, he could be whoever he wanted to be because that’s just how it was with the Newsies.

Tonight, he could eat bargain hot dogs and s’ mores, and avoid the fact that he was hopelessly in love with the only man he couldn’t have; because god forbid David Jacobs dated a mess like him. 

Jack knew exactly where he lay in David’s mind. He was a close friend, maybe a sort of Uncle to his future children with his perfect little life with his husband in the suburbs. David liked him well enough, but he would likely never love him. And Jack had tried to accept that, even though, thus far, it had only made it much worse.

“Ay! Jack! You packed?” Crutchie yelled from his lower bunk. Jack was stretched out on the top bunk, staring at a half-finished political cartoon for his class. 

“Yeah… What time’d the guys say to be there?” Jack sat up, hitting his head on the low ceiling. He wasn’t even that tall and it managed to injure him on a daily basis. 

“...In five minutes.”

“Shit-” Jack muttered, scrambling to jump down the bunk, only succeeding in hitting his head yet again on the ceiling. After hitting the floor in the heap, all Jack could hear was Crutchie’s cackles. 

“Just kidding, It’s actually in 20- I just wanted to see your reaction,” Crutchie wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. 

“Yeah, real funny, Crutch,” Jack mumbled, rolling his eyes and smiling. As much as he loved his little brother, he, unfortunately, knew exactly how to get Jack riled up quite easily, which normally ended in Jack running into a wall or stabbing himself in the arm with a pen in a panic.

“S’funny to me,” Crutchie choked out, still laughing. Jack pushed himself to his feet, brushing off the assorted chip crumbs that had migrated from the shitty shag carpeting of his dorm onto his shirt.

“I know, I know,” Jack muttered, grabbing Crutchie’s crutch from the wall and handing them to him. Looking at his laughing face, Jack couldn’t help but crack a smile. 

“Alright, let’s get a move on… You ready?” Jack shook his head while still grinning, snatching his duffle bag and Crutchie’s backpack from beside the door. 

“Ay! I can carry that!" Crutchie protested, making a grab at the bag. 

“Wow, brother dearest, won’t even let me carry a bag,” Jack joked, sticking out his tongue and popping into a dead sprint down the hallway. 

“NOW THAT’S JUST UNCALLED FOR!” Crutchie yelled from the hallway. 

“LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU, STUPID HEAD!” Jack shouted back, slamming open the door for the stairs and sliding onto the railings down the flights. Once he reached the bottom, he pulled out his phone.

“Text RaceyBoi.” 

“What would you like to say?” that stupid automated voice asked back, not fully human or robotic. 

“‘Can you go walk Crutchie to the campsite? Left him for CPS reasons.’” CPS was not, in fact, Child Protective Services, but instead Crutchie Protection Squad.

Smiling to himself, Jack started walking towards the woods on the outskirts of campus. He thought he saw Kid Blink and Spot at one point, Heely-ing towards the woods. He couldn’t help but wonder how the wheels would hold up amongst all the vegetation, and quietly hoped he wouldn’t have to call an ambulance tonight. 

“Hey, Jack!” came a familiar voice from behind him. His heart automatically deciding to kick into overdrive, Jack turned around to see none other than David Jacobs, grinning and clutching a duffle bag. 

“Whaddup, Dave,” Jack grinned back, clapping the taller boy on the shoulder. Seriously, who gave him the right to be this tall? He was like a noodle with a head and arms. 

“You heading down to the campsite?” Davey asked, falling into step with Jack. 

“That’s the plan. Race is taking Crutchie so that idiot won’t try to carry his backpack again.” 

“...You realize he can carry it perfectly fine, right?” Davey said, looking slightly confused.

“Yeah, but I just feel like doin’ something nice for him, y’ know?” 

“You may be stupid at times, but you are a good brother, Jack Kelly,” Davey chuckled, taking off his hat and flipping it backward. 

“Ey, now don’t get to tellin’ the boys that, I have a reputation as a jerk to keep,” Jack couldn’t stop smiling. Why couldn’t he stop smiling? He felt like someone had turned him into the fucking sun from the Teletubbies. 

“I don’t think you could pass as a jerk if you tried,” Davey shrugged, looking into Jack’s eyes so he could get the point across. God, his eyes were brown. Beautiful, chocolatey, perfect brown. 

“You would be surprised,” Jack said, tearing his eyes away. 

Don’t let yourself get attached, dammit. 

“Hey,” Davey stopped. Jack stopped too, staring at him. He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. 

“Don’t… Don’t talk like that. I know you, Jackie. Okay? And you aren’t an asshole.” 

“Jeez, David, only a few minutes into the trip and you’re already on the late-night talks-” Jack turned away, hoping Davey couldn’t see that he was blushing. 

“I need to hear you say it, okay?” He turned Jack around, forcing him yet again to look into his eyes. 

“Fine. I… I ain’t an asshole. Ya happy?” Jack bit his tongue forcefully. That almost physically pained him to say. 

“Yeah. I… I’m sorry Jack,” Davey said. Jack still wasn’t looking at him. 

“Don’t apologize for caring, Davey.” 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

It was late. The shitty fire that had taken them almost a full hour to make was burning low, and Jack had to keep prodding it with a random stick to keep it lit. Most of the boys had already retired to their tents and sleeping bags, and Davey was fast asleep on his chair. Race was the only one still out. 

“Do you think we should wake him up?” Race said, tossing the remains of his s’more into the fire. 

“What? Oh, nah, I’ll wake him up when I head in. Poor kid, being a pre-med student probably never sleeps,” Jack pointed out. 

“How long do you think you’ll be staying out?” Race asked, standing up and stretching. 

“‘Till I get tired,” Jack prodded the fire again, before throwing in another stick. 

“Then he’ll be out here all night,” Race joked, cracking a smile.

“I’ll wake him up before then. Wouldn’t want him to get hypothermia or some shit.” 

“It’s the middle of April, I highly doubt he’ll get hypothermia, Jack.” 

“...Did Racetrack Higgins seriously just say an educated statement?”

“Goodnight-” Race turned away suddenly, seeming intent on changing the subject. 

“YOU CAN’T CHANGE IT NOW, WE KNOW YOU’RE SMART,” Jack whisper-shouted, not wanting to wake any of the boys up (especially not Davey). 

Race replied with his silence. 

Sighing, Jack sat back in his chair. Not having any will to sleep, and nothing more to do, he grabbed out his sketchbook. Nature was always good for inspiration. 

Well, it could’ve been nature, or it could’ve been Davey. Because, without even realizing it, Jack had started to sketch the sleeping boy’s figure. His right fist was supporting his cheek, his hat was half-tipped onto his face, shading it slightly. His legs were crossed, and his left arm was set on top of them. 

Behind him was a backdrop of pine trees, and, even though that wasn’t the actual view, a full moon, and stars. So many stars. All spelling out little words of love in Spanish, Jack’s first language. 

Precioso. Bonita. Perfecto. 

His hair was mostly tucked under his cap. His eyes were softer when he slept. A ghost of a smile played at his lips. 

Increíble. 

Perfect. 

Just as Jack was signing his name and dating the piece, Davey began to stir. 

Quickly shutting the book, Jack simply stared up at the stars he could see despite the light pollution and thick trees. 

“Hey, Jack, saw you drawing there,” Davey said, quietly. 

“Oh- uh- yeah, just… lookin’ through some old pieces,” Jack stammered. 

“Can I see?” 

“Uh- no, this isn’t my graded stuff, it’s all just sketches-“

“Y’know, for an art student, you really don’t like showing your art.” 

“Uh- Fine.” Jack gave up and strode across the fire to hand him the book. It was mostly drawings of the boys, maybe he wouldn’t look that far. 

...Spoiler alert, he looked that far. 

“...Is this me? Right back then, when I was sleeping?” 

“Uh-“

“You really made me look better than I’ve ever seen myself.” 

“Well, that’s how I see you,” Jack said before he could think about his words. Y’know, like a normal person who is trying to hide a massive crush that could end one of his best friendships. 

“Th-that’s… how you see me?” Davey was blushing now. Blushing. Not disgusted. 

“Uh… yeah. Y’see here, th-the moon behind ya, the way it… it focuses on you.” Jack said, kneeling by his chair and pointing to it. 

You are digging your own grave, Jack Kelly. 

“Jack, I… that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Davey was still blushing. He turned his face to Jack’s. He was so close… 

“Well… I draw what I think, Dave, ‘cause words… they ain’t my strong suit,” Jack chuckled, pulling back. But Davey leaned forward. 

“Your drawings don’t need words, Jack. But the artist of them… That is a man that deserves millions of words said about him.” 

“D-Davey… Don’t. Please, don’t do this,” Jack shook his head, standing back up. 

“Did I make you uncomfortable? I- I’m sorry, I thought that we-“ 

“No, David. You didn’t. That’s the exact issue! D-d’ya really think I want to end up breaking your heart? We… We can’t do this, ‘cause it’ll end with me hurting you just like I have a million people! And you don’t deserve that fate! You’re too good for me, David,” Jack might’ve been crying. He wasn’t sure. But he sure as hell was ranting. 

“Jack-“ 

“Don’t Jack me, don’t try to act like it could be any different. We know exactly how this is going to end, and I- I can’t stand losing you, Dave.” 

There was a moment of silence. It was obvious Davey was picking his next words carefully. 

“You won’t.” 

“How could you possibly know that?” 

“You won’t because I won’t let it, Jack Kelly. I won’t let you lose me as a friend, ever. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.” 

“Da-“ 

In two strides, Davey crossed the circle of chairs and shut Jack up with a kiss, half-crushing him with how tightly he was holding him. 

He did this… this thing that made it obvious this wasn’t his first kiss. The way he moved his head up and down just a little bit. The way he seemed all in but ready to pull away if they needed to at any second. 

But more than anything, there was a definitive Davey-ness to him that made it all perfect. 

So Jack had found one more reason to like nature. It was where he shared his first-ever kiss with his boyfriend, David Jacobs.

[lifeofkaze]

An Art of Balance #4

Warning: mention of food

 Word Count: ~ 2.500

______________________________________________________________ 

Chapter 4: Devising A Plan

The Great Hall was already crowded when Charlie and Lizzie returned. It had been the first time Lizzie had been to the creatures reserve this year. She couldn’t resist checking on all of their charges and the sun had almost gone down when they had started to make their way back.

Hagrid had been quite busy adding new arrivals. They were eagerly chatting about the new flock of Diricrawls they had encountered just as they had been about to leave. It had taken all of Charlie’s efforts to prise Lizzie from their adorable antics.

Lizzie looked the Hufflepuff table up and down for where Rowan was sitting. Charlie noticed her searching look and nonchalantly put his arm around her shoulder, craning his head.

“So, who is this ‘something like a date’ person? Do I know them?”

She shook his hand off and rolled her eyes. “Do you even care if it’s not a Norwegian Ridgeback?”

“Who do you take me for? Of course I do!” He waved at Bill who had kept a seat for him at the Gryffindor table. “Although, to be honest, not quite as much as if they were.”

Having spotted her, Lizzie pointed to where Rowan was waiting. “See, that’s my dinner date over there. If you don’t mind, I’ll go and spend my evening without any talk of dragons.”

Charlie only laughed at that. “As if you’re not loving it.”

Lizzie hid her affectionate smile by turning her back on him and walking over to her house table. She passed Orion and McNully, who offered her a seat. She quickly shook her head, not even stopping.

“Not today, guys. Next time.”

She heard McNully mutter a “That was about 63,7% unexpected.”, and continued on.

When she walked past Penny, Skye and Tonks, who shifted on the bench to make room for her, she halted for second.

“Thank you, but don’t mind me. I’m having dinner with Rowan today.”

Penny arched her eyebrows. “So that’s why she didn’t want to sit with us. I was wondering what was going on.” She gave Lizzie a sympathetic smile. “It will do you good to catch up a bit.”

“I really hope so.”

Lizzie took a step forward when Skye caught hold of her wrist. Surprised, Lizzie turned around again to see her suspicious glance towards the table where Charlie was goofing around with his brothers.

Knowing exactly what she was about to ask, Lizzie wrenched her arm free and put it against her hip.

“Skye, don’t, I warn you,” she glowered at her friend. “We have been working at the reserve, like so many times before. Get over it.”

Skye was clearly not satisfied with Lizzie’s answer, but said nothing, surprised at Lizzie’s sharp tone. Angrily Lizzie walked on, letting herself fall into the seat facing Rowan.

Her friend was toying around with her fork. Lizzie noticed her plate was still empty. Her anger subsided instantly. Rowan had actually waited for her to start her meal. Feeling guilty for dallying, Lizzie blushed.

“I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, you really should have started without me! I was looking at all the new creatures Hagrid brought in and forgot the time. Can you imagine, we have a whole flock of Diricrawls now, and some new Abraxans have joined the herd and- “, Lizzie noticed her rambling and willed herself to stop.

“Thank you for waiting, is what I wanted to say,” she mumbled sheepishly.

Rowan didn’t seem to be particularly mad and reached for one of the sandwiches piled on a plate in front of her. Relieved she didn’t mess things up even further, Lizzie did the same.

Lifting the top half up, she grimaced. “Ugh, tuna.” She nodded at Rowan who had done the same and looked equally disgusted as she was. “What have you got?”

Rowan wrinkled her nose. “Roast beef.”

“Swap?” they asked simultaneously. They burst out laughing, exchanging their sandwiches. They had each picked the other one’s favourite.

The laughter subsided and they started eating in silence, neither quite knowing how to begin the conversation. Lizzie couldn’t remember a time when she had not been able to tell Rowan what was on her mind. But now, everything felt strained, as if they didn’t know each other by heart.

Setting her sandwich down before her, Lizzie took a deep breath.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” She looked Rowan directly into the eye. “Tell me what is bothering you.”

Rowan, however, seemed determined to avoid Lizzie’s inquiring gaze. Instead, she reached for her cup of pumpkin juice, turning it around between her hands again and again.

“I don’t know what’s the matter, Lizzie. I’m alright. We’re good.”

Lizzie snorted and crossed her arms before her chest. “I’m not leaving this table until we have settled this. And neither are you,” she added quickly as she saw Rowan’s eyes shift towards the entrance of the Great Hall. “Now, let’s try again. Why are you so uncomfortable around me? Is this really only about my Quidditch friends?”

Rowan pursed her lips, still looking everywhere but directly at her. Her nervous fingers had moved on to a slice of bread, tearing it apart into tiny pieces. Lizzie reached across the table and gently took it out of her hands. Rowan had hung her head, her face partly obscured by her long black hair. Lizzie leaned forward a bit, trying to take a peek at her friend’s expression. Seeing how miserable she looked, Lizzie instantly felt sorry for her.

“You can tell me,” she said softly.

Finally, Rowan lifted her head, a guilt-stricken expression on her face. “Why do you have to be like this? I have been so snarky to you and still you try so hard to make something right that you don’t even know about!”

Lizzie frowned in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re on to, but I think that is what friends are supposed to be doing.”

Disbelief was written all across Rowan’s face. “Can you please stop being so disgustingly perfect for just a second?” She waved at her angrily. “Just look at you. As popular as Penny, as good a chaser as Skye and although you spend all your time hopping from one party to the other, or throwing quaffles around on that stupid pitch of yours instead of studying, you are still as good in class as I am!” It had all burst out of her in a rush. Her cheeks had flushed with her anger.

Lizzie couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “Are you trying to tell me, that you are jealous of me? Seriously?” she asked incredulously.

Rowan pressed her lips together. “But I’m right, am I not? Everything comes so easy to you; you’re not even trying. I, on the other hand, study the hardest of all of us and I just can’t surpass you!” She slammed the new slice of bread she had been reducing to crumbs down onto her plate.

Now it was Lizzie’s turn to get angry. “That is the biggest pile of nonsense I have ever heard come out of your mouth.” She leaned forward, her body tense. “I work hard for everything I do and you know that damn well. I used to think we were a team. Complementing each other, not rivals about who performs best.”

“Yes, because you don’t even see me as competition.” Rowan had raised her voice, attracting the attention of the students around them. While some were looking curiously, most seemed uncomfortable to witness their fight and pretended to not notice.

Furious, Lizzie got up. “This is ridiculous. I don’t have to listen to this. We can talk when you have come back to your senses.”

Turning around, she found the way blocked by Orion and Murphy, standing a few feet away from her, suddenly pretending very hard not to have listened to the angry exchange between the two friends.

“What do you want?” Lizzie snapped.

Startled by her sharp tone, Murphy started rambling. “Oh, we just came over because Orion wanted to tell you something. But we didn’t want to interrupt you and Rowan talking, because it seemed important and everyone knows you had a rough start this year and I don’t know if it helps but statistically there is a phase in every friendship where even the best friends start fighting; chances of this being between the ages of fifteen and seventeen lie at 88,2 %. This is probably because people are growing up and getting interested in thinks like dating, which can strain- “

Noticing Lizzie’s withering gaze and Orion’s raised eyebrows, he trailed off, looking rather sheepish.

Orion turned his attention back to Lizzie. “Are you alright? You seem upset,” he asked quietly.

Lizzie averted her eyes. “Forget it, it’s nothing.”

He didn’t seem as if he believed her. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever is troubling you, clear you mind. Focus on what is ahead.”

Lizzie glanced at his hand, confused by the gesture. “And what would that be?”

He let go of her, suddenly beaming. “The time for try-outs has come! We shall set out to find the missing link to the chain that holds our team together.”

Lizzie blinked at him. “What, right now?” She wouldn’t put it past him.

“No, tomorrow after class.” Murphy chimed in, switching into full announcing mode. “Prepare for a detailed recapitulation of last season’s strategic highs and lows, prepare for a thorough analysis of your physical condition, prepare for dreams being fulfilled and dreams being crushed when the aspirants for the vacant beater position are tested in Hufflepuff’s first practise of the season!”

Having gotten a little overexcited, he took a deep breath to calm himself. “Just be prepared.”

The prospect of getting back to the pitch had considerably heightened Lizzie’s spirits again.

“Don’t worry, I can’t wait,” she smiled at both of them.

Orion returned her smile, waved into Rowan’s direction and walked off, catching up to Murphy who was already halfway out of the Great Hall.

Now in a calmer mood, Lizzie turned around again to try her luck with Rowan one more time.

Rowan didn’t seem to notice, however. She was staring after Orion and Murphy, hand still half raised, a blush on her face. Their eyes met for a split second before Rowan dropped her gaze, but it was enough for Lizzie to see the flustered look in them.

Intrigued, she sat back down again.

“So that is it, isn’t it?” Although she really tried, she couldn’t keep the hint of smugness out of her voice. “The reason you don’t want to be around me when I’m with my teammates.” She interlaced her fingers and rested her head on top of them, blinking innocently. “You fancy Orion, am I right?”

Her face colour turning from a slight blush to a deep scarlet, Rowan frantically looked around if someone had heard. “You might as well hop onto the table and shout it out, if you don’t keep your voice down,” she hissed.

Lizzie tried to stifle the laugh burning at the back of her throat. It came out as a giggle. “Come now, it’s not like this is something bad. How long has this been going on?”

Helplessly, Rowan buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know. Maybe since about Christmas last year? I can’t really put a date on this, you know?”

Lizzie was surprised. “So long? Why did you never tell me?”

“It’s not like you were telling me everything either,” Rowan shot back, hinting at Lizzie and Charlie kissing.

“Fair game,” Lizzie conceded. “So, what’s your plan?”

Rowan shifted nervously on her seat. “I don’t know. Do you think I could have any chances with him?”

Lizzie considered for a moment. She had known Orion for quite some time now. He had become a close friend to her, he was a brilliant captain and gifted chaser, but she had a hard time picturing him doing something as mundane as dating.

“Honestly, Rowan? I’m not entirely sure he even does that,” she said cautiously.

“Does what?”

“Well… dating and stuff,” Lizzie shrugged.

Rowan impatiently waved her off. “Of course he does. He’s had girlfriends before; do you really think I haven’t done my research?”

Now it was Lizzie’s turn to blush. She had never thought Orion could actually have past relationships. She had never known about any of them. Thinking about this felt like invading his privacy somehow.

But this was Rowan, her best and oldest friend, who had fallen for her team captain. It was very unlike Lizzie to leave things alone once she set her mind on it and she felt the need to mend the relationship with her.

“No, of course you have. Now tell me, what are we going to do about it?”

Rowan’s brows shot up in surprise. “You want to help me? After all the things I said earlier?”

“Especially after all the things you said earlier,” Lizzie explained. “Orion is my friend and I like to think I know him a fair bit. Maybe I can set you up.”

Rowan remained doubtful. “I don’t know, Liz, what if he doesn’t like me? This could be a real clash of interests for you.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Lizzie happily reached for a bit of fruit from the bowl before her. She spun the grape between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. “What do you want me to do?”

Knowing Lizzie wouldn’t give up on this, Rowan surrendered. “Actually, I was going to ask Penny for help in this… but it might work even better with you.”

“You know Orion is one of the best Herbology students in his year?” she asked in a matter-of-fact voice.

“No, but it figures.” Orion loved everything to do with nature, him having a talent for cultivating plants made perfect sense.

“Exactly. And it just so happens that he is tutoring students who are not as skilled as he is.”

Lizzie tilted her head. “But you are good at Herbology. You grew up among plants, quite literally.”

Rowan shook her head. “No, I’m really struggling with this year’s curriculum.”

Lizzie’s head dropped to the other side. “You are?”

“Same as you.”

Now she could only blink in bewilderment. “I am?”

Rowan pointed her fork at her, annoyance clearly visible on her face. “Go on asking like that and I might just believe it’s actually true.”

Shaking out of it, Lizzie gave Rowan’s plan a thought. “You want us to pretend to struggle in Herbology, so Orion can tutor us?”

“Exactly.”

“And what do you need me for?”

Her friend looked a little bit embarrassed. “A bit of moral support, I guess? Besides, you know him better than I do.”

Lizzie winced. “I’m not sure about this, Rowan. Like you said, I know Orion. He really values honesty. This could go terribly wrong.”

Rowan’s eyes flashed impatiently. “Are you in or do you want me to ask Penny for help?”

She had a bad feeling about this, but didn’t want to ruin their unspoken truce already. “Alright, I’m in. I’ll talk to him tomorrow after practise.”

[virmillion]

Exoskeleton

the honors zoology-inspired fic that no one asked for

Warnings: OCD, heavily described food, fighting, unhappy ending, derealization, let me know if there’s any more

Words: 3850 (22000 characters tho which is 10/10)

Exoskeleton - ek’sō-skel’ə-tən - (Gr. exō, outside, + skeletos, hard) - A supporting structure secreted by ectoderm or epidermis; external, not enveloped by living tissue, as opposed to endoskeleton.

    Exoskeletons were one of the major turning points in evolution, following the development of annelid cuticles and allowing an external shell to protect the animal from harm. The Cambrian Explosion, some 550 million odd years ago, gave rise to arthropods with such a feature. Ever since, smaller advancements have been made, varying from one species to another.

    “Hey, Logan? You want some food?” Patton interjects at Logan’s door, tearing his focus away from the laptop.

    “You know as well as I do that we do not require food,” Logan replies. Nevertheless, he puts the screen to sleep, rises from his desk chair, and follows Patton to the kitchen. It really doesn’t make any sense for the sides to have a kitchen in the mind palace, yet here it was, as Roman couldn’t deny Patton any last request. Ridiculous in every sense of the word. Logan straightens his tie in the hall, watching Patton disappear around the corner. Just as ridiculous to have a kitchen in the first place as it was to think that the sides, figments of Thomas’ imagination, required any real sustenance. Of course, he’d been online before. He’d seen the jokes, about him eating books, about Patton eating candy hearts, all of that manner of intelligence. But that’s all they were, really, just jokes from people he didn’t know.

    “Okay, so I know Thomas was gonna take a vegetarian cooking class to surprise Talyn, so I thought I’d do a little structural support from the inside to get him going,” Patton says. Logan slides into his little wooden chair at the little wooden table, not looking at the little wooden smile on Virgil’s little wooden face. “Ta-da!” Patton twirls around from the stove with a flourish of his free arm, the other raising a platter of fake meat things in the air. As the tray is set in the middle of the table with the air of a famous chef in front of a king, Patton takes his seat one spot counterclockwise of Logan, across from Virgil.

    “Pat, I never even conjured any ingredients for this,” Roman says, furrowing his brow at the mountain of food in front of him.

    “I know!” Patton bounces excitedly in his seat. “I found this recipe for using vegetables and stuff that we already had from last time I made dinner, and I got to use them to make something different! Isn’t that so cool?”

    “It’s great, Pat,” Virgil concedes, stretching a sleeve-covered hand out to grab something vaguely burger-like.

    “That it is, Panic at the Dork-sco,” Roman smiles.

    “Not your best. Four out of ten,” Virgil says, tearing off a piece of his not-burger. Logan reaches a hesitant hand out for one of the nugget-things, wrinkling a disgusted nose at the crumbly texture, the bread sticking to his fingers.

    “Oh, the veggie nuggets! I had one of these when I was making them, they’re so good!” Patton gushes, popping one in his mouth. Logan steels himself, swallowing a gag reflex, and takes a hesitant bite. Disgust washes over his soul as he holds the piece under his tongue, desperate to avoid tasting it. He needs to eat it, just swallow the darn thing and move on like everyone else, but he can’t. Just moving the chunk to his molars, he feels the artificial taste squelching out through his mouth. The ghost of a wince crosses his face as he forces the thing down his throat, every impulse fighting it.

    “Tasty, right?” Patton asks cheerfully, eating two pieces at once. Logan offers a nearly imperceptible nod, trying not to look at the remain two thirds of nugget in his hand. He can still taste the last bite on his teeth, the ghost of the crumbs sticking to his gums. The next bite is supposed to go faster, be easier, but no, two thirds of a nugget at once is terrible, latching onto would-be cavities and in his throat and to his stomach, where it sits like a stone.

    “You know what? I’m not hungry,” Logan says, drawing the cloth napkin from his lap and wiping it over his lips. “I’m going back to my room.”

    “Lo, you say that every night,” Roman whines. “We know that we don’t eat food, but this is the fun part of being part of Thomas! We get to do human things!”

    “Yeah, no thanks.” Logan pushes his chair back and heads for his room, still feeling the horrible substance forcing its way through his system. He downs one of some fifty water bottles in his room, trying to wash the remainder of the food away. In his haste to calm down, he didn’t close his door on time, which is never a good thing.

    “Why doesn’t he just pretend he enjoys it?” Roman’s voice drifts down the hall, garbled through whatever non-meat thing he happens to be eating. “Pretend like he actually likes us for once, I don’t know.”

    “Roman, it’s fine. Food just isn’t his thing,” Patton responds. Logan licks his lips, feeling the residing taste there. Even a forceful wiping of his bare hands isn’t enough to get rid of it.

    “He’s just so weird sometimes. Why can’t he just be normal or something?” Roman again. No input from Virgil. Not even a word, let alone one to defend him. Logan shuts the door softly, furrowing his eyebrows. They aren’t human, their words shouldn’t hurt him. If he just rebuilds the walls around the heart he doesn’t have, he’ll be fine. Not like his feelings are real, anyway.

————–

Exoskeleton - ek’sō-skel’ə-tən - (Gr. exō, outside, + skeletos, hard) - Derived from the annelid cuticle but hardened by addition of chitin and sometimes calcium to be tough, chemically resistant, and waterproof, with proteins for flexibility and chitin for strength.

    Logan scowls at the bright screen of his laptop as he hunches over it on the couch. Just a few more paragraphs, a little more research, and he can have this project finished for Thomas before it becomes a problem. As long as no one else has to lose sleep over it, Logan doesn’t mind the rapidly forming bags of exhaustion under his eyes. Thomas is happy, and that’s all that matters. That’s the only reason the sides exist, is to help him.

    “What’re you still doing up?” Virgil asks, shifting from under a blanket on the other couch. To tell the truth, he’d been there the entire night, shivering away when Logan had come in, laptop in one hand, stacks of notebook paper and pens in the other. Rather than wake the hoodie-clad side, Logan tossed a blanket over him before sitting on the adjacent couch and getting to work. Sure, he could’ve done just as much in his room, but with the sounds of Roman living out his dreams in his sleep across the hall? Not so much.

    “Working.” Logan continues maneuvering his fingers over the trackpad with one hand, scribbling furiously on lined paper with the other.

    “On what? There’s nothing big due yet, Thomas said so himself when we were setting up the last video.” Virgil’s voice is slow as he struggles to pick it up, sleep trying to pull him back down into oblivion. Logan doesn’t let his eyes drift to the hair poking out of the blanket, or to the tired eyes illuminated by the glow of the computer screen.

    “Getting ahead. Project’s due in a few weeks, but he wants to do another three videos in that time frame, too. Need to be prepared.” Logan fights the rising yawn in his chest, determined not to show how much of a toll the work has taken on him. He isn’t real, anyway, so the physical and mental effects aren’t real, either.

    “You should’ve told us, we would’ve helped you,” Virgil mumbles. His phone screen lights up the room a little more as he thumbs his way through tumblr.

    “It’s fine. You three need sleep anyway.” Virgil’s protests die out as sleep takes him once more, his phone dropping to the carpet. Vindicated, Logan returns to his work with a vengeance. He had hoped at the beginning that a few paragraphs would be easy, but then paragraphs turned to pages, and pages turned to sleep he wouldn’t get back. He didn’t need it.

    “Logan, you need to go to bed,” Patton announces, parading into the living room an hour or so later. Logan jolts awake, his eyes dry and his vision blurry. Glasses gone, computer dead, and a pretty line scribbled through his last page of notes. Awesome. “I have your glasses and your computer charger, now go get some sleep or you don’t get them back.” Logan scowls in the general direction of Patton’s voice, trying to glean some semblance of coherence from his writing. Nothing.

    “Patton, just give me the glasses back.”

    “Not until you get rest.”

    “Patton. Now.”

    “No! I’m not going to, and you can’t make me!”

    “Hey, what’s going on here?” Roman’s voice interjects. “Logan, where are your glasses?”

    “He took them.” Logan points roughly where he thinks Patton is standing. Everything is just a blob of color.

    “Virgil took your glasses?”

    “No, Patton did. Make him give them back, please.” A minor scuffle sounds, made all the more infuriating in that Logan can’t see what’s going on, before Roman speaks again.

    “Patton, why don’t you explain why you confiscated Logan’s glasses?”

    “Because he refuses to take care of himself! I’m just trying to look out for him.”

    “There’s nothing to look out for!” Logan shoots back, letting his temper flare up. “I’m perfectly fine, and none of you seem any worse for it, so why can’t you leave it alone?” When none of the others respond, Logan huffs out a sigh, ignoring the papers that scatter as he stands. “Fine. Whatever. I don’t care.” He heads for his room, shouldering past the featureless blobs standing in his way as he goes.

    The door slams shut behind him, an echoing bang that consumes his mind, but not before he can hear the last little comment from a voice he can’t distinguish. “We’re just trying to help. Why is he being such a freak about it?” Logan sets about rebuilding the imaginary walls surrounding his imaginary heart. Each brick shatters as soon as it’s laid.

————–

Exoskeleton - ek’sō-skel’ə-tən - (Gr. exō, outside, + skeletos, hard) - A protective outer shell that can withstand more force than the human skeleton.

    “This is gonna be great!” Thomas squeals as he shuts off the camera. “This video is gonna be so awesome, I can’t wait to post it! Just gotta edit it a little and we’ll be good to go!”

    “Thomas, you need ample rest before you can set about working on this project,” Logan informs him. A collective groan rises around the room.

    “Can’t you let him do what he wants? Killjoy,” Roman mutters, sinking out to wherever it is he goes to sulk about Logan.

    “Really, Logan, you’re the last person to be ragging on Thomas about sleep,” Patton tuts, shaking his head. He sinks out, quickly followed by a silent Virgil, leaving Logan alone with a baffled Thomas.

    “What was that about?”

    “You know that big research project?”

    “Yeah, I knocked that out really fast. It was so easy!”

    “That’s because I stayed up for a long night doing the harder work beforehand, so you’d know what you were doing when the time came for you to finish it.”

    “So that’s how your work impacts mine.” Thomas nods thoughtfully. “I guess it makes sense why they were telling you to get sleep, though. That can’t be healthy for you, staying up so much.”

    “It doesn’t matter. I’m not real, anyway.” Logan takes a long breath, forcing back a yawn as Thomas looks on in concern.

    “What do you mean by that?”

    “What is this, an interrogation?” Logan pinches his nose. “You imagined us. Me, Roman, Virgil, Patton. You made us up. We aren’t real. We’re figments of your imagination that you keep around because you feel bad about your own miserable life. If you would get over yourself and your never ending parade of problems, none of us would have a reason to exist. As it stands, we only remain to groom your ego. Figure out your own life, and we’ll be gone. If our existence depends on someone else’s state of mind, then we. Are. Not. Real.” Ignoring the look of shock and hurt on Thomas’ face, Logan sinks out. The yawn on his face looks like a scream.

————–

Exoskeleton - ek’sō-skel’ə-tən - (Gr. exō, outside, + skeletos, hard) - the external skeleton that supports and protects an animal’s body, in contrast to the internal skeleton (endoskeleton) of, for example, a human.

    “You really didn’t need to hurt Thomas like that,” Roman accuses the next morning, barging in on Logan as he sips at his coffee, scrolling through his computer. “Patton’s in his room and he won’t come out, and it’s all your fault. He’s Thomas’ heart, you should know that. Logical side, remember?”

    “So you, being the creative side, should be able to think of a reason for what I said, yes?” Logan clunks his cup on the table, not flinching at the arc of stray drops that scald his hand. “Or maybe you could craft some magical world in which I do what everyone wants me to, but here I am, the only side that bothers to give any thought to my actions. Patton can stay by himself, but he knows that it’s better to be with others. It’s not my fault he’s locked himself away.”

    “For someone who’s supposed to be smart, you’re really stupid.” Roman scowls, folding his arms. “You need to consider how others feel.”

    “I’ve said it before, I will say it again. I’m not going to protect the nonexistent feelings of nonexistent people. If you would just listen to me for once, maybe you’d know that.”

    “Don’t you care that what you say hurts the rest of us?” Roman’s face crumples as Logan glares back. “Don’t you feel bad?”

    “I don’t feel anything, Creativity. So you can go tell Morality and Anxiety as much, because I do not care.” Logan slams his laptop shut, not caring about the danger to the screen, and rams his shoulder into Roman’s as he passes him.

    “Fine! Run to your room again, see if I care!” Roman drops himself into a chair, shouting at Logan’s retreating back. “Actually, you know what? I do care! Because I’m a good person who knows that other people have feelings!”

    “Is that so?” Logan asks, stopping in his tracks. A cruel smile spreads across his face as he turns his head back to sneer at Roman. “Then would you care to explain why you were so cruel to Virgil before? Or was he just not a person until it was convenient for you?” A sharp gasp is what makes Logan lose his composure, turning back toward his bedroom door. Virgil steps out of the shadows from down the hall, his face expressionless.

    “Maybe you should take some alone time.” His voice wavers between octaves, contrasting the utter lack of emotion in the rest of his face. Logan feels the imaginary walls around his imaginary heart threatening to shatter.

    “I’m sure you’d know so much about that, wouldn’t you?” Logan cocks his head to the side, considering Virgil’s still form. “Given how alone you were before Thomas decided you were worth listening to. Too bad it took getting rid of you a second time for you to stick around.” Virgil’s jaw twitches, water threatening to leak from his eyes, Roman running to his side, but Logan doesn’t see any of it, slamming his door shut behind him.

    The imaginary walls go back up, busily rebuilding themselves harder, stronger, better. Steeled against the soft sobs in the hall. The walls stand taller than before.

————–

Exoskeleton - ek’sō-skel’ə-tən - (Gr. exō, outside, + skeletos, hard) - Exoskeletons contain rigid and resistant components that fulfill a set of functional roles including protection, excretion, sensing, support, feeding and acting as a barrier against desiccation in terrestrial organisms.

    It’s been weeks. Nothing has changed, except for Logan’s habits involving the other three. Hide out in his room, sneak to the kitchen for food, and ignore any calls for help or interaction. Basically what Virgil does, but productive. Granted, his eye bags of sleeplessness are far more pronounced than the anxious side’s, and his fingers tremble when he writes, but he’s fine. He’s getting things done. He’s making himself useful, when his opinions are what put the others off from him. He’s just being realistic. He’s just telling the truth. It isn’t his fault that they can’t accept their own nonexistent mortality.

    “Hiding away from us won’t fix your problems,” Roman calls through the door. A daily occurrence at this point, and one Logan has learned to ignore. Just like always. The computer screen swims before his eyes, letters dripping into incoherent nonsense, towers of paragraphs wobbling back and forth, ready to fall off into the white oblivion of the internet. He glances at his fingers, can’t make his eyes focus, blinking too much, can’t see anything. He doesn’t remember putting his hand over there. He doesn’t remember crashing off of his chair. He doesn’t hear the shouts of concern from the hall. He doesn’t hear the replies to ignore him.

    His fingers twitch over the carpet, scratching the fibers. Can’t feel anything. Shouldn’t have expected to, anyway. Not real, can’t feel, no big deal. His mind feels like an overturned bucket in a rainstorm, pounded by a million thoughts it can’t retain. He wants to scream, but he’s not real, so why bother trying? He lets his eyes bounce across the floor, at the coffee cup on the ground. He doesn’t remember knocking it over. He doesn’t remember its burning contents pouring over his bare feet. He watches with morbid fascination as his skin roasts, turning bright pink. He feels nothing.

    “Logan, you really should come out,” Patton says with a knock. Cotton stuff itself in Logan’s mouth, preventing any words from escaping. Can’t respond. Why bother, anyway, if this interaction isn’t real? Nothing is real. He can’t feel anything, so why bother? “If you don’t give me a verbal answer, I’m going to come in.” Honey sludges through Logan’s head, mucking up the gears and blocking any sense of reason. He watches the coffee drip, drip, drip over his foot. The door clicks open.

    “Logan, are you—Lo, what happened?” Patton darts to Logan’s side, grabbing his hand. Logan doesn’t feel it. Patton pulls at his hair, looking at the rugburns on Logan’s cheek. He doesn’t feel them. “Lo, your coffee’s everywhere. Why didn’t you ask for help?” Logan can’t even muster the energy to blink. “Roman! Get in here!” The sound of trudging feet screams in Logan’s ears, the sound of an unwilling prince, ready to assist. “Get his arm, he’s not moving.” Through some form of teamwork that Logan doesn’t move his head to watch, his arms are raised and he’s dragged down the hall to the common area, where his limp body is deposited on the couch. He doesn’t feel the way his ankle twists under him, ready to snap.

    “Is he okay?” Virgil asks from the other couch, pocketing his phone.

    “A little brain dead, but what else is new?” Roman scoffs. Logan doesn’t care enough to think of a witty response. He doesn’t care at all.

    “Roman!” Patton hisses. “He needs food or water or something, I don’t know. We can’t leave him alone anymore, that’s for sure.” A whispered scream escapes Logan. No food, please God no. The others don’t hear it, busying themselves finding sustenance for someone who would rather wither away in solitude. Logan finds some kernel of energy deep down, whipping himself off the couch and onto the floor. His head smacks the edge of the coffee table on the way down, the world spiraling into dark. Better than this artificial hellscape the others think is reality. Why can’t they just listen to reason?

————–

Exoskeleton - ek’sō-skel’ə-tən - (Gr. exō, outside, + skeletos, hard) - Since exoskeletons are rigid, they present some limits to growth.

    He wakes up back on the couch, covered with a weighted blanket, glasses at an angle on his face. The other three are squeezed onto the smaller couch, watching the television. Roman is the first to notice Logan shift, nudging the other two.

    “Lo, are you okay?” Patton asks, leaping up from the couch. “We came back with food and you were on the ground and—”

    “I’m fine.” Logan waves a hand flippantly. “Not real, therefore don’t get hurt.” He rises on unsteady feet, ignoring the way his sight goes fuzzy. Patton runs to block Logan before he can get past the staircase, a hand held up to emphasize it.

    “Regardless of how imaginary you may think we are, we still care about you. We want you to be safe.” When Logan doesn’t respond, instead staring at the ground, Patton advances, arms outstretched for a hug. Wrong move, as Logan notices a split second before impact.

    “Get off me!” Logan shouts, shoving Patton away. The latter stumbles backwards, his back slamming into the guards around the stairs, the railing digging into his back as he sinks to the ground, a look of hurt in his eyes.

    “Logan, we just wanted to help. If you would just listen—”

    “I don’t want to hear it, okay? I have work to do, and you three keep interrupting it with your nonsense!”

    “Logan, I think you need to calm down.” Roman moves to kneel by Patton, a hand raised in defense.

    “Calm down? I need to calm down? That’s rich, Roman, really. I, the logical side to Thomas, as well as a non-corporeal being, need to calm down. But wait, I don’t, do I? Because I’m not real.” Logan can see the emotions racing through the three in front of him, Virgil’s terror, Patton’s disappointment, Roman’s flaring hatred.

    “Not real, huh?” Roman rises, leaving Virgil with Patton. “What we’re feeling right now isn’t real. Okay. Sure. Makes sense.”

    “Just stop it, stop it both of you. Please.” Patton wavers his focus between the two, desperate to keep the situation from escalating.

    “None of it’s real.” Logan crosses his arms, not backing down.

    “You may not think it’s real, but what you’re feeling is,” Patton insists. “Let us help. Please.”

    “Your help isn’t real, either, Morality.”

    “How about this?” Roman punches Logan square in the nose, sending him crashing to the floor. “Was that real enough for you?” Roman takes Patton’s wrist in one hand, Virgil’s in the other, and marches down the hall, leaving Logan alone to rebuild his imaginary walls by his imaginary self.

    The imaginary walls are not made of chitin or cartilage or calcium carbonate this time.

    The imaginary walls are made of steel and diamond and graphene.

    They do not break this time.

Tag List:

@sakurahayasaki @erlenmeyertrash @lemonpepperpizza @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @milomeepit @leesacrakon @virgilmood @pantasticpanini

[perminas-archive]

tl;dr

Mom,

So this is going to be a super long, super emotional one. Brace yourself! I love you so much, unconditionally.

I have inattentive type ADD. There is no way you could have known that. Almost all the research on kids with ADD/ADHD when I was growing up was geared towards prepubescent boys with ADHD.

Girls with inattentive type ADD don't usually present symptoms until after puberty, and they aren't hyperactive.

Girls with inattentive type ADD who are highly intelligent and interested in school and who are competitive, even today, go unnoticed because for a long time, because schoolbook intelligence and a competitive instinct can mask symptoms.

Girls with inattentive type ADD are super interested in conforming to what a girl should be, because all girls grow up with that kind of damage. The research on girls with inattentive type ADD began to be published in 2008-2009, by which time I was already in college.

It may seem weird to think that I have ADD because I have so many obsessive interests. You've heard me play the same song 12 times in a row (at a generous minimum), obsessively fiddling with the volume. I can play the Sims or World of Warcraft for 12 hours straight. I can finish a book in a day.

But ADD comes with the ability to hyperfocus, and if you're interested in school, you can hyperfocus on it. You can knock out a 10-page research paper in a few hours. Which is what I did, all the way through high school and college, while bringing a novel to classes I didn't like. Because I was just a genius, right? It made sense that someone so highly intelligent would work that way, Nutty Professor style. Hyperfocus also sometimes means you get so obsessed with a video game or a TV show that you call in sick to work because you can't stop playing or watching - you really can't stop. That happens too. I can't explain why I can't stop, but I need you to believe that I CAN'T. I CAN'T. It's too deep.

For highly intelligent inattentive type ADD girls, apparently the only place it really shows up young is (a) inability to follow pattern-based social rules and (b) failure in areas where there is a lack of interest but not ability.

I remember Dad saying "You're not bad at math. You just don't like it and you're not trying." I didn't believe him at the time, but now I do, because I can take a differential in calculus as long as I have a funny teacher.

Girls with inattentive type ADD show signs mostly after puberty, beginning  at 11-12. These signs may not be things you think of as ADD - failure in class, inability to focus on school, resistance to learning, anger-related behavioral problems at home. Instead it often looks more like inability to finish chores, problems with grooming, problems with keeping one's room clean, problems with maintaining friendships, problems with relationships and intimacy, problems with bringing home forms from school that aren't crushed into your pocket, covered in crumbs, five days late - a total inability to focus on things that don't interest you. Basic kid stuff, but weirdly stretched through adolescence. Sound familiar? Sound super familiar? The kind of thing that makes you feel like a failure as a mother?

(Sorry. That's my only intentional jab. That one haunts me. I know you know it does and you didn't mean it. But it stuck around, and it will for the rest of my life.)

Inattentive type ADD, particularly in intelligent girls, also comes with increased sensitivity to rejection and criticism, possibly because children with ADD know they're different from other kids but can't prove or articulate it. When they hear things like "You're smarter than this," "I don't know what you were thinking," and "How could you be so careless?" they don't think "My behavior was wrong." They think "There is something wrong with me. Aren't I smarter than this? What was I thinking? Why was I so careless? I don't understand, and everyone is talking to me like this is a decision I made to be careless and stupid and disrespectful, but I'm still not completely sure what it was that I thought wrong that turned into an action. It seems more like I felt and thought wrong from the get-go. There must be something deeply wrong with me." And they can't explain it, because even though they know what they're experiencing with learning in school and at home is different from other kids, they don't really know why. They think it's something wrong with them at a level too deep to be corrected. It has to be masked, particularly with girls, because a problem like that that you can't fix is a reason not to love you.

When I was growing up, you and Dad had a major focus on lectures as opposed to physical punishment, which was great. The lectures tended to focus on guilt as a mechanism to correct behavior. THIS PROBABLY WOULD HAVE WORKED WITH NORMAL KIDS! But it doesn't with a kid who inherently feels that she is wrong and her actions are wrong, full stop. Guilt becomes associated to the person, not the action. Guilt turns into shame.

This is a list of traits of adult women who were subject to "shame-based parenting," aka you, or regular parenting that focused on personal responsibility, aka me:

1. Adults shamed as children are afraid of vulnerability and fear exposure of self.

2. Adults shamed as children may suffer extreme shyness, embarrassment and feelings of being inferior to others. They don't believe they make mistakes. Instead they believe they are mistakes.

3. Adults shamed as children fear intimacy and tend to avoid real commitment in relationships. These adults frequently express the feeling that one foot is out of the door, prepared to run.

4. Adults shamed as children may appear either grandiose and self-centered or seem selfless.

5. Adults shamed as children feel that, “No matter what I do, it won't make a difference; I am and always will be worthless and unlovable.”

6. Adults shamed as children frequently feel defensive when even minor negative feedback is given. They suffer feelings of severe humiliation if forced to look at mistakes or imperfections.

7. Adults shamed as children frequently blame others before they can be blamed.

8. Adults shamed as children may suffer from debilitating guilt. These individuals apologize constantly. They assume responsibility for the behavior of those around them.

9. Adults shamed as children feel like outsiders. They feel a pervasive sense of loneliness throughout their lives, even when surrounded with those who love and care.

10. Adults shamed as children project their beliefs about themselves onto others. They engage in mind-reading that is not in their favor, consistently feeling judged by others.

11. Adults shamed as children often feel angry and judgmental towards the qualities in others that they feel ashamed of in themselves. This can lead to shaming others.

12. Adults shamed as children often feel ugly, flawed and imperfect. These feelings regarding self may lead to focus on clothing and makeup in an attempt to hide flaws in personal appearance and self.

13. Adults shamed as children often feel controlled from the outside as well as from within. Normal spontaneous expression is blocked.

14. Adults shamed as children feel they must do things perfectly or not at all. This internalized belief frequently leads to performance anxiety and procrastination.

15. Adults shamed as children experience depression.

16. Adults shamed as children lie to themselves and others.

17. Adults shamed as children block their feelings of shame through compulsive behaviors like workaholism, eating disorders, shopping, substance-abuse, list-making or gambling.

18. Adults shamed as children often have caseloads rather than friendships.

19. Adults shamed as children often involve themselves in compulsive processing of past interactions and events and intellectualization as a defense against pain.

20. Adults shamed as children are stuck in dependency or counter-dependency.

21. Adults shamed as children have little sense of emotional boundaries. They feel constantly violated by others. They frequently build false boundaries through walls, rage, pleasing or isolation.

Every single item on this list is true of me. When I read it for the first time, I felt like I was having a truly religious moment of clarity. Every single thing. Reading back over it now, I wonder if you aren't having the same feelings about yourself and your own horrifying mother, who was actually engaging in some truly disgusting shame-based parenting. No one should ever call a kid Dummy. You're brilliant, and I'm sure you were as a kid. I love talking to you. I recommend books and podcasts to you, NEVER Dad, because you're smart enough and aware enough to get them, and not an asshole.

Like, I get that she was your mom and you must have loved her. But from every story you've ever told me about her, I hate her for your sake. She was awful to you. You deserved so much better. Thank God for Paul. He's the only person I've ever seen in your life who truly tries to validate you other than me, and my validation is of VERY LATE ORIGIN. You are valid. You're so smart, and so good.

When I was about 11 or 12, I had an epiphany that shaped the rest of my life. It was a false epiphany, for the record. I thought that you didn't actually see me when you were trying to fix me. I convinced myself that you had imagined a better daughter, one with potential and who was capable of change. I knew that person wasn't me. Every time you talked to me about the things that were wrong, I knew for a fact I couldn't fix it, no matter how simple it was. I knew that no matter how hard I tried to force it, I couldn't really change the person I was. I had already tried. I'd tried and tried and I wasn't getting better.

I imagined that I was two people: Charlotte, the real me, the mean, ugly, bitchy, hateful person who fucked up constantly and resented everyone and talked back; and Charlotte Prime, the imaginary daughter who fucked up but had potential, who could be more if she chose, who was loved by her parents, who was capable of change and would grow up right and beautiful. Charlotte Prime seemed like a stranger, but she was also the beloved one.

I convinced myself that you only saw Charlotte Prime. You looked at me and saw the potential. You looked at me and thought how much better and happier I could be if I cut away the bad stuff, the inability to look after myself physically, the meanness, the moods. You didn't know that I, the real Charlotte, even existed. You loved a completely separate, imaginary person as your daughter. You looked at me and loved Charlotte Prime, not me. I couldn't ever let you know I wasn't her. I didn't know if you'd still love me if you figured out I wasn't her and she didn't exist.

I knew (thought) I couldn't change and couldn't cut away the bad stuff. I was killing myself day in and day out to be the perfect dinner guest, to be pretty, to be soft-spoken and charming, to be cute at all times. And it wasn't working. I was intelligent and charming, but I was still brash, dirty, ugly, disrespectful, and according to you and Dad extremely prone to challenge you with sarcasm (which I don't actually remember doing, mostly I assume because I didn't realize I was doing it). But I thought I could probably fake enough change to get by. I'm a decent liar. I could force the ugly parts of me you wanted to cut away small enough that you wouldn't see them, that you'd think I'd fixed them. I could look like Charlotte Prime if nobody looked long enough. I would just have to let the bad parts out in small ways when nobody was looking - eating all the chocolate chips in the kitchen and blaming it on Dad, buying junk food from the vending machines at school with change from the couch and cars, being mean to my friends, hiding in my room all the time so you couldn't see me.

When I was 16, on Mother's Day at Hooters, we had some kind of tiff I don't remember and I was trying to explain myself, and you were (to me, at the time, smugly) justifying your position. And I thought: "Just roll over. Just let her have it. It's not worth it and you'll be out in two years."

That thought carried through the rest of my life. Just let her have it. Just let her be right. Not because she's stupid and it's easier to tell her she's right; but because she's fiercely intelligent, and she'll figure out your lie about Charlotte Prime if you don't let her be right, because you need this lie to survive.

I really, really didn't think you'd love me if you ever figured out I was a monster. If I really was that person who couldn't wash her hair or clean her room. That was wrong and untrue. I know now that you'd love me even if I sent you a text full of pictures of people I'd serial-killed.

But I still knew (thought) that something was wrong with me fundamentally. That I had to demonstrate goodness that was not my own to be worthy of love, to pretend to be the person you loved at all.

I went to Dad's confirmation in the church in April of some year, and I was really sick but felt I had to come anyway. I thought I had to, as a condition of parental love. You didn't put that on me. I put it on myself. I was very sick.

At the confirmation, I got so sick that I couldn't stop coughing and went into the sacristy or the guest lounge or something to avoid further disruption. You followed me, and were so honestly concerned by my health that I ended up confessing that I had never felt good enough for you, and showing up at the confirmation was an attempt at being good enough.

You were sympathetic for a bit and tried to comfort me, but eventually screamed "DON'T YOU PUT THAT SHIT ON ME" re: my feelings of inadequacy and fled the room. And I was, of course, miserable. I couldn't stop crying. After a while I came back out, still crying, dreading you'd see my emotion as a manipulation. I understand your feelings too, I think. You've always thought of me as smarter and better than yourself. To hear that I felt inferior must have been severely jarring and a significant reverse of what you thought was going on. My emotions and behavior might have looked like manipulation, because your own mother manipulated you that way.

But you're my mother. I love you. Maybe I didn't explain it correctly - I was in a monster mood last time. I felt wrong, and I was trying to confess the lie about Charlotte Prime without fully articulating it. You running out on me hurt me deeply. I haven't been able to fully trust you since then. I actually don't know if I can again. I thought it was the end. I thought you figured it out, that I wasn't ever going to turn into the person you loved, Charlotte Prime with all her potential. You were stuck with your ugly, vicious daughter. And you didn't even like her, much less love her.

I could never trust you again. Not because you're untrustworthy - but because you had figured it out. It was as if you were my mother, but I wasn't your daughter.

You've heard me talk about my depression and anxiety as "chemical" mostly because yoga and fruit doesn't fix it. It's something deep in me that can't be corrected by a simple behavioral change. It's intense, easily triggered, and mostly uncontrollable. But I wasn't born with it - maybe with a predisposition to it, but not with it in my brain. Inattentive type ADD and the neuroses that accompany highly intelligent girls throughout their lives develops into depression and anxiety on an extremely regular basis. A lot of the research into girls with inattentive type ADD came after treating adult women with anxiety and depression who responded better to antidepressants combined with ADD medication that gave them the ability to focus. Difficulty focusing is also a depressive trait.

Learning to hate yourself young changes your brain forever. Staying hating yourself when you've grown up changes the way you think, changes the balance of chemicals in your brain. It's the opposite of what happens when someone believes so intensely in faith healing they shrink their tumors. I made myself sick, unconsciously.

I'm still sick. I know what I did, but I can't fix it yet. I can't even completely stop the patterns of thinking that make me sicker. When you and Dad would lecture me, I took from those lectures that feeling horrible was a part of correcting the problem, maybe the most important part - something was wrong with me, but feeling horrible would sink into my bones and fix it over time. I started yelling at myself in my head in your voice whenever I made mistakes, because I thought feeling horrible enough about it would deter me from it in the future. That's still a primary method of self-correction for me. It's only in the last year or two that I recognized I didn't need to do that. Feeling wretched wasn't a part of fixing the problem. It just made me feel (horrible and) helpless, which actually prevented me from fixing the problem.

That's what I mean when I say I hear your voice in my head every day. I hear myself yelling in your voice, because when I was growing up I learned that hearing yelling and feeling horrible was a fundamental part of correcting the bad behavior I couldn't control that made me wrong, bad, different from other kids, that I had to hide or else you wouldn't love me, because you'd figure it out. I had to take over from you so you'd think I was changing. I had to be the person doing the yelling, and it had to sound like you, so I could be scared enough and controlled enough in your presence to fake Charlotte Prime.

I still think that way. At work, I also feel like there's me, Charlotte, who makes tons of mistakes, gossips, spends an hour bullshitting with the admins instead of working, comes in late, forgets about projects, has to come in weekends to make up time. And then there's Charlotte Prime, who's well-spoken, intelligent, who the partners love, who is capable of editing out the "careless" (ADD) errors in her work and eventually fulfilling her potential as a perfect paralegal. They hired Charlotte Prime. I feel like I'm running a scam all the time. No matter how many times they tell me they love me and I can't ever quit, I feel like they're talking to Charlotte Prime. If they knew it was me, Charlotte, they were talking to, they wouldn't bother. Prime has all the potential. Charlotte has all the attitude and mistakes.

I do love my new meds. I was previously on Zoloft, an SSRI, which I hated, because it did nothing for me. Then I was on Wellbutrin, a mood stabilizer and antidepressant, that half worked. Now I'm on Pristiq, which is on the label used to treat both depression and ADD/ADHD. I've actually noticed my focus and concentration improving. It's miraculous. It's not perfect, and I think I want to talk to my shrink about a supplement that is pure ADD medication, but it's such an improvement, because it's actually treating the base cause, not the symptom. Being able to read a simple 10-page estate-planning document all the way through without getting distracted because I didn't care was a bizarre and amazing experience. I felt like I was ascending - like I could become Prime. Prime wasn't a stranger anymore. She was me, medicated. Maybe I wasn't tricking everyone. Maybe I really could become her, but the way I was trying to get there had to be rethought.

I still pretty much think I'm tricking everyone. But it's getting easier to believe that people might honestly love the real me, the fuckup, and to integrate my good behavior self with my bad behavior self, especially as I get older and realize that everyone else is a fuckup too. They might not have ADD to contend with, but by god they've got something. People are all so weird and such idiots and I love them all so much. I love working in an office and living in apartment buildings and being in the city because everyone around you is held artificially close, and you get to see them fucking up and being weird.  

These days, I'm focusing on recognizing when I'm yelling at myself in my head and saying "You don't need to do that. That isn't fixing the problem, it's just making you panic. You'll be more effective at fixing the problem if you stop yelling at yourself." Because even as I'm getting better at recognizing my worth, I still primarily feel like fixing the problem in my behavior is more important than my happiness, but I'm getting closer. I really like Charlie, my new therapist. I don't know if he likes me, but I know he doesn't dislike me the way Julie did. And I think it's better if a therapist doesn't absolutely love you. My first two therapists thought I was the bee's knees, and when it came time to terminate, something weird happened that I think is best encapsulated by this quote from an episode of This American Life:

Terry Gross: In your chapter about your therapist, you have a great description of yourself when describing your thoughts after telling the therapist that you are going to stop seeing him. And I’d like you to read that for us.

David Rakoff: Yes. This is when he— I’m not talking about terminating. I seem to be avoiding the topic. And finally he stops me one day. I’m ranting about, I think, human rights in China or something like that. And he finally says, look, we’ve got to talk about you terminating. This is a big thing.

"Turning things around, I asked him what his feelings were about our ending things. ‘I’m incredibly angry,’ he responded fondly. ‘How dare you. You should at least have to come and have coffee with me once a week.’ I asked if he felt this way about most of his patients. ‘Not really,’ he responded.

Sigh. Should you happen to be possessed of a certain verbal acuity coupled with a relentless hair trigger humor and surface cheer spackling over a chronic melancholia and loneliness— a grotesquely caricatured version of your deepest self which you trot out at the slightest provocation to endearing and glib comic effect, thus rendering you the kind of fellow who is beloved by all yet loved by none, all of it to distract, however fleetingly, from the cold and dead-faced truth that with each passing year you face the unavoidable certainty of a solitary future in which you will perish one day while vainly attempting the Heimlich maneuver on yourself over the back of the kitchen chair— then this confirmation that you have triumphed again and managed to gull yet another mark, except this time it was the one person you’d hoped might be immune to your ever-creakier, puddle-shallow, sideshow-barker variation on ‘adorable,’ even though you’d been launching this campaign weekly with a single-minded concentration from day one— well, it conjures up feelings that are best described as mixed, to say the least.”

I'm getting better at that. I care if Charlie likes me, because I care if anyone likes me, but I don't care if Charlie likes me at the expense of the truth. I don't lie to him. I don't focus on being charming. I focus on getting better.

I think I'm getting better. I think it's going to take a long fucking time, which is frustrating because I want results NOW. But I'm getting better. I'm never going to be Prime, but I can integrate the two mes. I can be good enough. I am good enough. Everyone makes mistakes, and mine aren't a symbol of my wrongness. They're a symptom.

HMB has really been game-changing for me. I've never worked in an office where I was considered smart and valuable enough to make up for my constant stream of mistakes, or at least where I recognized that people felt that way about me. I still feel like I'm running a scam and people can't possibly see all the mistakes or I'd be fired, but I've fucked up, visibly, hugely, and not been shamed for it - I just fix the error and demonstrate that I'm trying to improve, and I'm forgiven. And I'm finally starting to see other people of my age and my ability making similar mistakes. Some of my mistakes are the ADD or other stuff at work, but a ton of them are about being human. Growing up, hating my mistakes, I convinced myself that other people didn't make them at all, which in retrospect is completely insane. Of course everyone makes mistakes. But when I can see Izabela transposing numbers in our billing, it's like heroin. She did it too! Type-A Izabela occasionally misreads numbers, so maybe it's not a function of my wrongness that I do too. Maybe it's just something that happens.

I'm getting better. I'm getting better. I can be better. This isn't forever. Honestly, if you've ever worried about me being suicidal, know this: I've always been permanently optimistic about precisely one thing, which is that no matter how miserable I am now, my life may someday get better. I can't kill myself because I don't know the future and I don't want to miss out. And I AM getting better. It's happening. Sometimes I think about suicide in an offhand, what-if, "A Christmas Story" way, but it's never been a real idea. I've never truly considered it. And I'm glad, because I can get better. I'm never fully going to be able to morph into Charlotte Prime, but that's also OK. Everyone has some kind of damage, and I can manage my own. I can actually get it smaller through different methodology. I can change the way it affects me, change the way I think. I already have - being able to tell myself yelling internally isn't helpful was a game-changer too. I see a future where I'm OK. I know you love me, Charlotte. I know, somewhere deep down, that Charlotte with all her fuckups is the person my coworkers and friends see. Charlotte Prime is my own monster in the closet. I love people the most when I can see their dark spots. When I found your diary in high school and realized you had been an alcoholic, I loved you more, because you were fucking up. I thought: oh my God, she's like me. She's a human, not a demigod. We're the same on some level. She has a Prime, too. Why can't she tell that I love my own human mother more than Mom Prime? Why does she have to pretend all the time?

You know why.

I love you so much. Thank you for being my mom. You did an amazing job. The way I thought about myself wasn't your fault. It was something you couldn't have known, because my every hour was dedicated to concealing it and nursing it internally and there was no guidebook. I'm so glad I went to therapy as an adult and could figure it out. I don't know who I would be without it. I'm glad you went to therapy, divorced Dad, married Paul. You're leveling up too.

I love you.

[edibleaddiction-blog]

Letter to a Narcissist

Letter to a Narcissist

I’ve always played the healer, the mediator, the supporter. I just always assumed it was my role in life. Those who were broken always seemed to find me and I was all too happy to fix them. It gave me purpose. You were like others before. You had your demons - those you hid and those you admitted outright. In the beginning I helped you, I paid your medical bills, I let your arrest slide, I ignored the screaming matches with your family because, well, everyone deserves a chance, right?

I thought I could see the potential for the man you could be when no one else did, and that made me special. I could be the rock for your foundation, the glue that held you together, the bond that kept you strong. I was prepared for that role. But you weren’t building blocks, were you? You weren’t bits of a puzzle just needing a little tidying and a keen eye?

I loved you anyways. At least, I tried to. And you seemed to at first as well. You cast out that net of giving, understanding, and fake love to see what you could catch. You certainly ensnared me. Over the next few months you seemed to be vulnerable and caring… But eventually my instincts, that little whisper of doubt that always sneaks in when you least want it to, worked its way into my brain. I started to pull back because I didn’t see that you needed me. Not really. You never said thank you. I’d come home from a full day of work, grad classes, and commuting and I didn’t even get a “hello” when I walked in the door; just the silhouette of you, face lit with the glow of a neon screen.

I thought if I showed you how to be a good human being you’d return the favor. I made you cards, I put the utmost thought into every gift I gave you. I made every special occasion a highlight in our relationship. I was rewarded with a generic note and a Walmart bag filled with trail mix on my birthday. Unwrapped gifts bought the day before Christmas under the tree that I begged you to get. You told me “It’ll be great. We can both get use out of these presents!” You never could remove yourself from the equation.

All those promises and supposed returned kindnesses didn’t seem to be from the heart. They were mirror images and actions of what I had already done for you. You copied me and I stood looking back into a tainted, foggy reflection of my own generosity, because you had no inkling of how to do this on your own.

Every trip we took was a walk on eggshells. Did I remember to remind you to bring your meds? Did you remember to pack your cigarettes? What would I need to go out and buy once we got there? You said it would be fun, to get away for a while. What you really meant was that you’d have me all to yourself, to toy with me for a while. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

We never ate dinner together, let alone made it. Endless days morphed into pointless nights and I stopped thinking about you. And I reflected on my past, to better times, to times I felt appreciated. And you knew it. You didn’t pay attention to me, and I took a step back to sort out my thoughts. I talked to someone, that perhaps I shouldn’t have, but still, it was only talk, a friendly conversation, and you exploded. And I fought like I have never fought anyone. Mugs flew, screams echoed, punches were thrown. I was an animal backed into a corner and you knew you had me trapped. That was 4 years ago. You never trusted me to my own feelings again.

You said I had to go to therapy or that was it. Because I wasn’t attracted to you anymore. Was it so hard to see why? I went, terrified of being abandoned, terrified of being alone, terrified of being unlovable. You had already started convincing me that it was all my fault. We talked about my past. We talked about the shit I dated before you. We talked about what I went through years and years ago. I guess there was improvement. I told myself it was because you were being so supportive, you cared enough to force me to do this!

But you didn’t. It was for selfish reasons, of course. You wanted me to get better so I’d be better at pleasing you. When I didn’t heal fast enough for you, anger consumed you yet again. Names flew. The foulest language I’ve ever heard. “Stupid cunt. Lying whore. Fat bitch. Pig-faced couch slug.” Any of the gains I had made were from and for my own self. I had found an iota of self-love and was trying so hard to nurture it and help it to grow. You saw that didn’t you? Couldn’t have that, could we? Because that would mean that the focus would be off of you. My attention would be on me, exactly where it didn’t belong.

The Doctor knew. He saw your anger from a mile away.

He warned me: “He’s dangerous. Please be careful.”

“But Doc, if you only knew how he’s such a hurt soul, he just needs some TLC, he’s never been loved before!” I echoed your own words back to him.

That voice was scratching at the inside of my skull again, but I had gotten so used to hushing it at this point that I barely paid it any notice. That was the last I knew of the Doc. I was forbidden to see him anymore, because, obviously, he was trying to turn me against you. And that just wouldn’t do. I tried to get you to return the favor. I wanted you to find help too, my broken old soul. Two sessions. You caught a scent of the threat to remove your crutches and abandoned ship. No, I’d just have to deal with you the way you were. It wasn’t your fault. Ever.

But I lived with you. I had to go home to you. Home was where you were, wasn’t it? I was out of the Doctor’s harmful influence so you thought it safe to resume. You stopped going to school. You started to undo all the building up of you I worked so hard on. You found your old demons; gambling, drugs, and shitty people. You turned our home into a house of horrors; a dirty crack den filled with disgusting things and disturbing rabble. I tried to keep up with your messes, physical and emotional, but it was too overwhelming. I stopped trying. I lived in the squalor. I tried to live like you to make it easier. I tried to really be what you wanted me to be, to lower my standards, or “relax,” as you called it.

“Relax.” You’d pressure me into all sorts of substances. I usually agreed just to appease you. Just to avoid the conflict. I hated being altered. I hated it even more because I was around you and I knew you were using it to subconsciously manipulate me. But what choice did I have? Vomiting from an overdose, awake for days on end. Do you love me yet? Am I good enough yet? Work became my reprieve. I couldn’t wait to go every day. I didn’t want to go home. Home is where the heartbreak is. Home is where the hurt is.

That voice was coming back louder than ever. It was screaming. I couldn’t sleep right, I couldn’t dream right. I still can’t. And I realized I just couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t be like you. And you knew it. I tried to end it then and there, halfway through a lease in the place I now called home. And you saw your chance and took it. If I thought things were bad now… you would show me I had no idea how bad they could get.

You invited strangers over. They ruined our things, they damaged the memories. You it did on purpose to hurt me because I said I “wasn’t sure if we should be together anymore” after years of hurt, confusion, and abuse. You showed me that things would be worse if we weren’t. And when my family tried to step in and help when you finally crossed the line with them… it was the first time you were actually scared, wasn’t it? You weren’t scared of my dad’s wrath… no, you were far too cocky and stubborn to bow to that. You weren’t scared of the financial woes… no, you couldn’t give a rat’s ass about ever having to file for bankruptcy or earning an eviction to your good name.

You were scared of losing control over me.

That’s when you kicked it into overdrive. The theatrics were quite spectacular, really; the hysterics of it all. Man, you really laid it all out there, didn’t you? Called me crying, “I’ll just get in my car and drive away… just… take care of the cat…” “There’s no point in living without you!” “I’m so sorry, I don’t deserve you.”

You tried to drown yourself with rum, you brought razor blades to the bed, and put a gun to your head.

You knew just what to do, didn’t you? Me, and my stupid heart. I couldn’t have your suicide on my conscience. I’d be guilty forever. I’d take it to my own grave. “What if I had only given you a second chance…” “What if…” would be my new mantra had I let that happen. You knew it would reel me back in. And you played every “normal[ish] relationship make-up” card you had in your deck.

You made me dinner, which was only special because you never did before. You bought me flowers, which was only special because it was the one time I didn’t have to ask you to first. You cleaned the house, which was only special because it had been unlivable for so long. None of these things should have made a difference in my original feelings and actions in leaving you.

But they did.

I was so used to the lowest of standards, of scraping the absolute bottom of the barrel with you, that these crumbs of dirt appeared as if mountains. I was hoping you had hit rock bottom and seen the sky above and were ready to climb back out. I could be there with the rope… with the ladder… with the helping hand… I could be that special someone once again… I’m I good enough yet? Do you love me yet?

It wasn’t rock bottom you hit though, you were simply digging the pit for another trap.

You sucked me into the abyss so fast I might as well have fallen into a black hole. You had me begging you for forgiveness for YOUR sins. You spun them back on me. It was my fault you dropped out of college, it was my fault you were late for work, it was my fault we were eating shit every night, it was my fault the house was a mess, it was my fault we had no money, it was my fault you were anxious, it was my fault my family hated you, it was my fault you didn’t trust me ever, it was my fault you were unhappy. And it was my responsibility to fix all of it.

Dear God I tried. I tried to complete this Sisyphean task.

I did whatever I could to make you feel better: It’s okay, hit me. Use my body as an ashtray. Spend my paycheck. Track my phone GPS. Spit on me. Keep me locked away at home. Force me to write apologies. Break my credit limits. Paint the makeup on over the scratches and bruises. Make me stay awake for days. Gaslight, gaslight, gaslight. All over time. Days, weeks, months. Break me down, break me down, break me down to those puzzle pieces. Please, please… Do you love me yet? (Shut up, annoying little voice telling me this is wrong.) Who would come and put me back together now? (Shush, you stupid fucking voice! I’ve been in this for 5 years now, there’s no going back!) Who would be my torch, my helper, the keen eye to help me in my blindness?

You of course. That’s what you planned. You classic narcissist, you!

That’s the goal of any self-respecting narcissist. Tear your muse to shreds, rip them soul from being, destroy their very essence. Then, and only then, can you reassemble them to your exact specifications. Then, and only then, can you reprogram their code to worship you and only you.

“You’re my #1, dear. You matter most. I’m here for you and only you.”

I was almost perfect. I was almost the puddle of nothingness that the narcissist desires to mold their perfect specimen. A useless mass of self-loathing and pain. Completely isolated, completely lost, and completely insane.

But in your enthusiasm, and insanity, and love of all things chaotic, you miscalculated.

The perfect was too perfect; your paranoia got the best of you. That was the thread that unraveled it all. The longing for control and the need to play God that makes a narcissist what he is, is what cost you me. Because you couldn’t even control yourself anymore. Your ideas of grandeur, of martyrdom, carried you from your original intent.

And the story spun thus: I had loved someone else on a trip to a far away place… in my car… even though I flew. But it was back in summer, even though the trip was in January. And suddenly I’d cheated on you a thousand times before! I must have been doing it all along! It explained everything now! Yes, yes, let’s pull apart every bit of data on my phone… on my tablet… on my PC… Search the house, search the car… there’s evidence somewhere. You knew you’d find it… and on and on you went.

Eventually you had yourself convinced. No evidence necessary. You know it with every fiber of your being. How could you, oh genius, oh magnificence, oh holier-than-thou, be wrong? You forced me to watch you do all of this… I didn’t sleep for days. I called out of work. We ran out of oil in the dead of winter and froze. I was exhausted and apathetic. If there’s one thing a narcissist can’t stand, it’s a lack of reaction.

And it led to this:

“Who did you cheat on me with? I know you did! Just say who!”

“I didn’t.”

“TELL ME. YOU AT LEAST OWE ME THAT!”

“[insert random man’s name here, so that I could just deescalate the situation and get you off my back, so that I could escape.]”

“PROVE IT.”

How can I prove I didn’t do something?

How can I prove something I didn’t do?

That’s when you lunged for me. Your rage was insatiable that day.

The day you slapped my face.

The day you punched me.

The day you threw me into the dresser.

The day you took a lighter to my hair and skin.

The day you crushed me, scratched me, and held me down.

The day your hands wrapped around my neck and closed over my mouth.

The day you said you’d kill me.

The day I escaped through the window.

The day I jumped from the roof.

The day I called 911.

The day I went home limping and bruised.

The best day of my life.

You tried to contact me.

You wanted to apologize.

You wanted to work things out.

You wanted to forgive me.

You forgot you had already freed me.

The best day of my life.

In that moment when your grip was so tight I couldn’t breathe, I saw the light. In that action of throwing myself out the window, I knew. In that call where I took control back into my own hands after months of letting you manipulate my life, I decided.

My life was worth SO much more than yours. Of all the things I was willing to be and do for you, that so many people would NEVER ask of me, HAD never asked of me… dead, was not one of them.

It took me a few days to convince myself that it was okay to turn you in, but I spoke to that nice policeman for 2 hours trying to relay everything that happened. There are still details I recall now that I missed then. Bits of ash floating back into the window of my mind like a ghost, settling on the clean swept floor.

And you were still texting me trying to reconcile. Walls of texts from different numbers for hours and hours, days and days. A narcissist’s desperate attempt at a lost cause. You claimed you were poisoned by your own drugs, illegal and otherwise. Incoherent ramblings of a mad man. That you hadn’t slept, you weren’t in a right state of mind.

You were never in a right state of mind.

You could never see that I didn’t cheat on you, you fool. I never could. Though I suppose it was never about me, right? It was only ever about you. Take and take. The narcissist’s game. Despite all the horrific things you called me, all the godawful things you did, all the feelings you denied me, I’m a Leo through and through. I am loyal, generous, and devoted to a fault.

But you didn’t even steal that from me, in all the vile destruction and chaos you caused. I will still be just those things. Because that’s who I am. And despite all the damage you tried to do, I love who I am. I have found determination and strength I never knew I had. You stripped away everything I didn’t need to be anymore, until only my bent, broken, and tarnished core remained. In your efforts to destroy me, you made it possible for me to come back stronger than I ever was. I am filled with perfectly messy and limitless emotions. I am naturally radiant with joy, humor, and kindness. And I am, and always have been, capable of loving and being loved. And I will be.

You didn’t hit rock bottom. But I did. My friends and family are here. I finally realized they were here all along. God, I love them so fucking much. They help with understanding, compassion, and unconditional love. Things you’ll never know or understand.

These people helping me back up are the true loves of my life.

And you, dear narcissist, are nothing but an evanescing memory.