#now we need a word for trauma being trendy

[kharmii]

Thank you Matt Walsh! In todays show: 02:08 - 18:34 How We Became A Society Full Of ‘Traumatized’ Weaklings, Matt talks about how media increasingly is putting trigger warnings on every little thing. Its turning something stupid the girlies online started doing back in 2009 that never really went away into mainstream. My favorite part of this is where he says:

In 2013 leading medical associations radically altered the meaning of trauma. This is a a common theme with the medical organizations where they take something -especially something that's a mental health problem- and they expand and expand and expand the definition until eventually everybody has it.

We've seen this with many things. PTSD just being one of them as one Berkeley psychology Professor recently told the New York Times: "Some changes to the diagnostic manual psychological disorders may have blurred the line between PTSD and disorders like depression or anxiety". In 2013 the committee overseeing revisions to the manual expanded the list of potential PTSD symptoms to include dysphoria or a deep sense of unease and a negative worldview which could also be caused by depression. The Times report added PTSD was introduced as an official diagnosis in 1980 as it became clear that combat experiences had imprinted on many Vietnam veterans making it difficult them for them to work or participate in family life.

Over the decades that followed the definition was revised to encompass a large range of injury, violence, and abuse as well as indirect exposure to traumatic events. In other words with very little fanfare the medical establishment completely redefined the meaning of PTSD and the trauma necessary to qualify for a diagnosis.

Once again, this this is the trajectory that we follow with almost every mental illness or mental health challenge. It starts first they come up with the idea of it. They come up with the label and it applies to a small subset of the population. As time goes on it expands and expands and expands and expands so that eventually every single living human on earth could qualify as having PTSD or depression or anxiety or ADHD (or autism) so now it's no longer necessary to personally witness a violent death or injury to receive a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder. It's enough to indirectly experience such a violent death or injury that is trauma under the new standard. This is what psychologists are telling their patients.

The only limitation as far as I can tell from reading through the dsm5 is that this indirect exposure has to involve a loved one. Even then, it's no longer necessary for your symptoms to involve vivid flashbacks and extreme social dysfunction or anything like that because now if you have a deep sense of unease and a negative worldview then you have PTSD. Never mind the fact that probably the vast majority of people in the country have at least sometimes a deep sense of unease and even a negative worldview. In fact every person who's ever lived on the planet struggles at least at times with a deep sense of unease and has -if not all the time- often a worldview that could be described as negative.

Again every single person could have PTSD. That's all it takes to suffer trauma according to every major medical institution at this point. This is one way in which the concept of trauma has been expanded and over diagnosed into oblivion. They just changed the meaning of the word back in 2013 probably to enable more doctors to diagnose more patients and prescribe them some more drugs. Then that lingo filters down to the media and everywhere else.

If that sounds far-fetched or conspiratorial consider the fact that another convenient rebranding took place that same year in 2013. It was also the year that the American Medical Association or AMA abruptly decided to reclassify obesity as a disease just like asthma or diabetes. This happened in the same year but the AMA privately acknowledged that obesity didn't actually meet the criteria to be classified as a disease because there are no unique symptoms that only obese people suffer from. It's also the only disease in the world that can be cured with a 100% success rate by expending more calories than you're consuming. Nevertheless the AMA simply decided that reclassifying obesity as a disease would have a positive impact on society, so they did it. This is how the psychiatric community decides ultimately whether something will be classified as a mental illness or not. The criteria isn't actually asking the question 'Is it a mental illness?' They're asking, would 'calling it that' (whether it's true or not) have a positive impact on society?

Again, notice that that question is different from is 'it true would have a positive impact' with 'is it true (that obesity is an actual real disease)' those are actually two different questions. The Lancet (medical journal) documented all of this as I outlined a few months ago. Now just a few years later Oprah is hosting an hour-long special in which she confidently suggests that OIC is the miracle drug that can cure this disease. Now there's reason to believe that the same approach has now been applied to trauma much like the idea Lancet acknowledgements.

This massively expanded definition of trauma has quickly made its way from a handful of elite academics all the way to everyday life so now we get trigger warnings on Netflix and Hulu and the theater and everywhere else. Much more importantly now millions of Americans incorrectly believe that they've suffered trauma when they haven't. They are under the impression that their problems are far more serious and uncontrollable than they really are. Now that's good for the people prescribing the medications and doing the talk therapy. It keeps the money rolling in for everybody else. It's yet another sign that we're becoming a weaker and more broken society, one that inevitably will become even easier to control and manipulate.

(Basically, left wing victimhood culture turns us all into emotional infants who will never ever get over our 'trauma'. I had left the comment: PTSD is something you get over with time. Sometimes you need therapy -often you just need a friend to talk to- but mostly time heals trauma. If a person doesn't get over PTSD, then they end up a homeless guy on drugs. Left wing victim culture wants to turn us all into emotional infants who never get over our trauma. The drug industry wants us all hooked on medications which often make the condition worse.)

[writesvani]

coming down | 04

collegestudent! gojo x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: You and Gojo Satoru were once everything to each other, but now, the space between you is filled with nothing but silence and resentment. College is just a reminder of how far you’ve drifted apart, and every encounter only adds fuel to the fire.

You avoid him like the plague, but it doesn’t matter. You can still feel him in the shadows, always there, always watching, as if the past was never really gone. So what do you do? You (try to) keep your distance, pretending it’s easy to forget the history that’s weighed you down for so long.

But deep down, neither of you can let go. And as the tension between you grows, you’re forced to confront the truth: some things are never truly buried, no matter how hard you try.

best friends-to-friends with benefits-to-enemies-to-enemies with benefits-to?

TWs (for this chapter): manipulation, toxic friendship dynamics, arguing, back handed compliments, making out, sexual tension, substance abuse, explicit language, mentions of past trauma, emotional conflict, jealousy

comment HERE for Coming Down taglist;

SERIES M. LIST

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 7k // date: 17th of March

CHAPTER FOUR – In The Night; proceed with caution...

AN: okay listen. i know this was a slow burn chapter. but every single part of it was necessary. EVERYTHING is important. do you think i just write things for fun? no. every sentence, every stare, every word exchanged between gojo and y/n is intentional. calculated. y/n and yumi? the way they showed up wearing almost matching outfits? not a coincidence. the way y/n interacts with yumi and vice versa? telling. the way the toxicity seeps through her conversation with gojo? NECESSARY. you need to understand where they stand right now to fully grasp what’s about to happen next. there is a reason they are all still in each other’s lives. trust me.

and finally. GETO. HELLO. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT. he had no business being that hot this chapter. NONE. i was writing him like sir please be serious for once but no. he had to say things. he had to look like that. i hate him (i love him).

next chapter; after 100 notes <3

love, vani 🩷

You can feel the weight of your wallet in your bag, but it’s not a burden; it’s an opportunity. The mall hums around you, the fluorescent lights overhead making everything feel a little more artificial, but also a little more alive. You take in the scent of expensive perfumes mixed with the fresh leather from the bags on display. It’s like a hit of dopamine straight to the system, and you can almost taste the excitement on your tongue.

Yumi walks beside you, her eyes already scanning the racks, her steps slow but deliberate. She's in the same vibe today, quiet, but her attention sharp. You two aren’t talking much, but it doesn’t matter—sometimes, silence is just another form of conversation.

“Do you think it’s wrong to just...buy things for the sake of it?” Yumi asks out of nowhere, glancing sideways at you, her lips curling up in a half-smirk. “Like, not because we need it, but because...it feels good?”

“Fuck no,” you reply almost immediately, your voice louder than it probably should be in the middle of the mall. You catch a couple of people glancing over, but it doesn’t matter. “Anyone who says that is lying to themselves. Spending money is like hitting the reset button, a little personal therapy session in each swipe. I mean, have you seen these shoes? They're practically begging me to buy them.”

Yumi chuckles, her eyes falling to the rows of trendy sneakers on the shelf. She moves towards them with purpose, but you know she's not just here to buy. She's here to feel something, just like you. The thrill of walking out of the store with something new, the satisfaction of a decision that is all yours.

“Sometimes I feel like...if I just have something nice, it’ll fix everything. Like, if I buy this jacket, maybe everything will feel okay,” Yumi says, her voice soft, almost hesitant. You look over at her, catching the slightest crack in her usual nonchalant expression.

"Yeah, I get that," you reply, your hand brushing along a velvet dress on display. "It’s like, a temporary fix. But sometimes? It’s all you need to get through the day. You can’t tell me there’s a better feeling than slipping into something new and realizing you just made your own mood for the day."

Yumi glances over at you, her face breaking into a grin. “I knew I wasn’t the only one who thought that way. Let's make the most of this ‘therapy’ while we can.”

You both laugh, the sound mixing with the distant chatter of other shoppers as you continue to roam, leaving your cares and worries at the door with every step you take. Today is not about making decisions, it’s about feeling. And right now, you’re both just trying to feel good.

You and Yumi are dressed in the kind of outfits that could easily be mistaken for "mom chic"—but in a way that feels intentional and effortless. Think muted tones, soft fabrics, and the kind of casual elegance that says, "I don’t have to try too hard, but I still look put together."

You’re both wearing beige-colored pieces, like a warm, oversized cardigan layered over a simple cream blouse. The cardigan drapes off your shoulders just so, perfectly slouchy, like you didn’t even think about it. Your pants are wide-legged, a soft taupe color, with just enough volume to make them look chic but still comfortable enough to lounge in. You're not exactly pulling off a runway look, but you’re definitely pulling off an “I’m casually rich but low-key” vibe. You’ve opted for simple, white sneakers that look like they’ve been through a lot, but still hold their own in the aesthetics department.

Yumi mirrors you in a similar way. She’s got a beige trench coat hanging loosely around her shoulders, the kind of piece that makes you look like you’ve got your life together, even if you don’t. Her pants are slightly more tapered, a light khaki shade, but still relaxed enough to give off that effortless vibe. A simple beige scarf is wrapped loosely around her neck, adding just the right touch of elegance. You notice she’s wearing matching beige slides, the kind that click softly against the floor with every step, but they have a casual, almost lazy feel to them, like she couldn’t be bothered with heels today.

Both of you have your hair pulled back into sleek, tight buns—nothing too fancy, just neat and low-maintenance. It’s a look that says you’re not trying too hard, but still trying just enough to feel put-together. It’s a mood. The kind of aesthetic that screams understated, but the more you look at it, the more you realize just how much effort went into making it look so effortless.

At some point, you break away from her, your eyes landing on a store that’s been calling your name for days. You head straight for the jeans section like you’re on a mission from God. And there they are. The perfect pair. The jeans. They practically shine in your peripheral vision, whispering your name. “Buy me, buy me, buy me,” they seem to scream. You grab your size with the kind of urgency that only comes from knowing destiny has just called your name, then practically launch yourself into the fitting room.

Once you’re inside, you slip into the jeans and instantly fall in love. They hug you just right, shaping your body in that effortless way that says, I’m so stylish. You glance in the mirror, nodding to yourself like you've just discovered fire.

“Yu!” You yell, probably a little louder than necessary, but you’re too excited. “Come here, I found something.”

“Girl, where’s here?” Yumi calls from outside, clearly in the middle of her own shopping-induced trance.

“The fitting room, hurry up!” You tug at the waistband to make sure it’s sitting just right. You can already feel the high of this purchase.

You hear Yumi’s footsteps approach as she huffs impatiently. “Step out, c'mon!” she calls. You laugh, rolling your eyes as you open the fitting room door, spinning out dramatically to show off your catch of the day.

“What do you think?” You strike a pose, a mix of sass and excitement.

Yumi blinks. It’s not the reaction you expected. Her eyes flick up and down you, but there's something off about her expression—something you can’t quite place. She pauses, the kind of pause that always means she’s about to say something she thinks will sound nice but isn’t. She twirls a lock of her hair around her finger and scratches at her trench coat like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Oh,” she says, her tone flat.

“Is something wrong?” You squint, suddenly sensing the tension in the air. She can’t even look you in the eye.

“No, no, they’re great,” she says quickly, but it’s too fast. Too... fake.

You raise an eyebrow, giving her the look—the one that says, Really, girl? “Come on, be honest.”

She chews her lip, eyeing you again. “Well, I mean…” She lets out a breath, eyes sweeping over you. “I don’t think they suit you,” she says, as if it’s a casual observation. “They’re not really... the model of jeans for you. But hey, we can totally find you something else. Like, better.”

Your whole posture goes rigid. That familiar sting of frustration bubbles up, your brow furrowing as your stomach tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you shoot back, holding her gaze with a challenge in your eyes.

Yumi’s smile falters just slightly, but she hides it quickly, brushing a non-existent hair from her forehead. “Nothing,” she says, the fakest sweetness lacing her words. “Nothing at all. They’re still good... for you, I guess.”

You shake your head, the irritation trying to creep in. “Well, I don’t care,” you say, a little too firmly. “I’m buying them.”

Yumi’s expression softens, but there’s still that tiny edge to her smile. “Okay,” she says, giving you a shrug. “But don’t be all broody and moody when you realize there’s better stuff out there for you. Like, I’m just saying.”

You roll your eyes, tossing the jeans into your bag with more force than necessary. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” You’re not sure if you’re more frustrated with her or with the fact that her words still got under your skin. But you don’t care. You’re buying them. End of story.

Yumi gives you one last look, the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at her lips. “Alright, drama queen. Whatever you say.”

You slip the jeans off quickly, tossing them over the little bench as you grab your regular clothes, avoiding your own reflection in the mirror. The tightness in your chest isn't from the jeans; it's from something else—something Yumi always manages to plant inside you without even trying. It’s that lingering feeling, the one that makes you question if you really know who you are.

You slide your old clothes back on, pulling everything back into place, but that knot in your chest only seems to tighten. Yumi’s words replay in your head, and they sting, a little too much. “They aren’t exactly the model of jeans for you.”

You don’t know why it hurts, but it does. Maybe it’s the way she always acts like she’s doing you a favor, like her opinion is the only one that matters. You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t stop the sinking feeling. You’re not going to let her get to you. You won’t. Not this time.

You’re pissed – pissed at Yumi for acting like she has the right to call the shots when it comes to your life. Pissed at yourself for letting her get away with it for so long. The usual irritation bubbles in your chest as you grumble under your breath about her condescending attitude. This weird dynamic between you two – it’s been building for a while now, and it’s starting to wear thin.

You glance down at your phone, desperately hoping to distract yourself from the heavy tension in the air. And then you see it.

The notification.

Geto Suguru has just accepted your follow request.

Geto Suguru has sent you a follow request.

Your breath hitches. Your heart skips a beat. This is it. This is the moment. Like a schoolgirl in the throes of her first crush, your hands shake as you try to process it.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” you squeal in disbelief, all thoughts of Yumi and her annoying behavior forgotten in an instant. It’s as if the universe just dropped a bombshell into your lap.

“What’s going on?” Yumi’s voice cuts through your excitement, her tone mixed with amusement and curiosity. You barely hear it. All you can do is stare at the screen, your mind racing between accepting the request immediately or savoring this moment for a bit longer.

“Geto accepted me and followed me back on Instagram!” You burst out, your voice a little too loud as you shove your phone in Yumi’s direction, too giddy to care about anything else. Your face is flush with excitement, like you’ve just won some major prize.

Yumi blinks at you, looking genuinely confused. “You followed him?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. Her disbelief only makes you smile wider.

“Yeah, like three weeks ago,” you say, your words tumbling out in a rush. “He never followed me back…until now.” You shove your phone even closer, practically forcing her to examine the screen like it holds the answers to the meaning of life.

“And you never told me?” Yumi’s voice is dripping with mock hurt as she places a hand dramatically on her chest. “Ouch. I thought we were friends!”

You roll your eyes. “Chill, Yumi. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” you reply, trying to brush off her dramatics. But you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. You’ve been waiting for this moment, and now that it’s here, you’re just too damn happy to care about anything else.

“Well, you should’ve told me,” she says, crossing her arms and feigning disappointment. “I’m feeling so betrayed right now.”

“Just let me have my moment, Yu,” you snap back, your patience thinning. You don’t have the energy for her attitude right now. “I gotta call Ren. This is huge.” You murmur the last part mostly to yourself, your fingers already lazily scrolling through your contact list. Yumi’s voice rings out, suddenly sharp with curiosity.

“You told Ren and not me?” she asks, raising an eyebrow in mock offense.

“Yeah, because he was there when I followed Geto. This conversation is pointless,” you say, your eyes not leaving the screen as you look for Ren’s name. “If this is a real problem for you, then I don’t know… Maybe touch some grass or something.”

“Whatever, forget it,” she mutters, her earlier drama fading away like it never happened. “So, are you gonna accept him or what?” Her voice now bubbles with excitement, the tension dissipating as she realizes what’s happening.

You look at your phone, a mix of excitement and nervousness swirling in your gut. You hover over the “accept” button, the thrill of the moment almost making you dizzy.

Without thinking twice, you tap the button.

Yumi gasps. “Oh. My. God. You actually did it,” she says, her voice filled with awe. She watches as you sit back, your heart still pounding. “You’re officially in. Ren’s gonna lose it when he finds out.”

A laugh escapes your lips, a little breathless. “I know, right?” You feel like you’re floating. This is it – your moment. Finally.

But before you get lost in your own excitement, you dial Ren’s number, your fingers moving with practiced ease. This is big. And you’re definitely calling him first.

You dial Ren's number, heart pounding like a jackhammer on a caffeine binge. The phone rings twice before he picks up, his voice muffled as if he's speaking from the depths of a swamp.

"Yo, what's up?" he says, sounding distracted.

"Ren! You won't believe what just happened!" you exclaim, barely containing your enthusiasm.

"Hold up," he interrupts, the unmistakable sound of a toilet flushing echoing in the background. "I'm on the can. Give me a sec."

You stifle a laugh, picturing him mid-transaction. "Take your time," you reply, tapping your fingers impatiently against your phone.

A few moments later, he returns, his voice clearer now. "Alright, I'm back. What's got you so hyped?"

"Geto Suguru accepted my follow request and followed me back!" you blurt out, unable to keep the excitement out of your voice.

There's a brief silence on the other end before Ren erupts. "No way! That's insane!"

"I know, right?" you giggle, pacing your room. "I can't believe it!"

Ren's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Okay, okay. We need a plan. Like, a full-on strategy to get you two together. I'm talking meet-cutes, accidental run-ins, the whole shebang."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Ren, you're crazy."

He ignores your comment, already deep in his own world. "Picture this: you and Geto, a chance encounter at a coffee shop. He spills his drink on you, you both laugh it off, exchange numbers—classic rom-com material."

You roll your eyes, amused. "And what's next? The meet-the-parents montage?"

"Exactly!" Ren responds enthusiastically. "And then, plot twist—you both end up on a reality dating show together. The drama, the tension, the undeniable chemistry."

You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. "Ren, you're out of control."

He pauses, then adds thoughtfully, "Okay, but real talk. This could be your big break. You and Geto, taking over the internet. The content would be insane."

You sobered slightly, considering his words. "Yeah, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. It's just social media."

Ren snorts. "Just social media? Girl, this is the 21st century. Social media is everything."

You chuckle, shaking your head. "You're incorrigible."

"Hey, I'm just saying," Ren replies, his tone light. "The lore we could build around this—people would lose their minds."

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through you. "Thanks, Ren. I needed that."

"Anytime," he says. "Now, go accept that follow request before he changes his mind."

You laugh,"Beat you to it bestie, it’s already accepted."

"Atta girl," Ren says approvingly. "Now, keep me posted. I want all the details."

"Will do," you reply, feeling a flutter of anticipation. "Talk to you later."

As you finish up your chat with Ren, you spot Yumi by the counter, already making her purchase for the shirt she couldn’t resist the second she laid eyes on it. You toss your jeans beside it, ready to pay for your own haul. “Yo, Yu,” you hum, flashing a playful grin at the cashier as you hand over your cash. She bags up your purchase with a smile, and you nod your thanks, slipping out of the store.

"So, what's the deal with Geto and his girl?" you ask, picking at your nails as you walk beside Yumi. There's a slight flutter in your chest—yeah, you definitely want him, but are you really ready to totally shake up his relationship? You can’t decide.

Yumi's expression shifts, her lips curving into a devilish grin that screams, I know something you don’t. "They broke up last week," she drops the bomb casually, her eyes practically sparkling with the excitement of sharing the gossip.

"Wait, seriously?" you blink, caught off guard.

"Yep," she says, her tone smug, like she just delivered the best news ever. "The man’s single now. Time for you to make your move."

A flutter of nerves rushes through you, but you push it aside. "I want to, but... where do I even start?"

Yumi taps her chin, the wheels turning in her mind. "Easy. Post a pic of yourself. See if he’s gonna like it. If he does... it’s game time."

You raise an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at your lips. "Not a bad idea, actually."

“I know, I’m a genius,” she says, almost too smug.

You scroll through your gallery, your finger hovering over the screen until you find the one. There it is—your mirror selfie from a few days ago. Your hair is perfectly curled, a soft cascade of waves that look effortless but just polished enough to make heads turn (courtesy of heatless curls hack you found on TikTok). You’re wearing the perfect balance of casual and seductive—oversized denim jeans slung low on your hips, paired with a black tube top that clings just enough to highlight your curves.

But the real magic? Your finger, softly grazing your lips, the tip of your manicured nail pressing ever so lightly against your full, plump pout. The angle's just right to capture the soft curve of your neck, and your eyes? Locked straight at the camera with that playful, irresistible spark.

You glance at Yumi, a devilish grin creeping onto your face. "Game on, Geto Suguru. Let’s see if you can handle this."

The rest of the day flies by in a haze of impulse buys, mindless chatter with Yumi, and forcing down yet another overpriced green smoothie that tastes like regret. You nearly block out Yumi’s oh-so-inappropriate remarks about you as you finally step into your apartment alone, shutting the door behind you with a sigh.

Silence. Finally.

Tossing your bags onto the couch, you make a beeline for the TV, flipping on Netflix like it’s muscle memory. Without hesitation, you scroll straight to Gossip Girl. The Thanksgiving episode is on, and before you know it, you’re gasping at every twist and betrayal—as if you don’t already have the entire script engraved in your soul. (But seriously, with every rewatch, it just gets better. No one can convince you otherwise.)

Mid-scene, you reach for today’s most questionable purchase—an unnecessarily fancy ashtray you bought for no real reason other than, well, aesthetic. You light a cigarette, placing it between your lips, the flicker of the lighter casting a brief glow against your face. Smoke curls around you as you stare at the screen, completely locked in, like Blair Waldorf’s next move is life or death.

Then, your fingers move on autopilot. Check story views.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Geto Suguru hasn’t even seen it.

Your eye twitches. Excuse me?

Dozens of likes, a couple of fire emojis in your DMs, and even a "damn who let you be this fine??" from someone you don’t even know. But the one person you want? Nowhere to be found.

“Dude,” you groan, flopping back against the cushions. “Throw me a bone here.”

With a sigh, you toss your phone onto your lap, take another slow drag of your cigarette, and let the smoke swirl lazily around you. The air in your apartment is thick with it now—probably should crack a window before your living room starts smelling like a nicotine shrine, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.

Then, just as you start spiraling into a self-pity session, your phone rings.

Ren.

You stretch your arm lazily, phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder, eyes glued to the screen.

“Hey, babe, you home from your little shopping spree?” Ren’s voice comes through, smooth and familiar.

You sigh dramatically. “Mhm. Just watching Gossip Girl.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. I have commitment issues, and this is the only way I know how to work through them.”

Ren lets out a knowing laugh. “Whatever keeps you sane, babe. But listen—it’s Friday, and I was thinking… I kinda want to go out. And you know Aiko—”

You half-listen, stretching your neck until it cracks in a way that probably isn’t good for you. 'Ouch. Love that for me.'

“—her roommate’s throwing a party, and Aiko invited me. And obviously, because I’m the best bestie to ever exist, I told her I’m not going anywhere without my ride-or-die.”

You let out a soft laugh, but your brain is already at war.

On one hand, you had the perfect night planned: sinking into your couch, rewatching rich people make messy life choices, rolling a joint (or two), and falling asleep in a haze of smoke and Blair Waldorf’s superiority complex.

On the other hand… getting a little reckless with Ren? That sounds dangerous. And fun. And exactly what you haven’t done in a long time.

You and Ren don’t party together. Your social circles barely overlap, and that’s always worked in your favor. But maybe, just maybe, it’s time to shake things up.

And it’s Aiko. Ren’s childhood bestie, who goes to a different college but still lives in town. No drama, no nonsense—just good vibes. And honestly? New faces, new energy, and new distractions sound pretty damn tempting.

Because, let’s be real—who needs Geto Suguru to like their story when there’s a whole party full of questionable choices waiting for you?

A slow smirk tugs at your lips as you finally answer, voice dripping with mischief.

“Let’s go cause some chaos.”

The party is exactly your kind of chaos—loud, reckless, and just dangerous enough to make you feel alive.

You catch a shift in Ren’s energy beside you, and when you glance at him, it clicks—this is definitely not what he was expecting. Poor thing probably thought he was signing up for a casual little get-together, a few drinks, maybe getting a little too tipsy and ending the night puking out Aiko’s window.

But instead? This.

Bodies packed tight, unfamiliar faces blurring together, the thick haze of weed curling through the air like a heavy fog. The bass from the speakers thrums beneath your skin, rattling in your chest, making the world feel electric. Someone spills a drink nearby, but no one cares. There’s a girl perched on the kitchen counter, her fingers tangled in a guy’s hair, pulling him in like she’s starving.

And—oh my God. Is someone actually moaning out loud?

'Alright, that’s a little much, even for me. Jesus. Please, for the love of God, take it to a bedroom. I don’t need to be reminded that I haven’t gotten laid in two months. Thanks.'

Still, the rest of this? Perfection.

You flick your gaze back to Ren just in time to watch his soul physically leave his body. He looks like a deer caught in headlights—half-hiding behind you, half-frantically scanning the room for an escape route.

And then—just like that—he’s gone.

Your eyes track his movements lazily, following him as he weaves through the crowd with surprising determination. Interesting. You watch as he approaches some guy—tall, broad shoulders, an easy grin. You don’t know him personally, but recognition sparks.

Aiko introduced them a few weeks ago and he is the one Ren showed you a picture of.

Oh.

Ohhh.

So this is why Ren wanted to go out so bad.

You roll your eyes, but there’s an amused smirk tugging at your lips. Cute. Puppy love.

Hopefully, the guy rails Ren by the end of the night.

You scan the room, taking in the dizzying mix of sweaty bodies, half-baked stoners, and preppy girls pretending they don’t secretly love this mess.

And then—you spot it.

Aiko has a bar. Or at least, something that resembles one. A sleek blend of wood and cool gray marble, standing out like a beacon of class in the middle of this absolute shitshow.

And—oh, look. An empty stool, practically begging you to claim it.

You mentally pat yourself on the back for securing the perfect spot—close enough to the action to people-watch, yet tucked away just enough to avoid being in it. A strategic retreat. A throne.

You already know the marble is going to be a dream for rolling, so you settle in, pull out your weed, and get to work.

Your fingers move on autopilot—muscle memory kicking in like a well-rehearsed performance. You unfold the paper, pluck at the small green bud, and absolutely massacre one of your cigarettes, so you could mix your joint with tobacco. A brutal sacrifice for a higher cause.

Once it’s done, you sit back, admiring your work of art for a solid thirty seconds. A true masterpiece. Leonardo da Vinci could never.

Then, rummaging through your bag, you fish out your lighter. Flick. Flame.

And just like that—the first hit of the night is here.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there. Time has melted away between the slow drag of your joint and the burn of nicotine on your tongue. One joint down, two cigarettes deep—it’s time for round two.

You bring the joint number #2 to your lips, ready for round two, when—

"Look at what we got here."

The voice is rich, velvety, dangerous. It spills down your spine like warm liquor, and then—the heat of his breath, so close to your neck, so intimate, you nearly shudder.

Fingertips ghost over your shoulder, then trace a slow, lazy path down to your waist. Barely there, yet enough to send a pulse of electricity through you, enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs press.

You inhale, slow and steady, masking the effect he has on you with a drag from your joint. “Didn’t think the place I’d see you again would be here,” you murmur, blowing out smoke in a smirk.

But then—fuck.

His fingers skate down your ribs, a teasing tap, so faint it shouldn’t do anything, but it does. A single touch, and your stomach tightens, heat pooling low.

You’re acting like a starved divorcée. Embarrassing.

“So you thought about seeing me again,” he says, stepping forward, pressing closer.

And ohhh, the way he moves—fluid, predatory, his body heat licking at yours like an unspoken promise. His elbow lands on the marble counter, muscles flexing, jaw sharp enough to cut.

Black shirt, grey joggers—so simple, so effortless, yet you know how dangerous that combo is. How easy it would be to just… tug the waistband down.

Then—the worst part. The part that makes your fingers twitch with the need to touch.

His hair—tied up in that messy, infuriatingly perfect bun.

You want to pull it loose.

You want to fist your hands in it.

You want to ruin him.

He flicks his tongue against his cheek, and your brain short circuits.

That tongue. That thumb. Fuck.

“Mm,” you hum, shifting slightly, just enough to brush against him. “What if I did, Suguru?”

His smirk deepens, something dark flickering in his eyes.

“Already on a first-name basis?” His voice drops—low, thick, laced with amusement and something even filthier. “You’re bad, peach.”

Peach.

Oh, he’s playing dirty.

“I can be a lot worse,” you counter, dragging your tongue over your lips—slow, intentional. And just as expected, his gaze snaps to the movement. His jaw tenses, his Adam’s apple bobs, and—ohhh, there it is. That tiny flicker of restraint slipping.

He’s so sexy it’s infuriating.

“Wanna prove it sometime?” His voice is like silk, wrapping around you, daring you.

You barely breathe out, “Yeah.”

And then, stupidly, recklessly, you extend your arm to hand him the joint.

Big mistake.

Because the second he takes it, that hand—the one burning your ribs, teasing, lingering, driving you insane—is gone.

And now?

Now it’s wrapped around the joint instead.

Your lungs seize.

Your thighs press tighter.

You’re already losing this game.

But even without his hands on you, he’s still too much for your own good. The joint rests between his lips like it belongs there, lazy and effortless, the smoke curling around his face in slow, deliberate swirls. His eyes—dark and low—trace over you, dragging like the lazy pull of a bowstring, like he’s memorizing every dip, every curve, every flicker of emotion that crosses your face.

He takes a slow inhale, lets the smoke pool in his lungs before releasing it in a sigh that feels too intimate, too heavy, settling between you like an invitation.

“So,” he murmurs, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, “what brings you here?”

Your fingers twitch at your side. Why does he have to be so fucking pretty?

“I’m here with my friend. He’s friends with Aiko,” you mutter, tipping your chin toward Ren—who, at this exact moment, is devouring THE guy in the corner like he’s trying to consume his soul. His hands are buried in the guy’s hair, nails digging in, like he’s trying to make sure this man never forgets him.

Geto follows your gaze, lets out a short, amused huff. “Subtle.”

You snort, then—maybe to distract yourself, maybe just to fill the space—ask, “What about you?”

“Jen is Yuji’s girl,” he says absently, fingers tracing the cotton of his shirt, and—oh.

So that’s the connection.

And then it hits. Yuji's girlfriend is Aiko's roommate. A slow-building dread that curls in your stomach and coils around your ribs, tight, suffocating—because if Geto and Yuji are here… then so is Gojo.

Your chest feels too tight. Your blood feels too hot.

You don’t want to think about him. You can’t think about him. Because the last time you saw him, he ruined you. Because his words are still a wound in your chest, still raw, still bleeding.

You flex your hands, swallow hard. Keep your voice even. “That’s cool.”

But Geto is too fucking perceptive for his own good. His eyes are on you, watching, picking apart every microexpression, every breath, every slight shift in your body language.

“Are you okay with that?” His voice is smooth, careful.

“With what?”

“C’mon babe. I know you already realized Gojo is here and last time I saw you and Gojo in the same room, there were fangs and claws.”

“I’m fine.” The words come out clipped, a little too quick.

Geto hums. He doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe yourself.

“As long as he doesn’t talk to me, I don’t give a shit.”

A pause. A twitch of his lips. “You sure about that?”

You shoot him a look. “I said I’m fine.”

His gaze lingers, heavy with amusement and something else you don’t want to name. The silence stretches, thick and charged, something unsaid crackling between you like static electricity.

And then you do something dangerous.

With slow, deliberate movements, you reach for the joint between his lips, plucking it free with a feather-light touch. His breath hitches—so quiet, so subtle, you almost miss it. But you don’t.

You never do.

You bring it to your lips, inhale deep, the taste of him clinging to the filter. Let the smoke swirl in your lungs before you exhale, slow, deliberate, watching as it curls between you like something intimate.

You learned a long time ago how easy it is to make a man forget about everything but you. A touch, a look, a well-placed breath—and they’ll unravel at your feet.

Geto is no different.

His pupils dilate, his eyes flickering between your lips, the joint, and back again.

“So,” you murmur, voice dipping into something just shy of teasing, “you think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. His fingers—deft, warm, deliberate—trace over yours where they rest against his chest. His heartbeat is fast, just a little erratic, but his voice is steady when he hums, “Mhm.”

You tilt your head. “Then tell me—” You lean in, just close enough that you can make sure he tastes the next inhale of smoke, “—what am I thinking about?”

Geto pauses, the corner of his mouth quirking up, eyes dark and knowing. His fingers tighten over yours, just barely.

“You’re thinking about me,” he murmurs, voice velvet-soft, rich, dangerous. “On top of you.”

And fuck—maybe you are.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, your lips part—just slightly, just enough. And then you close the distance.

The second your mouth touches his, something electric shoots through you, like a live wire sparking against bare skin. You exhale the smoke into his mouth, letting the heat of his lips, the weight of him, consume you. Geto doesn’t hesitate. He inhales it all, deep and slow, before letting the smoke curl lazily from his nostrils like a fucking dragon.

And then—then the hunger wins.

Your fingers find his hair, twisting into the dark strands, yanking hard enough that he groans into your mouth—a sound that shoots straight down your spine, settling low in your stomach like molten heat. The joint slips from your fingers, forgotten, hitting the floor with a dull thud. It doesn’t matter. This is more important. So much more important.

Your lips press harder, claiming him, devouring him, like you’re trying to carve yourself into his bones. His hands are everywhere—sliding down your waist, gripping the curve of your hips, fingers sinking into your ass like he’s staking his claim right here in the middle of the fucking party. And then—smack.

A sharp slap against your ass echoes through the room.

A few people glance over, but you don’t care. You barely notice. Your brain is nothing but static, buzzing with the way he’s touching you, how his body is pressing you into the cool marble counter. You get it now. You understand all the couples you were rolling your eyes at earlier, making out like they were the only two people on the planet. You judged them, and now here you are—worse.

(You mentally apologize to them. You were wrong. You get it. You so get it.)

Geto licks into your mouth, deep and slow, like he’s savoring you. His tongue tangles with yours, his hands guiding your body against his in a way that feels almost too easy, too practiced, like he already knows exactly how to unravel you.

And he does. Fuck—he does.

"Real classy. Real, real classy, babes."

A voice cuts through the haze like a blade, slicing right into the heat of Geto’s lips, his hands, the taste of him still lingering on your tongue. Your breathing is erratic, your body still pressed against his, and when you finally tear yourself away, the hunger in his eyes mirrors your own.

But of course—because the universe hates you—there’s only one person bold enough, obnoxious enough to cockblock you like this.

Gojo Satoru.

His arms are crossed over his chest, lips curled into a smirk so sharp it could cut glass. His eyes gleam under the dimmed lights, twinkling like he’s enjoying every second of this. His white hair is a mess, like he just rolled out of bed—or worse, someone else’s bed. The thought alone makes your stomach turn, and you hate that it does.

"Did you really have to?" Geto groans, tilting his head back with a deep sigh, like he's asking the heavens why they let this happen.

Gojo's smirk only widens, his ears perking up like a damn cat that just found something new to ruin. "Well, sorry," he drawls, voice laced with insincerity. "Yuji disappeared somewhere with Jen, and I'm bored. I don’t wanna be alone."

He even pouts—full-on juts out his bottom lip like an overgrown, spoiled child. You swear he gets off on being the most insufferable person alive.

"Then go somewhere. Socialize," Geto deadpans, sounding like he's already debating walking out of this conversation.

Gojo scoffs, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. "Please. Let’s just chill,” he says. “Plus, I’m saving you from her, dude. As if anyone actually wants to be near her."

You snort. "Please. You’re projecting, baby."

His sharp blue eyes snap to yours instantly, and that goddamn smirk deepens, crawling into something more dangerous.

"You sure about that, sweetheart?"

"Well sweetheart, you’re the one wandering around all alone here. I have company."

Your fingers curl around Geto’s bicep, slow and deliberate, like a claim, like a shield, like you’re daring Gojo to say something about it. And he does. Of course, he does.

His smirk deepens, something sharp lurking beneath it. "Yeah? And your company just so happens to be one my best friends. What, you don’t have any of your own anymore?"

The words hit exactly where they’re meant to. Right where it hurts.

Your lips part, but there’s no quick comeback—because he’s not wrong. Not really. There was a time when your circle was bigger, fuller. But it collapsed. You burned bridges, walked away, let it crumble without a second glance.

Except for Ren.

So you nod toward the far-right corner of the room, where Ren is, mouth pressed against that guy’s neck, hands tangled in his hair. Your Ren. The one person you still have. The one person who still believes in you.

"I came here with Ren," you say, voice light, nonchalant, as if the words aren’t a loaded gun pointed at Gojo’s chest.

And then you fire. "It appears as if all your friends always choose me."

The moment the words leave your lips, you see it.

That flicker of something—something real, something raw—pass through his eyes. His jaw tightens. His fingers flex at his sides. You got him.

Because you and Gojo and Ren were everything once. A trio. A home. And then it all shattered, and when the dust settled, Gojo was left standing alone.

And Ren? Ren chose you.

Gojo stares at Ren a second too long. You watch the gears turn in his head, watch the muscle in his jaw tick, watch his body betray him in a dozen little ways. His throat bobs. His foot starts bouncing—an old habit, one you recognize. He’s pissed.

"Well," he finally says, voice low, strangled at the edges. "Looks like Ren’s occupied at the moment."

"He is," you agree, voice dipped in honey, in poison. You lean in, just a little, just enough to let him feel it. "But he’ll come back to me."

And there it is. The moment the knife twists.

You see it happen—see the way something dark passes over his features, the way his lips press into a thin line. His stare burns into you, unreadable and blistering and dangerous.

You crossed a line.

And you meant to.

The silence between you is thick. Suffocating.

Geto clears his throat, a nervous chuckle escaping him. "Okay, guys, let’s not kill each other, yeah?"

He glances between the two of you, trying to gauge what the fuck is going on. But he doesn’t know. He can’t.

All Geto knows is that you and Gojo slept together in high school.

That’s all he knows.

"Let’s…" Geto sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Let’s drink something. Satoru, why don’t you bring us some drinks, hmm?"

For a moment, Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. His eyes stay locked onto yours, an invisible war waging between the two of you.

And then, like flipping a switch, he smiles.

It’s fake. It’s so fake. A bright, easy-going grin spreads across his face, his body relaxing, his tone suddenly light, playful, effortless.

"Sure thing," he chirps, eyes glittering with something unreadable. "I’ll be right back."

Then he turns, walking away like none of this mattered. Like you didn’t just tear him open.

But you know better.

You watch him disappear into the crowd, your pulse still thrumming in your ears.

Because you finally hurt him.

And knowing Gojo Satoru?

It’s going to hurt for a long, long time.

"Don’t miss me too much," Gojo quips, his voice light, teasing.

But something about it feels… off.

You watch as he bounces toward the other room, easy, effortless—like none of this meant anything. Like you mean nothing.

And yet—

He turns. Just for a second.

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, they’re stripped of their usual bravado. No cocky smirk, no playful glint—just something heavy, something raw. Something that doesn’t belong to Gojo Satoru, the golden boy, but to Satoru, the boy who used to be your best friend.

For a split second, it looks like he wants to say something.

Like he needs you to understand.

And for that split second, you want to. You want to reach out, sift through the weight in his stare, get it the way you used to.

But those days? The days of understanding each other without words? The days of you and Gojo?

They’re dead. Long buried.

So you do what you’ve gotten so good at.

You turn away.

You laugh at something Geto says. You act like Gojo was never here. Like his presence wasn’t just buzzing against your skin.

But he was here. And you feel it.

Gojo Satoru might have walked away. But you know—deep in your bones, in the pit of your stomach, in the quiet part of your mind that still knows him—

He’ll be back.

Soon.

taglist: @zeunys @charmstarr @ovela @kur0mii3 @dabisdolly @17362939 @krispywhisperswhispers @mintcheery @kazupop @heh123321 @hanakotateyama @choppersworlds-blog @eneiyri @suniloli @44ina. @s4ikooo1 @blushedcheri @dishs0pe @rhea-sylvea

[ryind]

SPOILERS FOR OPPENHEIMER BY THE WAY BECAUSE I HAVE WAY TOO MANY THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS MOVIE AND WANT TO DISSECT IT

Okay so I know there are some very reasonable and valuable complaints, comments, and criticisms about Oppenheimer and how it handles the ACTUAL victims of the war, martyrizing Oppenheimer, an arguably very gray character in reality for more reasons than the atomic bomb and...trying to poison his mentor. You know. The basics.

THAT SAID I AM GOING ABSOLUTELY FERAL FOR CILLIAN MURPHY'S PORTRAYAL OF OPPENHEIMER LIKE I HAVE A 3 IN 1 DEAL FOR HYPERFIXATIONS RIGHT NOW I THINK BECAUSE WE HAVE THE ACTUAL MOVIE, CILLIAN, AND THEN OPPENHEIMER. AGH. LOSING MY MIND. PICKING APART EVERY SCENE AND DETAIL WHILE ALSO GUSHING ABOUT CILLIAN'S PERFORMANCE.

on that note here's some things I worked out about the movie, or rather, my takes on them for those curious (some of these are definitely a stretch, but I like seeing how far I can push a metaphor once I find one, so here we go):

Lotta controversy about the "I am become death" quote during the sex scene, which, fair. I can see why they included it though, upon reflection. In the moment, it just feels like a strange foreshadowing of the bomb itself, which did Not resonate with me and seemed fairly jarring, but upon closer inspection, I think the relevance of that quote in *that* context is that this is the first person Oppenheimer lost. Jean needed Oppenheimer, and he blamed himself for her suicide (or murder, maybe). This was the first time he "became death, destroyer of worlds"; the first marble in the bowl, which mirrors Oppie's reaction to the bomb's actual detonation quite well, too, I think. Something terrible has just happened, and yet the expectation is that Oppenheimer shows up and pretends all is well and he isn't horribly damaged, just martyring on.

SECOND

The orange from Rabi might be a bit deep or I might be a bit stupid. Oranges tend to symbolize positivity and aid, so being told to eat one by a friend in his most vulnerable moment is a kindness, hence some symbolism there. I did unpack this deeper though, say, such that oranges need to be peeled to get to the sweetness, and they are one of the sweetest citrus fruits, though they maintain their tang. This represents perfectly how the orange delivery felt in that scene; sweetness from Rabi in a moment of vulnerability, the orange peel gone, the bitter and trauma numbed exterior of Oppenheimer stripped away for just a moment before the sour slammed back in full force. Also just. Really stretching it but oranges being segmented could both represent a fractured mind AND the different perspectives on Oppenheimer as a whole and his reputation to this day.

Oh and General Groves when telling Oppenheimer he's essentially done with him but will ..try? To keep in contact? And update him?? He's buttoning up his coat if I remember right, mirroring his guard getting put up as he ends his amicable dealings and negotiations with Oppenheimer, adding layers and making himself less vulnerable. Oppie, meanwhile, smokes as the quiet, socially acceptable way to perform an anxious ritual.

Also the RAIN. Don't have this one fully unpacked yet and maybe never will but Cillian in an interview mentioned that Nolan described Oppenheimer as "dancing between the raindrops" and this has only half clicked with me but oh well here we go. The basic idea is likely that Oppenheimer doesn't abide by just one grouping of people or their ideas, or hop on any flow bound for one particular destination. Rather, he dances in the space between; in the uncertainty that looms closer towards the ground the further things fall. I think this works decently with what I've listened to and read about Oppenheimer as a person, saying he'd follow recent physics, always growing impatient with the current field he was in and seeking something more...I don't like the use of this word in relation to science but "trendy." I guess the dust particles and whatnot in the headspace sequences work in line with the whole rain theory too in terms of how Oppenheimer doesn't just think about the interactions and the space between, but lives and breathes it as the space between the raindrops; between those that make the biggest splashes, as he gets caught in the ripples. Also given his anti-war rhetoric throughout the movie I feel like there's maybe a fire/water thing going on with him trying to quench the bomb he created but ultimately failing? Who knows. Maybe it's just rain.

Anyways here's all the ramblings I did to myself to reach these conclusions. They are incomprehensible.

[highemotionscotian]

Mishandled Justice; Putting the Pieces Back Together After Trauma

/First Entry

seemingly endless doom scrolling watching videos online I occasionally stumble upon the side of the world wide web where there's a kind side. Some genuine folk just doin' their best. I have been scared and angry and alone so long I really think I forgot there are kind souls out there, Dearest Reader, I hope you are one of those good people 💙

For a long time I thought I was okay being alone. Lately there's been a overwhelming void and between you and me, I think may be humanity I've been missin'. I know it's more trendy to put this on TicTok, dang I tried however putting myself on camera is uncomfortable in a way I'm not sure yet how to describe, all the same I need to start letting some things out. I would love to be brave enough to share my life with the world like the fabulous content creators that have kept me company over the years but every time I try, I find an excuse not to; my house isn't clean enough. My forehead is too big, my body is too big. I wouldn't be funny enough, I wouldn't be interesting enough. I wouldn't be enough. Would be too much. Heck I even thought I wasn't rich enough to be on Tic Tok. I don't have a nice hair cut or fancy clothes to do one of those 'fit checks' they're dong and the only time my phone rings is a bill collector, what business did I have of sharing my dirty laundry online being in the state I've been in. It's that thinking that has kept me stuck in life.

I don't know who I am anymore. At the risk of sounding too dramatic, it is as if I have awoken from a living, psychological coma unsure of myself or my surroundings. So while I learn who I am and how to get comfortable in front of a camera my relaunch into the realm of social media will start by blogging.

Do I feel like know what I'm doing? Nope! This will be a learning experience with no determined destination or set conclusion. It will be chaotic. Y'all are invited to come along. One joy of writing and throwing it out there, no one has to read it if they don't want to. Unlike a real life conversation, I won't be distracted by your face worried I have said the wrong thing, or said to much, offended or bored you. I am a modern hermit living with complex post traumatic stress disorder and have been experiencing noticeable symptoms akin to ADHD. I am not sure how many times I have tried to 'start over' in life and failed, I've lost count. I have wanted and tried to change but doing it alone isn't working, so here we are now.

I’ve never told my story publicly. Not really. As I attempted put my life back together over and over and take up space in the world I would feel a bit like a fraud. As if it's this big shameful secret I must hide when in reality it's been gagging me getting in the way of speaking and success. I know I could have a beautiful life if I could just get out of my own way, out of my own head, and out of this dang house.

I have to put all the puzzle pieces together, finally get it all out so then maybe I can find peace and put it all behind me. I had posted some details about the events on my Facebook over the years as it all played out. I would share a summary to family and friends and it made a few news headlines, yet so many factors stopped me from sharing the raw truth of it all.

The weight of shame and not wanting to embarrass or hurt my family, I left out so much of what had happened and what I was feeling. When I would try to share how bad things have gotten, the reactions at just a small portion of the whole truth were bad enough I was ashamed of putting it all on tbe table. I had told having my life public would negatively affect my chances of getting a good job, chastised it would ruin my reputation if I cussed or used words like 'rape' or 'sexual assault' online. I still tried, to find strangers commenting on the news stories about my body, my character they knew nothing of, gossip that the evidence was fraudulent and I just wanted attention. After time went by and I had heard the “get over it’s” and the “time to move on’s” I didn't think my story was worthy of telling, to those more than an arms length away I would be fine and move on. Now still, lack of confidence in myself, low self esteem and fear has kept me from living and telling my story in its entirety.

While the fear of being prosecuted for violating a publication ban on my own name had not stopped me from posting on my own Facebook page, it had effectively silenced me from going public. The risk of a $5,000 fine or up to 2 years in custody for telling my story had removed my voice and a piece of healing I didn't know how very badly I needed.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” - Maya Angelou

I have never really known how to have close friends well. I sometimes wish I had a tribe to be comfortable with. Growing up I was that kid that would secretly cry in the bathrooms when at a friends house. I never understood why I didn't feel like I quite fit in. I’d be apart of a small group, always an introvert, I think I would have liked to have been the emotionally regulated, social sort as an adult where I could have gotten the whole story out already. Perhaps around a bonfire, screaming at the moon, blending tears from sadness and laughing. The last time I was in a social setting that wasn't family was in 2019. It's been lonely. Even years before then I had hid away. In late 2015 I left an abusive relationship and became housebound. Fearful to even venture to my front yard, leaving the bedroom was a daily challenge. Slowly I started to engage in social media, supplementing human connection with strangers on Facebook, where this story will officially begin.

⚠️ Trigger Warning ⚠️

This blog will cover topics of intimate partner violence, sexual assault, legal misconduct, mental illness and contain corse language. I will make an attempt to censor myself throughout this therapeutic process. Reader’s discretion is strongly advised.

📍Disclaimer

Some names used will be changed for the purposes here. However, all facts of the trial discussed within this saga are public record, and RCMP interactions from the trial and complaints process are documented for verification. All other details are from my own lived experiences, hours of audio recordings, news and magazine articles, emails, and journals.

Now I know a little bit about a lot, but only a lot about a little bit. I will speak about my own experiences as I have lived them and the things I have learned along the way, but I am not an expert in any topic included below. I am such a mess that I hesitate to even call myself an expert in my own life, yet vow to hold to the truth at every step.

Statistic I’d like to share

1 in 3 women in Canada will be sexually assaulted with sexual assault being more common than robbery – Statistics Canada

_____________

There was a blur after I was assaulted when I heard the words “wait here, someone will help you” and part of me has been locked in a psychological waiting room ever since. This is my raw and vulnerable exit speech from that place.Why now?Publication ban laws in Canada prevented me from telling the story how I needed to tell it or attributing my own name to the events that transpired. The journalist who first covered the story, Lindsay Jones, called me ‘Nicole’ and as the trial was ongoing, I was prohibited from speaking about the case in full. I was not aware nor informed a publication ban would be essentially automatically applied restricting my choice to share my story. A publication ban did not prevent the media from using the accused’s full name, personal information and details of the trial, yet the punishment I could face by putting my name to my experiences, or sharing court documents was possible fines of $5,000 and/or up to 2 years in custody. At times I pushed the line of this ban as if daring the courts to charge me so maybe someone with authority would hear my case. I understand and accept by sharing my life I am opening myself up to trolls and keyboard warriors who may believe to know more about my own life than me and will say cruel and hurtful things. I have been threatened, insulated and received messages from other men they would rape me too if they had the chance. Our society is not always kind, this is a fear I shall overcome. This is MY journey to healing. To judge how someone processes trauma or victim blaming says more about their character than anyone else’s. The longer I am alone with the shame, guilt the more I hurt myself and my family. I need to hold space for myself now. Telling my story is how I choose to do that. Please remember when you comment with hatred or cruelty other victims will see it and may not feel safe sharing their own stories, and that’s a gawddamn shame. The story must be whatever length it needs to be to pour it out of my body. It will be long and parts long-winded. I write this for myself as a step in my healing process, you are invited to come along.

In the news they called me ‘Nicole’, that is not my name, but this is my story.

*deep breath*

#ToBeContinued

[psychelis-new]

All perfect here. I personally try to stay away from the "drama" regarding the community as this is a secondary blog and I don't spend that much time on here anyway (didn't know about "pests" lol what is going on why do I live on another planet all the times haha).

I think what we miss, both as enquirers and readers (who more who less) is knowledge and understanding of how tarots work, of spirituality and how personal it is, taking time to know ourselves and, as fantastically said above, what is this all about for us (trying to not consider the environment we grow up in and what it wants us to think, or the fear of judgment or anything else that we may carry within and try to solve through tarot and how -again both as an enquirer and a reader).

Leave your fears/traumas aside as much as you can and try to answer: what do you need from a reading if you're enquiring something? A confirmation, an answer, support, hope, a sign, a way out so to not be responsible for a decision you need to make, or you want to see if it's something you can trust/believe (in what do you believe?) or it's bs, to pass time cause you're bored...? And what do you want to do as a reader through tarots? Bring help, guidance, support, become rich, seek validation, self confidence/worth, be acknowledged, fill a void, cause it's trendy/cool...? It's all valid ofc, but you have to realize what it is about for yourself and apply that to your personal experience and what you want out of it.

There's a lot that gravitate around spirituality that we don't always consider (environment/upbringing, traumas, fears, stress...) when simply giving/receiving readings and that's okay. We're just here to make an exchange, reasons aren't the problem among the people involved, but they can be for yourself when you have finished your job, i.e. receiving/sending the reading, according on if you're the enquirer or the reader. Seen all that, probably, to have a more peaceful community here, we can start by simply respecting each other not for what we believe in and how or how we see things (which may be biased by other problems we carry within), but as human being trying to support each other the best we can. I think we need to respect and understand each other's needs much more as for the living creature we are than for what we're doing in this specific context (which ofc is the target we should aim for nonetheless).

Let's put aside the fact that sometimes, especially in some countries, we have to deal with scammers and similar stuff, and that may bias us when it comes to our spiritual experience as well (which I want to remind you, may be a trigger for those having religious traumas too despite imo spirituality is different from religion). Now, let me address to y'all to (hpefully) help you think about what's mentioned above.

Enquirers! Your feedback can be of so much help for readers. Sending a few lines only takes you a few minutes but it's so important for us as you can help us grow. You don't have to go in detail, you can just tell us if you recognize yourself in the reading/energy, how the reading made you feel, if there's anything that even just on a general level can resonate with you (according on the topic, ofc future stuff cannot be confirmed before they happen)... things like that. We are humans and after each reading we get more experience and we become better but with your words, being them positive or negative, you can help us realize different ways to read some cards or other hints and maybe, we can rectify a message that for any reason (self/genearl doubt, ego coming in between, a message that is tricky/canont be delivered because you are not supposed to know of) may not be too accurate for you. We also read through our personal life's experience, so we may not always be that specific about your situation (your life is different and also how you experience it, but we can get there using intuition: sometimes we can do it during the reading, other times, we need feedback to get a clearer message in our mind too. It's all about experience, and we cannot make more without your help). Not to mention we all work in a different ways: some read just cards, other read energies as well, other use just clairs/downloads, otehr mix things up... it's a various world, but you need to focus on who resonates with you the most ofc. Negative feedback help us as well in the same way, even if you cannot get your answer for any reason (and you're mad with us, but it doesn't have to be our fault): maybe you don't have to know the answer or we are not your reader. And btw sending the same question to all the readers can also -if done respectfully of the other- help you understand who is a good reader for you. Don't be worried to say we didn't read well for you. It's fine. How we deal with that info, is on us and never on you. Also please, if we write disclaimers, read them. Their are as important as the reading itself. They can help you take the reading the right way or decide to let it slid (which is fine! As above, the reader may not be the right one for you or there may not always be messages even form a reader that resonates with you). If you don't follow the disclaimers/rules of games and all, you may even get a wrong message. And tbh... if you don't follow disclaimers/rules, would you really follow the advice you're given by tarots or it's only gonna be a momentary thing before you seek for another message around? Try to stay grounded and present when working with your spirituality. Try to focus on you. Do not let fears/insecurities (and mostly impatience for an answer or anything you need) take over you. Spirituality needs grounding and meditation, it needs clamness to see well. When we're anxious our mind is foggy and our judgment is clouded, and we may not get the messages we seek so deeply. Stay calm, there's time, it's gonna be fine.

Readers! Especially the ones around here. How do you see/value yourself? How much are you willing to give of you (in general)? You're not here to people please, or to give too much of you. Do what makes you feel good, give as much as makes your heart happy without expecting too much back (but yes, keep in mind you do deserve back. Still, you're giving from an excess, and this should be your mantra always). Give with an open heart. If you're here mainly to get back and your mind tells you "give more, so you'll get more", you will only get hurt. You'll only get a burnout and lot of anger/resentment (cause you're not getting what you imagined to get, you're not being acknowledged as you wanted, you'll feel unworthy or not good enough...). Protect your gift, but even more yourself. Find the right balance that works for you in giving and keeping for yourself. Some days you HAVE to keep it for yourself. Your energy is sacred. Even if you want to help, you need to help yourself first (especially if you're not grounded enough and are seeking something for yourself as well through readings). I'm not here to judge you anyway, you're free to do as you feel/want, but you need to do it for yourself first. Heal yourself too, help yourself through spirituality, crop a space just for yourself to see what you want to do with what you have. If you have doubts about what you are doing, take a time out and seek answers within. If you don't have enough self confidence and trust in yourself and the messages you give away, want to try and hide behind the "it's only pure entertainment"-curtain (also to avoid negative feedback: which is only a sign that either the enquirer isn't ready to hear their message or that the reader isn't someone able to read for that person, which honestly could be as well). Ofc this is to be said cause many enquirers just make their whole life depend on readings which I don't think is right cause ofc readers can be wrong (as mentioned before, we're humans and we're not always for everyone) and we need to experience life on the go (readings are for guidance mostly); but is this the only reason why you say so? Or do you fear being responsible for someone else's decisions (maybe wrong ones) and feelings? The moment we deliver a message (especially through general readings), we know it can reach people that are not supposed to read it that may pick it up as well for any reason. Do you fear taking this responsibility or do you think it's up to them at that point to decide about their life? Cause sure, we're carrying advices and support, but the final real decision is still up to the person enquiring, if to welcome the advice, how, and when (some messages may be received and understood later on and that's okay). Take time to learn more about tarots too, seek advices, put in work and effort, meditate... it's okay to not always know the answers too and not always feel okay reading (especially if you feel worn out and doubtful). You don't have to answer to everything for people. Take it slow, take your time, be a learner, be open to learn and keep learning, also about yourself as a reader and as a person. You have time to grow.

Hello Tarot family! 💜

So this is something I've meant to address for a very long time already but only now coming around to. It feels like it's the right time to address this topic.

So as you all know, many tarot readers have complained about not feeling appreciated and that there are too many "pests", as some of you call them, who send everyone the same question, never giving back feedback or only give feedback to the popular tarot readers. And in general tarot readers have complained, how doing tarot readings takes time and energy and some experience doing readings as something even draining to them and so they've spoken about this, how the mininum the audience can do is give feedback. Many go as far as saying giving feedback is mandatory or the participants not giving it will get blocked. But let's be honest, they can just create new ones and there are always plenty, who'll do the readings.

That said, I want to talk about the fact of how everything could be so different and about how actually we can as a matter of fact experience a real positive tarot community. Because I've seen it. And what it all comes to is respect. There are some countries, where Tarot is considered sacred, it's considered true knownledge and is viewed as a real profession. People actually respect Tarot and Tarot readers and see Tarot readers as true professionals. For example in S-Korea there are real tarot teachers, who teach about tarot reading, and they go deep. And people know that. Not to mention that people really care about their reputation so much and are so ambitious, there is no place for fakes and cons there. They do their studies, they are diligent and they take it seriously. And people know that. Tarot readers there know their job, and we are not talking about the more rare born as gifted ones, because that's a whole different topic. And so this respect there is towards tarot, people accepting and viewing it as a real profession also shows in the tarot community. It's so much positivity! Not only that, the community fully understands pac-readings are not an one-on-one private reading session, they even say it themselves sometimes that dang this time there was no pile for them. Because they know there won't be messages for everyone and everytime. It's just so different. They understand that zodiac signs and pac readings are not done with one specific person on their mind, only the audience can claim a reading and see, if there was anything for them. They know readings are more like showcasing. They understand, how the whole thing works. Yes, it's fun, and readings can be very insightful once you find a tarot reader, whose readings seem to resonate with you. And there is sooo much more that could be said. However, what I'm trying to say is you can't expect people to appreciate your tarot work, when those pests and the majority and even tarot readers themselves don't view tarot as a profession and only take tarot as a joke. To them Tarot is a world of entertaiment, where finally they can experience being the main character of a story. So I'd like to ask people to take some time and reflect on, how you view tarot and tarot readers, what are your beliefs and if you are a reader, what are your intentions. Do you do tarot for attention or money or because you think it's cool? And many seem to be into talking about the law of attraction and manifestation. This is why I used the comparison. Because in some tarot communities they view Tarot as a profession and respect tarot, and it shows in the community. But if you don't view it that way, how can you expect to have a tarot community of such positivity here? So if you want to see change, you'll need to become the change first.

[peakyblindersxx]

whiskey business - john x reader (part 3 of ?)

gif by @michaelgreys but i cropped it cause god daMn 👀

read part one and two! | my masterlist

a/n: this one goes out to all my john bitches!! i know it's hard out here, we get no new content but this part is steamy as hell. its not over yet, though! i'm a sucker for happy endings, ok? i hope you all like it, i'm still working on requests as i go :) much love to @stxdyblr-2k for ghostwriting on this series, she has the most amazing ideas in the world 🖤

love, abi xxx

tagging: @datewithgianni

prompt: john's been ignoring you and you want to know why.

warnings: fluff, angst, nsfw!! smut, cocky john, just straight up porn at the end but can you blame me

John hadn't spoken a word in your direction for a week. Despite constantly seeing you glued to Ada's hip, he’d barely acknowledged you since the wedding. He didn’t even bother looking up. Instead his jaw tensed, taking longer inhales of smoke, constantly examining the pocket watch dangling from his right hip. You were the last person John wanted to see right now. He couldn’t get you out of his head, the flush of your cheeks as you had moaned for him imprinted in his memory. You were fucking picturesque writhing around in his lap, a mess for him, and only him. He’d never felt like this; never wanted someone so badly it hurt. Usually, he drowned what little emotions he had in the nearest bottle of whiskey. You, however, were igniting something inside him he’d never felt. Lust, yes, but it was more. A yearning, a need, to see you smile at his crap jokes for the rest of his fucking life. God, you were getting to him.

His coldness and distance towards you hadn't gone unnoticed. To John’s embarrassment, his brothers regularly referred to it as "a little tiff", usually when you were within earshot, as they loved embarrassing his brother. They were blissfully unaware of the full story, assuming his cockiness had put you off him. He sometimes wondered the same; even though you remained polite by greeting him despite the minimal nod he responded with, you seemed ashamed. John only hoped it wasn't because you were ashamed of him. The truth was, he couldn't get the intensity between the two of you off his mind. Whenever he so much as caught a glimpse of you, he remembered how pretty you looked begging for him, then the embarrassment of having to reject you out of family loyalty. You admitting you wanted to have sex with him, him getting fucked off at you because you were off your face, complicating everything. Yet, every night, he held your words close to him, trying to decipher them.

He knew his brothers wouldn't get it. They wouldn't understand how tragic it was; they'd think it was funny that Ada's best friend wanted to fuck him. Either way, John would always rather put himself in the firing line of his brother's jokes than risk your reputation being blemished. He just couldn't look at you without a wave of guilt and sexual attraction flowing through his veins, causing his jaw to clench and his shoulders to stiffen, his suit jacket expertly covering strain on the crotch of his trousers.

A full week had passed since the wedding, of a man Tommy had recruited in an assassination effort. It was embarrassing how his family used money to attempt to push the trauma they created under the carpet. He knew he didn't have room to talk, but fuckin’ hell, a wedding? Maybe Tommy should've just not hired him to blow the brains out of his own father. Well, it was one way to get rid of the police commissioner who got too nosey, John guessed.

He had hoped that you were a passing phase of infatuation. He’d had many before; he’d been notorious around Birmingham for his conquests. Sure, it was possible he had just gotten overly excited and intoxicated around a beautiful girl. Yet, in the quiet moments of his life, in between his kids and business, his mind was only on you. You, straddling him in that booth, the way you grinned at him as he approached you at the wedding party. Sometimes when he was driving home, his mind would drift off thinking of the feeling of your figure pressed against him, the feel of your lips, your laugh, the sound of your heaving breaths against his ear. You haunted him the most at night, visions of you with his name on your lips in his silk sheets. You were his forbidden fruit, dangling barely out of reach.

***

John was at his desk, paperwork long abandoned in favour of whiskey and a cigar, lost in his own thoughts. The loud tapping of rain and the wind of the storm outside shook the windows, yet John felt somewhat at peace; a temporary peace, but he could unwind. Just his desk, the moonlight, the gas lamp illuminating his empty glass and the heavy English rain for company. He found far more joy in the simplicity of life than his brothers, who reeked of new money. He liked his things the way they were, it all worked, but he had to admit he was a sucker for a good suit. The kids were long in bed, the nanny to comfort their nightmares. It made him feel like a shit father, and he didn't want to be like his useless dad. He had started resenting the life Thomas was forcing him to live; the booze, the partying, the Tokyo, the fighting. It was wearing on him. He needed a break from everyone in this town, he reckoned.

However, a certain unexpected guest was always welcome to him. You had just drifted across his mind when a firm knock at the door caught his attention. He straightened his tie, leaving his legs outstretched and crossed on the dark oak desk, calling for the visitor to enter.

There you were. Dripping from head to toe, but still as beautiful as ever to him, despite your damp hair and slightly smudged makeup. You had caught him off guard, and in his surprise, he couldn't suppress the cheeky grin which spread across his face.

"Got caught in the storm, eh? I'll put the fire on and pour you a drink yeah? Warm you up." He slurred slightly, springing into action, lighting the fire and going to fill two glasses with whiskey, which you politely refused.

"I'm not drinking tonight, Mr. Shelby."

He decides he won't either. He tried to ignore your piercing gaze, motioning you to sit across his desk from him, reaching to put the whiskey in his drawer. "That's not like you. Where you headed, love? That lecture with Ada?"

"I came to see you."

He noted your firm tone, the flirty smile, the coy eye contact.

"What's the occasion?"

"You've been avoiding me." You told him bluntly, his cheeks reddening, eye contact breaking momentarily.

"Yeah, I know." He took a draw from his cigar, rolling the smoke from between his lips on the exhale. "M’sorry."

You watched him for a moment and he met your eyes, suddenly softened from his usual icey blue inquisitive stare. To shame, he looked so vulnerable right now. You could feel yourself falling for him again. This is what you hung around for, the fleeting glimpses of the authentic John Shelby. The lad you'd first giggled about in the girl's bathroom at lunch, barely knowing what sex was. Barely understanding power and politics. Unaware of who you'd both end up as.

"You're fucking soaked to the bone. Come on, I'll put your clothes to dry by the fire. And don't give me that look, I'll give you my coat to save your modesty, lass." He teased. You ignored the way his muscles flexed as he reached for his woolen jacket, some outrageously expensive tailored affair from some London boutique, his large rough hands brushing your fingers. "I'll turn around."

You grasped the coat, heading to the fireplace and warming up for a moment, checking that you were far from his line of sight. This was a dangerous game for you both. You wished he'd grab you, take you on his desk and finish what he started, but the way he absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the desk as he waited indicated that he was restraining himself.

You'd rid yourself of your thin jacket, bought from the market stall last week, effortlessly trendy but an imitation of the pricey stuff Ada and the blinder wives and girlfriends you knew. You were jealous of their fur coats, they were always warm and glamorous looking even on the coldest winter night in Birmingham.

You glanced across the room to John. He was staring intently at the wall lost in thought, teeth gritted.

"John? Could you unzip me?" You asked, purposefully making your voice sound as neutral as possible, looking at him over your shoulder.

He paused, bringing his fingers to rub circles against his jaw. You caught a glimpse of white teeth and dimples as he glanced at you out the corner of his eye and you can't help but match his coy grin. He pushed himself off the desk and quickly closed the small distance towards you, his hand finding first your shoulder then the zip at the nape of your neck, your breath hitching as he pulled the zip to your waist. You could feel his eyes tracing the curvature of your spine and hips. You both hesitated for a moment, before John’s warm fingertips grazed your waist, lips pressing into your hair affectionately. His mouth found his way to your ear, cheekbone, jaw and then neck, encouraged by the way your left hand cradled his head as you pressed your body back into his and how your eyes drifted shut at his touch.

"Sweetheart, why did you come here?" He muttered into your ear, his words and casual affection causing your core to swell in response.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you. I've barely slept in a week, feel terrible. Then you've been ignoring me-"

"It isn't personal, Y/N. You know this isn’t how I want it to be." His hands found their way to your waist, gripping lightly at your hip bones, sending a shiver down your back.

"Well this is how it is, John. It's never going to be any different. So, what are you going to do about it?"

"What are you fucking on about, love?"

"I reckon that just once can't hurt, nobody would know but us. Then we can both move on with our lives..."

John hesitated, "What about Ada?" His head rested on your shoulder, the scent of your sweet perfume causing him to want you even more. Jesus, he was too far gone.

"We were so close the first night I got here and we didn't. No one caught on then, why would it be different now?"

He wanted to trust you so badly, it ached inside of him. He wanted to feel you around him, make you cum for him again and again, for you to be breathless and shaking under him. He wanted to give you everything he could, even if just once. But he couldn't.

"She's my sister. Family is everything; if I don't have them, I’ve got nothin’." He stated firmly, yet his palms lingered on your hips, the liquor destroying his perception of the distinction between friendly touching and actions that made you swallow deeply and pray for relief.

"You have me for tonight." You pulled away from him, ignoring the groan that escaped from his lips at the loss of contact. You locked your eyes with his blue ones and pushed the straps of your dress from your shoulders, allowing the damp material to pool around your feet, standing in front of the man you'd wanted for years. It was now or never.

He stayed silent, watching you, eyes not leaving yours, challenging you for a brief moment before his eyes flickered over your figure.

"Is it such a crime to want to fuck you?" You asked, the silk of your skimpy underwear forcing John to wipe the corner of his mouth absentmindedly as he drank you in, mumbling profanities under his breath. Yet, despite the glances and his sudden frustration, you could tell you had him. His eyes were feral and hungry, daring you to keep pushing him. His shoulders were squared, he was ready for action. The crackling firelight illuminated you beautifully; you were irresistible to him.

"It's not a crime. Where'd you get this backbone from?" He asked, reaching for you but you stepped away, teasing him.

"University up north does sommet to a woman."

"You can fuck off or fuck me with that attitude."

"The latter if you behave yourself, Mr Shelby."

He smirked at you, holding his hands up in mock surrender, before wrapping his coat around your shoulders, pulling you towards him by the back of the collar. "You've got a mouth on you, love. You gonna put it to good use?"

"I was told months ago that you'd sort me out, John-" Your speech was interrupted by a small squealing giggle as he tugged at your hair lightly for mocking his voice, his eyes bright and crinkled at the edges due to his grin. "I'm disappointed with these delays, especially from the Shelby Company."

"Well, as the boss, I'll sort it for you, personally and immediately. Let me make it up to you, lass," John crooned, his lips meeting yours once again, fingers pushing your thighs apart, still clad in your black stockings and garter belt. "This is where we got up to last time, yes?"

"Yes Mr. Shelby, I believe so."

He pressed his lips and teeth against where your jaw met your neck, tracing his index and middle fingers over the silk of your underwear which covered your slit. You couldn’t help but lean into him, a slight hiss escaping your teeth.

"You like that, huh? You're fuckin’ soaked for me already, love," John muttered against your neck, lifting your left leg to hook around his waist, easily lifting you onto his desk, scattering loose papers and heavy accounting books onto the floor in his urgency to feel your bare skin on his. "They teach you how to push a bloke over the edge at that fancy university?"

"No, I figured that out on my own actually."

"Always knew you were bright," He smirked, quickly ridding you of your flimsy panties, the pads of his fingertips hot against your thighs. "Always going for the ones smarter than me, Tommy reckons it's not difficult."

"Your brother's chatting shit, he's not the one ‘bout to fuck me on his desk, yeah?" You shot back, opening your thighs to encourage him, your cunt exposed, cutting off John’s laugh. He couldn’t help but stare, eyes glued to your dripping cunt. "You're my favourite brother, always have been. If you tell Finn, I'll kill you," You teased.

"Come off it," John grunted in reply, unable to restrain pressing kisses to your inner thighs, your head tilting back, fingers desperately clutching at his hair. “Need t’get a proper taste of you, yeah? Look so fuckin’ sweet for me.” His mouth reached your core, slowly dipping his tongue into you, causing your mouth to fall open in ecstasy. God, his lips were even softer than they looked. His movements switched from light and teasing to purposeful and focused, his fingers curled and pumping inside you, tongue and thumb attacking your clit. He'd gotten on his knees, your legs wrapped around his neck as he groaned into your cunt, causing you to buck your hips wildly at the sensation, moans falling out of your mouth.

“Fuckin’ christ, John,” You swore, feeling yourself pulsate and twitch around his nimble fingers, crying out into the empty office building. You were getting so close, your hips jerking independently, chest heaving as you gasped for air. You were quickly getting overstimulated, you were so close. Before you could finish, John raised his head back to yours, letting you taste yourself on his mouth, his hands moving from your cunt to your tits, finger tips tracing the outline of your nipples through your silk bra.

"If we get to do this once, I want to feel you finish on my cock, doll," John grunted in a hushed tone, pointedly moving his lips to your collarbone when you opened your mouth to argue back to him.

"Then I get to ride you." Your statement took him by surprise; most women he'd slept with seemed fairly passive in bed. Sure they enjoyed themselves, but they never took control. He could feel himself swell in response to your words. He'd never been put in this position; he was a stranger to it, but the idea was thrilling and wickedly seductive. Especially from someone who was the epitome of "girl-next-door" as they were growing up.

"Polly reckoned you'd be trouble since Ada told us you'd returned. Don't mind getting into trouble with you, though," He teased, his plump mouth dipping to your cleavage, unclasping your bra, tongue circling your hardening nipples.

"John, fuckin’ christ, need you to finish me off, yeah?" You begged, voice shaking, much to his amusement, his fingers re-entering you roughly. John pressed open-mouthed kisses to your neck, soothing your body from the sharp sensation, the slight pain exacerbating the pleasure arising from his mouth and fingers.

"I've barely started with you, and already you're begging for me to fuck you." He muttered into your skin, as he watched you writhe and lift your hips, reacting beautifully to the feelings he was reawakening within you.

"John, m’not fucking about, yeah? I need you," You whined, hand resting on his inner thigh, fingers grazing the fastenings across his groin, gazing up at him from your seat on his desk. John hated waiting for relief, he had very little patience, and almost immediately he gave in and collapsed into his large armchair, pulling you on top of him, letting you pin his wrists to the chair and grind against him as your mouth found his, then his neck, removing his waistcoat, shirt and tie, revealing his muscular chest. The bruising kisses you pressed to his skin left him breathless and needing more, helping you unbuckle his belt and push his suit trousers down his legs. You couldn’t help but take him into your hand, moving it up and down his sensitive shaft.

“Christ, you’re too fuckin’ good at this,” John groaned as you spit on your palm to better move your hand up and down his cock, teasing the sensitive tip with your fingers and tongue. He couldn’t help but watch you, keeping eye contact as you toyed with him, blue eyes heavy with pleasure and lust for more.

You angled your hips above him and he adjusted himself, using his hand to better push himself inside you. You yelped lightly as you adjusted to his girth, his mouth distracting you by pressing kisses on your shoulder and tangling his hands through your hair, trying to control his breaths as you adjusted to him, soft moans falling from your mouth, your tight cunt gripping his cock.

“S’fuckin’ perfect, like your pussy was made for me,” he groaned, breath growing heavier with the sensation of you grinding against him. Pushing his hips up into you, he couldn’t help but grab at your hip bones, grip burning into your skin, bouncing you on his cock, mouth slightly slack, groaning as he grasped at your flesh. You’d imagined hundreds of times how fucking irresistible John would look underneath you, but it was nothing compared to the real thing.

The thrill of having John Shelby with his trousers down in his office, quickly dissolving into a moaning and grunting mess with every rotation or twist of your hips, in the midst of a stormy night while the thunder echoed around the empty streets below was almost too much to take. You should be home right now, curled up in that empty unheated flat, behaving yourself. Even on a date or fucking someone else. But instead you'd gone to him and now you were riding him. You wanted the moment to last forever, right now everything felt so right, you knew when it was over the guilt would hit. But you couldn't avoid it, you could feel your legs start to shake.

“Look so god damn pretty ridin’ me, love. Makin’ me wanna cum inside you.” John growled, panting, struggling to keep pace as you moaned on top of him. Your fingers found his jawline and guided him to look up at you, craving to see how his face looked when he finally came undone. He reached between your legs, torturing your clit with his fingers while he slammed into you a few extra times, using up the rest of his energy. The extra stimulation pushed you over the edge, crying out John’s name as you felt yourself release. Watching you whine his name was the last straw for him, spilling into you as your dripping cunt squeezed him, reveling in the image of you a mess for him.

***

You finally came back to your senses, catching your breath, John clutching you to his chest protectively for a minute or two, enjoying the tranquility and post-sex clarity. He checked his clock, sighing and lifting you from his lap to his desk, running a towel under the sink in the corner of his room and passing it to you to clean up between your legs with.

"Charming," You smirked, tired but satisfied. "No wonder the ladies always come back for more."

"Not you though, aye? One night only exclusive, this." He matched your playful tone, but his eyes were dull with exhaustion and he looked almost upset. He was probably just knackered after working all day and then going overtime just to please you.

"Make yourself useful and grab my clothes for me John-lad." You teased, thankfully changing the subject. He rolled his eyes in the waning firelight, locating the clothes the two of you had left scattered around the room. You quickly dressed, not caring how he watched you silently, as though trying to memorize the image of you. Your clothes were far drier than earlier, the last remaining remnants of damp clutching to the fibers and freezing you all over again. Yet before you could even comment, John's wool coat was wrapped back around your shoulders.

"Because you're cold, not because you look fuckable in it." He said pointedly, smirking slightly, the edges seeming artificial.

"Remind me not to fall madly in love with you. Won't be able to help myself if you keep talking like that, Mr. Shelby." You retorted sarcastically with a grin, earning a gentle dig to the ribs.

"It's Mr. Shelby if you're trying to fuck me. John is between friends and family, right?"

"Someone better inform Mr. Solomons of that distinction, then," You paused, "Mr. Shelby."

"Don't be a fucking cocktease." He scolded with a small grin, grabbing his car keys and hat from the door. "You want a lift then? Don't dick about being polite, Y/N, it's fucking midnight, just accept it."

"Since you asked so nicely."

"You know you've got worse since you've been at uni? Too fast for us lot now." He teased, half serious, as he led you to his car. He couldn't believe the beautiful woman in his passenger seat was the girl with pigtails who'd chase Ada around the canal with their girl gang for hours, the pretty teen who read for hours in his sister's bedroom, comparing notes together. No one was surprised you got a scholarship to university, despite your gender and class. You'd been incredibly lucky. Yet, you'd seen the world and had come back to Birmingham and picked him.

Shame you could only pick him once.

[oranges8hands]

I agree with everything except the last sentence. I know it's trendy lately, but we really don't need to mix racism with everything. For me, a POC girl, this is as ridiculous as saying that liking top! Joe is racist. I am glad that people have become more aware of certain things, but you cannot exaggerate it and see racism EVERYWHERE. Even where it is not the case.

re: this post

Well, thanks for sending in an ask. There's kind of a lot of parts to this I want to address, but first let me ask - do you disagree with my assessment that Joe gets more blame for the exile and exile length, or do you disagree with my assessment that Joe getting that blame comes from a pattern of fandom racism? Because the first is a fandom interpretation and as always, interpretations will vary and be heavily based on the fandom circles you are in; it's based on a pattern I noticed in my engagement with fandom, the same way I noticed fandom's treatment around Booker's exile, and I find the two intricately linked. Some people (like possibly you) may not connect fandom's prioritization of Booker's pain/trauma to be implicitly (or explicitly) against Joe specifically, rather than against the group of Andy, Nicky, and Joe. [Regarding not naming Nile, the fact that she is a) new and b) voted for the apology-only means she seems to rarely get conflated into the blame game.] Like, ymmv, etc etc.

However, if you do think Joe gets specifically and repeatedly put on a different level from the other two in terms of being the one to heavily push for a long exile (against group opinion), being the one who wanted the strictest "punishment" possible because he's the angry/resentful/unforgiving one, being the only one who wanted the "punishment", being emotional (irrational) in his hurt while the other two are calm and collected (and therefore rational/objective in their decision), that his reaction is going to be a continued vocalization of his anger only and/or that his vocalization is a problem but Andy's immediate reaction or Nicky's silent treatment isn't, that his reaction is only anger while Nicky and Andy are disappointed/hurt/guilty/etc (aka a spectrum of emotions and not just one note), that his main motivation is retribution (esp that the other two don't feel that), that his anger is based on and only on selfish hurt (for hurting Nicky) while the others are looking at the larger picture of Booker's actions or able to see Booker's side of it, that he is quick to temper (unlike the others) and can't control his response, and/or that in general his anger about the betrayal isn't justified, I don't quite get why you wouldn't assume racial bias has a role in it.

Like, Joe is a different character from them! He's considered the emotional one, the expressive one, the vocal and loud one (to varying degrees of fairness.) The genesis of those traits exists in canon, and fandom as always has the weird ability to both flatten a character to specific traits and layer on complexity to the shown facets of character's canon. I even get why he gets tagged as the most mad in comparison to the others (though I don't actually agree with it) - the way Andy had her angry moment with Booker but doesn't continue with that anger in the lab and she's caring with Booker in her goodbye, Nicky basically tells Joe now is not the time to yell at Booker and then you never see him interact (look at?) Booker again, and again Nile wanted to let him off with an apology. I'm not saying it doesn't make sense or comes completely out of left field to view it that way.  

But again, it's not that he reacts differently; they're all different people and obviously their reactions will reflect their personalities and their relationship to Booker. It's that his reaction to betrayal is held to a different standard, the way he's subtly and consistently painted as wrong for his reaction in a way the other two aren't. And to be clear, I am specifically and only talking about the dynamic around Booker's exile and Joe, and not how Joe in general is written, but there's some touches of it in that too. My comment is also very much not about one specific fic or one individual's opinion about either Joe or the exile, but about the pattern I noticed that Joe's reaction is often treated with a different (lesser) level of acceptance than Nicky's/Andy's, that his reaction is often assigned more/only negative motivations (esp in comparison), and that (which ties to the main point of my first post) his reaction (even if - though it’s not - just anger) should be de-prioritized in comparison to Booker (or the others.) 

And obviously, this isn't all fic. Maybe not the majority of fic. But it's definitely more than one; it's something I started to pick up on as a potential thing to look for, and I know I'm not the only one. This is a large fandom and it is growing. This fandom on A03 alone has almost 6k works, and that's been in six months. (And that's just one platform!) It is frankly preposterous to me to say this one (large) fandom is somehow the only fandom where racial bias isn't a factor, or that it doesn't affect how all the characters get written.

(also I think it's worth bringing up while my original post, this ask, and this response have been heavily leaning on words about fandom's racism, I don't think that's divorced from its Islamophobia and the western (US/Hollywood) racialization of Muslims.)

As for the general fandom and racism discussion - look, I'm not going to speak over you a poc and say you should or have to notice racism in everything. It is 100% not my place to tell you how to experience/react to racism, how to interact with fandom and racism, or to say you are doing it wrong.

I'm personally coming from a different mindset - that racism does affect everything, and that fandom is absolutely not different in that regard, and that reactions to racism (either for people of color in general or the specific identity being talked about) are not monolithic.  

I also think - while I get why you use it - the word 'trendy' does a disservice to fandom racism discussions and how those got co-opted and conflated in the larger cancel/call out culture.  Cause

racism being used as an excuse/reason to cancel something ("I hate this, and here's racism as a reason no one should like it/why you are a bad person for liking it")

racism being discussed as an important issue canon failed at ("I'm criticizing the canon and depending on what it is, I may think canon's racism should hold the highest priority in terms of canon's worth")

racism being looked at through the lens of fandom ("racism permeates every facet of this world and that includes canon/fandom, here's how")

are all different things, and while the first one is used a lot more, and all of them are a lot more visible now, I don't think the other two are that much more accepted than they were before.

I only caught the periphery bones of the top/bottom joe/nicky controversy, but my understanding is these two sides collided very badly: side a) early into fandom people pointed out the trend, related it to how that trend works in every other fandom, discussed specifically how bias in interracial and interfaith relationships are likely to show up in this fandom and that dynamic, called for more nuance/thought into this dynamic, and all of that got flattened into "top!Joe is and only is racist, and you're a racist for liking it." and side b) because call out/cancel/purity culture, fans (specifically including fans of color) were being called racist for either engaging in the characters the "wrong way" or not engaging at all, pushing them to create content they didn't want to create, left the fandom due to harassment/bullying, and got treated like even the hint of top!Joe was the Worst Thing They Could Ever Do, so that even suggesting racial bias may play a part on shipping dynamics for joe/nicky is completely unreasonable/without merit. That, again, is how my (limited) view followed the issue, and like everyone else where I fall on the spectrum of that discussion is very much dependent on the circles of fandom I float in.

[rebelwith0utacause]

re: triggers. I don’t think most people expect to live in a bubble but instead to curate a space on here. If people do tag triggers, they know it’s at least a bit safer for them to follow that blog. For me, it’s really dependent on the day, some days it’s an uncomfortable thing to look at triggers but other days it’s the difference between a panic attack. I’ve always viewed them as a courtesy, regardless of effectivity, the time used to tag is negligible to me but invaluable for someone else

I’m adding everything below the line because I think some people aren’t ready to read this but also don’t want to add tws because there are others who need to have the option to see it.

So I read your ask and decided to take a shower and get my thoughts somewhat together in order to get the best response out. Instead, my mind went a mile a minute in all directions, but that’s nothing new.

Let me preface this by saying I understand that not every trauma is the same, same as how not every person reacts or copes with trauma the same. This isn’t me trying to say that not everyone’s struggle isn’t valid, it’s just my way of reaching out, giving a helping hand and a bit of food for thought for coping.

I keep saying I was raised differently because it’s the truth, might be European but I definitely don’t share the same values as most Europeans (or the image the world has about Europe, which is basically the UK and France). Here things are done differently, tws are almost nonexistent, to an extent you’re considered a lesser human being if you have (so many) triggers, and I’m not saying that this is good. Compassion is rare and understanding even rarer, more often than not, we’re left to our own devices and we can either sink or swim.

But then you have western civilization that comes labeled and prepackaged, where everything is written in fine print, everything is valid, everything is marketed so well that you have no other choice but to believe the seller. I’ve also had the opportunity to experience this, so I know a fair share of how this machinery works too.

I’m always trying to find a balance between the two, because it’s not the Dark Ages, but life also isn’t meant to be so sterile (or portrayed as sterile but I’ll get to that later). And this is where trigger warnings come into play.

We’ve all experienced trauma, either small or big. I won’t bore you with mine, but I can tell you that I’m not immune to triggers. It’s true that I seemingly don’t have them, and if you asked me a couple of hours ago I would’ve said that I don’t have them at all, but upon reflection, mine are just emotional and circumstantial. I don’t get a panic attack from words or images, but I might spiral down from a feeling that a situation might cause (like, say, a sudden right turn in a vehicle or as was the case a few days ago, feeling like my support system is being dismantled, I like my balance, alright?). These are all things I can’t help but fear, but I can learn to cope with them and lessen my reaction to them over time.

But enough about me, the whole reason I started questioning the tws in the first place was because of the overwhelming reaction people on the internet had of the prospect of Ashton’s video/song coming out. I’m talking people literally screaming ‘NO’ but also not wanting to be left out. And this makes me so sad, not because of Ashton or because his work might flop, but because they are missing the whole point of his song. Yes, it’s definitely his way of coping (I don’t buy that bs that it’s only about Harry, like... entering the industry at the fragile age of 18 can cause all sorts of trauma), but it’s also his way of helping other people cope, telling them that their struggle is valid but it can get better if you only allow yourself to get better. By putting a tw on it, it’s not reaching the people it’s supposed to reach, but also, the prospect of knowing that there’s a song about BD but not really hearing it is only leading your brain into thinking about BD, but without the educational guidance the song would provide. I hope I’m making sense here, like you’ll just overthink and reopen old wounds, which will lead you to feel worse about yourself. You can’t unlearn this information, same as how you can’t put a tw on the news that Ashton is releasing a new song.  

I made the parallel between the civilizations because my brain went on a different tangent that may or may not be related to coping mechanisms. Whenever I’m made aware of the difference between both worlds I can’t help but think of The Time Machine by H. G. Wells. Definitely a good read (if you haven’t read it already), but my focus was on the Eloi as a concept. It’s alarming how it translates to modern-day society. For reference, the Eloi were descendants of humans, a species that evolved from (what I gathered as) first-world society, and to fit my narrative, I’m gonna say Western civilization. They had access to everything because of their wealth, from education to food to leisure activities, but they always chose the shorter path or should I say the easier path. They chose to be sheltered from the growingly disproportionate world around them, to the point where they were living under the illusion that everything is alright and they could roam free as long as the sun was shining. They were also scared shitless of the dark because that’s when the Morlocks came out of their tunnels and preyed upon them. Morlocks were another descendant of humans, evolving from the working class and the poor which were pushed to live in the tunnels to cater to the needs of the Eloi.

Now take my short recap as the Eloi being people with trauma and the Morlocks being the trauma itself. Is living in constant fear of the dark really what you want? Or is that something society tells you is okay because there’s nothing you can do about it, so you should stay that way? And what exactly does society get out of telling you that trauma is irreparable? 

This is what I meant by the world being portrayed as too sterile. It just can’t be, we’re not the ones who decide what’s gonna happen, so we shouldn’t be disillusioned that it’s up to us. Tws are there to help you in the moment, but they aren’t a coping mechanism. They’re just a veil we put over things to make them look blurry and to give them a less scary filter so that we can forget they exist. 

And this is what I meant when I said that not every trauma is the same. It comes in different degrees, but it also comes from different irritants. Not everything is because the world was mean to us, sometimes we were mean to ourselves, and we need to learn to love ourselves in order to cope. This is where, in my opinion, tws are counterproductive. Turning a blind eye on what we do to ourselves and romanticizing trauma and martyrdom is only gonna make it worse. 

Before people say I’ve gone crazy in saying this, let me just remind you that I lived through emo szn (I only caught the ends of it, it was mostly the era of ppl born in the late 80s) where self-harm was the norm and trendy and as a person with too many issues with the image of me in my head, I found it appalling that people thought that having scars was helping them. Like... reading fanfics back then, they were FILLED with mentions of self-harm. Say what you will but pop-punk/emo as a genre helped kids feel more understood, but it also popularised physical pain as a way of dealing with trauma, no matter the degree or the outcome.

There’s a prevalent theme in every generation, I think there might be a science behind it all, but it’s almost like there’s depression lurking in the background, but there’s a trend every 5-10 years or so in how we choose to manifest it; self-harm, EDs, drugs, alcohol, adrenaline, violence. Understanding this might help us understand that there’s a root to our trauma, and if we manage to kill it off, we might defeat it. But by adding tws, we’ll never get to this conclusion. We’ll just let society run us over and let us feel like shit.

Did any of this make any sense? Probably not. I’ve been writing this for a few hours now. 

My main advice is to get to know ourselves, to learn what really makes us tick. Introspection can help in finding out which trauma we can deal with, and which one needs to be left on the back burner for a bit. The lesser ones we can cope with one step at a time, until we’re out of the prangs of fear, and we can look back and say “I used to be scared of you, but I no longer am. You hurt me, but you no longer do.” 

Please think twice before relying on a tw. 

As for my blog, I don’t think I’ll tag too many tws, not because I don’t care about your wellbeing, but because I am not an organized person no matter how much I try to be. I also try to steer clear from things that might generally be considered triggering, but you’ll have to believe in my judgment of what’s acceptable or not. If that’s not something you can do, I totally understand if you unfollow me. 

Last piece of advice coming from a person that was just another cog in the marketing industry: Don’t fall for everything that’s been sold to you. You don’t have to do anything online. Something you saw on a blog makes you feel bad? Unfollow it. An event you read about in the news is triggering? Shut your computer down. A social media platform is making you feel like shit because the users are shit? Deactivate asap. Remember that information comes to you in binary code, and at the end of the day, that’s how you should treat everything that you consume online, even tho I might be a person on my side of the screen. Life is much more spicier and colorful when you’re out there in the real world, don’t let the overload of information coming from the virtual world stop you from feeling alive. 

[wearepolyfragmented-blog]

(The first image is OP saying to use other terms instead of ones like scum, then the second image is them deciding that nevermind its ok to use words like scum towards trauma victims)

Something I want to point out about the use of terms like plurscum, traumascum or now plurmedicalist or multimedicalist:

When endogenic systems and plural communities yell about how people with DID/OSDD need to “leave them alone” and “make their own communities” and how we are “encroaching on theirs” to express we are upset, I want to make something very clear: You are in our community not the other way around.

When people with DID/OSDD have asked you time and time again to please just make your own communities where you DON’T use our terminology and DON’T claim yourselves as part of us (which you do by inherently claiming multiplicity is a spectrum that involves your experiences instead of literally just calling your “natural plurality” its own phenomenon), you all stick your fingers in your ears and yell about how you are being hurt over the very reasonable request “Don’t take terminology from trauma victims and make your own”.

But here’s where it gets worse, when you use terms like trauma scum, plurscum or even try to create the false equivelancy that having DID is the same as being trans so thus, plurmedicalist is born, you are inherently tying us to your community.

When you create these terms you are deliberately saying that our community is part of yours, but the bad or wrong part of it that you don’t agree with. If you really wanted people with DID/OSDD to be their own community you would not use derogatory terms towards us that define us as the wrong way to view our literal experiences, you would just accept us as something different.

So tell me, why in the everloving fuck do you get to cry about us “bothering you in your spaces” when you use OUR terms, you misguide people with DID/OSDD into your community through misinformation, you call us part of your “plurality umbrella” and then to top it all of define us as the bad side of your experiences with these fucking terms to throw at us?

It’s honestly disgusting and that’s not even getting into the deep-rooted ableism it comes with!! You don’t get to run around claiming we are encroaching on your spaces when we ask you to stop when you spread to the public that our experienec is a subset of yours! Fuck you!

Also go figure that no one makes up terms like “autmedicalist” for autistic people who also just reinforce that ASD is a developmental disorder and nobody sits down and tries to intentionally meditate into having symptoms of ASD like the difficulties with social interaction because it’s not cool and trendy like the bastardized concept of having alters (also yes I have ASD so i’m allowed to make that comparison).

DID/OSDD only gets this treatment because there’s a fetishistic aspect to our disorder due to misunderstanding of why alters exist and thinking that concepts like tulpamancy where you intentionally try to create people in your head is the same thing as having an involuntary fragmented sense of self from trauma. Both sound like “multiplicity” when you define it by “more than one person in your head” but the experiences and causes are so viscerally different and this is something endogenics miss the mark by a fucking mile. It’s like saying neurotypical people who like to watch stim videos for fun are the same as being autistic and are part of the autistic community.

[juistheseminarian]

Eccentric, part 1: (gasp) a child!

You can tell I take myself seriously as a writer since I was originally planning on making this a stand-up-sounding twitter thread, doing my usual best turning the topic into a trendy depression meme while telling anyone who’d listen that I’ve decided to write “real articles” since I “can’t find a job in my field” (I’ve totally looked). So this is me taking a step. I get the tingling feeling it might sound exactly as it would have anyway, except this time i’m gonna have to pry readers from one platform they spend their time on to another that’s about real reading, and somehow this distance is a real marathon to close. I know because I don’t read, and i do run. I expect little and I hope for even less. 

Writing “for real”, as opposed to waxing my usual poetics, has been a terror of mine, along with praying mantises, stick insects and john mulaney’s wife, in a good way. It’s been my plan A as well as my every other plan for as long as I can remember, which is an excellent reason to stay away from it since nothing else could possibly keep it from failing. It’s almost like I didn’t believe in hard work, which is ironic for a person who spent hours a day playing over two-measures loops of music so I’d learn guitar solos for a man. Where’s the reward here? Non-gendered consideration? Give me a break. 

I’ve been told in school that a writer’s first work is oftentimes autobiographical, in reaction to which I thought it would be a funny idea to even try to write about anything else (who could possibly?). That was before I tried viewing it through the lens of standpoint theory and claiming the relevance of my situated point of view as if we needed another white girl to cry about the upper middle class experience. Now don’t get your hopes up, I’m still gonna do it, but I’ll do my best to keep some perspective. There are more important pieces to be written and more important voices to be heard and I’ll never replace them or try to; what I want to do is use the language I’ve had the privilege to develop, and acknowledge my main skill as an opportunity to challenge what needs to be challenged at my own scale. 

Now that I’ve proceeded to justify myself because clearly you had asked, and have realized I’m going to have to find another way to introduce myself than to offer my guests a cup of insecuritea (get it?), let’s move on - I’ve been meaning to talk about, well, me, you got me there - no but really, about my journey trying to put words on my mental health. Tl;dr: I haven’t yet. I’m starting to think the final boss of this game is financial independence so I’ll probably shelf it and go back to super hexagon for a decade or two. What could go wrong. 

It all started when i was still going to school in rollerskates and wearing orange tights to show how I had just discovered the sex pistols - in fact, it started long before, as the nice ladies at daycare told my parents that maybe I was a little more than just shy. The year after that, I was pulled out of school for being unable to stay in class during storytime: I had taken to crying uncontrollably and panicking into a near catatonic state at the thought of the old crone in charge reading fairy tales. I got sick in the morning. I was taken home and it fortunately coincided with my family moving to another village, where I started class the next year and appeared normal, if a little keen on the self-pity. My teacher suspected I was bored, but shit happens, and it didn’t show. I didn’t show.

I never showed. Later on I tried to show and disappear all at once, which was, you’ll see, a little suboptimal, but you do what you can, right. I went from year to year in constant fear and numbness, threats surrounding me in the classrooms, hallways, home, people. I felt injustice and it made me puke, and all that mattered was not being seen, not being seen for this reason at least. To everyone’s surprise, including mine, I had numerous friends, which made the loneliness thing all the more age-typical. Girl-typical. Good grades for a good girl, we never hear her. Now she’s too confident, we hear too much of her. Oh I too was bad at maths! You’re good at languages, where did you learn this? Why do you know that? Why do you talk like this? Look at her, she was ready to cry! We got you! 

Most of what I remember from school is the shame and inadequateness of feeling. I had a few questions: why was I obsessed with sex, how would boys like me, why did it feel better talking to adults even though I was ashamed to do so. At home, I was shamed for masturbating and at school I was just ashamed without anyone needing to make me that way. I don’t know where the trauma was, so don’t ask, okay? I know it’s gotta be in there but how can I tell what’s real and what’s a memory this abusive therapist planted for the sake of being right? 

My body felt like a traitor, always horny and always heavy and always numb. The swimming pool was a nightmare. My femininity was nowhere to be found. The delicate, cheerful way the others sang and hopped around made me grow old, I found myself revoltingly fat, I found my hair too short, and why didn’t I know how to dance? Why were people telling me I was so honest when all I did was be ashamed? Something wasn’t working out for me, and I was crying often. As soon as I pictured myself skipping and singing i couldn’t hold back my tears. I invoked this image of me as what I figured would be a normal little girl, and I felt a thousand years old, an antediluvian tree, its movements blocked and its curves absent. 

The body did things and I hid them. Through puberty i felt like an impure, sexless organism, like secondary sex characteristics implanted on a shape, a bunch of pubes on a round mistake. I didn’t know what makeup was for and my friend group had common enemies: lingerie, sluts, girly girls, because they could not be smart, they wore thongs and smoked and thereby lost the war of clever versus hot. Somewhere along the line we admitted to masturbating and that was the breakthrough, that’s that on that, and one day a girl choked another during recess. Around this time fat became an issue and everyone knew before I did, because it was normal and I overplayed normal. The limits were, and are, invisible to me.

The old school ended without a diagnosis, and I feared for my life since some older kids made a hobby out of telling us we were gonna get beat up as soon as we’d have set foot in the new school. I was scared, normal scared at first, and I shared the scared, which was something I thought I could get used to (unfortunately I did, and then it went away). I moved on and at first it all seemed to have worked out, I had kept some old friends around and even made new ones, I had a boyfriend for one month and we held hands before I told him I was a vampire (I had read a book by Anne Rice) and he no longer wanted to speak to me. I didn’t particularly mind. I found another (I didn’t want him and we tried to fit him inside me; it didn’t even feel like it would ever be a physiological possibility, he was a gentle friend, I was not receptive). I found another (it worked out and we dated for five years. I did manage to fit him inside me, and to this day i’m not certain I should have). Fat had become an issue. 

For the first year it didn’t show - well, not alarmingly so. I studied how to girl and promptly found out that caring about the body seemed an effective shortcut, and I did, very much. I was nerves and erogenous shame, a piglet in human cast, and anything that touched me sent thunderbolts of frustration through my entire bedroom; anyone that talked to me was taking me by surprise and met with confused torrents of whatever had to come out that day. At this point we called the food thing “being careful”: you didn’t want to gain weight so you were “being careful”, salad instead of a main course, no ice cream, careful. Look in the mirror, have you been careful enough? I have a very clear image of walking in on my mother weighing herself and telling me “you see, the biggest worry for moms is to have a flat tummy”. She denied it ever happened. Truth is, the last time she said it was three days ago. 

Then came the warnings and I had already learned to take them as compliments. Everytime someone told me I was eating too little, I was gaining points. I was about to graduate. I was about to evolve like a training pokémon; warnings were congratulations and fear was validating me as a fragile young girl, finally, finally, no longer a slug. You could say it was progressive, and throughout the whole thing I was taken care of, yet I slipped through everyone’s fingers because I had lost twelve kilos and weighed a remaining 36 (that’s 79 pounds). 

My grandmother was afraid of my hands and my body was drying out, dehydrating, too weak to menstruate or feel. During this time I have never fainted, but have pretended to numerous times. I still wasn’t the center of the world, so I considered it a failure. My mother’s friends said I needed to gain weight for men to love me, my mother said I needed to eat or people would keep staring, and everytime I bought diet coke my boyfriend gave me the look you give to a relapsing junkie, because it was the case. All other possibilities had been eliminated, by me. 

The abusive therapist was there all along, but then she was okay still. I saw her all the time, did all sorts of talking and then I saw a doctor and she measured my heart and threatened me with a hospital stay so I cleaned up my act. I was admitted once, in a special unit for teenagers, and it was a nightmare. The others were real and a girl lived there long term because her mother threw chairs in her face (she was the first one to come and introduce herself to me, smiling, complimenting my clothes, kind). One had lost her father and one didn’t like spinach. Before I could spend the night I had caved in and my parents collected me, and I collected the phone they thought was the problem. ED treatments: isolation won’t do shit, trust us. We get better because everyone else is less cruel than you were, and don’t say that’s the point. You lasted one hour before telling me my skirt was too short. 

At one point I told the abusive therapist I was going to get better, and I did. It had lasted about a year and the doctor said it hadn’t been real anorexia or I would have had it worse, and I thought, the nerve on this person that jumped on the occasion to invalidate me as soon as I ate one bite. Don’t you dare take the words from my experience, don’t be ridiculous, I’ve already claimed the words - I do realize how lucky I was, others died, I didn’t, but I was very ill indeed, your ego be damned. I was very ill, I was offered fashion advice and condescension and suggestions that I should stop or men wouldn’t look at me, and I was not medicated and I had my asshole pumped full of water because it had dried shut. My heart sounded like a ruffled biscuit wrapper and my first year of high school was a made-up arrangement for me to not completely float away: I would come to some classes for the sole purpose of keeping myself afloat and would repeat the year no matter what. I think this kept me alive. 

My first days of high school i was a mummy. I had taken to rubbing the skin off of my arms with a pumice stone until they oozed with pus and burned constantly, I wore bandages from my wrists to under my t-shirt sleeves, I don’t know how my legs supported me, I don’t know how anyone did. I had picked a special high school where half my classes would be in english but I’d know nobody: I lasted two days and was transferred to my local school, and there I appeared sporadically in french class, bonding with the delightful old man who gave it and thought my writing was “images”. He said I should do contests but maybe I wouldn’t win because “the best ones often don’t”.

I repeated the class and fell in love with the next french teacher, a gentle woman who taught us about the middle ages. She was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen, mysterious, a woman but not just a mother, she didn’t know what to do with my writing and I’m ever so sorry she had to fence off the embarrassment and try to be a good role model. Lucky for me, she really wasn’t. 

Ultimately I got better. But I gotta say: my style during this era was off the charts. I looked amazing, I copied Amanda Palmer and my boyfriend and the mad hatter and David Bowie, I once went to high school with a suit and converse because of David Tennant, and I cut my own hair with kitchen scissors. My then-boyfriend painted my t-shirts with foetuses and whatever else we found extremely shocking. We said we’d lose our virginity to raw power by Iggy Pop (did we?) and his mother said she was afraid I would mentally screw her stable, balanced son whose anger issues had him slap me a bunch of times - I would have slapped me too, I said then, and almost stand by it. Years later he phoned me saying he was in therapy and he was sorry and it wasn’t my only fault; I don’t think i hold grudges and I’m glad others don’t either. My mother, however, does. Beyond unrealistic. Must be exhausting. 

If I had to describe what anorexia felt like, i’d say it felt like depression but floating, like compulsive obsessing over fashion because I felt I was allowed to now that I was thin; like the most hopeless cul-de-sac with no way out except the one you came from, a well full of serpents like you’re Ragnar Lothbrok and the british are laughing at you from the surface. You float yet sink and you have to claw your way up but your nails are like chalk, you know, from the not eating bit. The anxiety makes every day feel like a year of waiting in terror, and you don’t know why it came and you don’t know why it ends, and sometimes it doesn’t. 

...

I’ll have to return to the abusive therapist topic, which is why this is part one of a series on my experience of mental health issues. This isn’t meant as a self indulgent victimization (although it is self indulgent, I mean what the hell, i’m not catholic) though I don’t think it requires further justification, either. I don’t know what will come out of this once I said everything I had to say on the matter, but for now i’m angry about things, and I feel we need to do better. 

I was in the best possible conditions and my treatment still sucked, and I still spent the last fifteen years of my life in pain because health professionals can’t have an empirical, science-based approach for shit. I’m not exaggerating when I say I was a ping pong ball in a match doctors played with their dicks. Gender informed how easily my anorexia was diagnosed whereas countless young men still suffer in silence; it also informed how patronizing people would sound and how “efforts” were suggested as medication for my disorders. How pleasing men was supposed to be reason enough for me to eat my own illness. How my ‘’giftedness’’ was not investigated and neither was my ADHD because female-coded symptoms are overlooked. I’m pissed off, I’m qualified to be, and you’ll hear more of me. 

-Ju 

[everydaymamaof3]

An awakening in a new decade...

2020, A new decade. A decade where we seem to be a bit more awakened to the world and to all of the bs, corruption and harm in it! We care about our planet and it’s species, more now than ever...and it’s funny because this was the prediction for 2012. The mayans predicted an awakening felt across the world. So maybe this awakening is just a little bit late.

For me personally, it’s also a bit of an awakening, this is an amazing decade ahead, of things I’ve manifested. I plan to expand my business. My first born daughter is getting married, and has followed her career dreams. My husband is doing incredibly well in his position. My girls are thriving. My friendships are genuine and real. My self esteem is on point. My focus is clear. My goals are precise. But it wasn’t always this way. And I will continue to be a work in progress. I manifested my main goal in life, to be a good mom, inspiring, and an honest role model. Even though I made some terrible choices in the past, I still managed to do this. You are not your past.

Some things that I’ve learned from the last decade about myself are, I still suffer a very small amount, from insecurities due to other people’s views of me. It’s psychological I’ve realized. It’s from emotional trauma through my period of self destruction. People can be so cruel. There’s no way to sugar coat this. And through my difficult time, other people’s views affected me more than they’ll ever know. Whispering, judging, spreading rumours...it DESTROYS people. It took me 12 years of clarity, to finally feel and realize that people do this out of their own insecurities. A good trick I’ve learned, is to look for the good in people, and ask yourself, why are they the way they are? Why do they find me so interesting. Why do they whisper about others? Why do they treat people that way? Why do they need other people to make them feel whole? When you turn bitterness, jealousy, and envy, into empathy or even sympathy and curiosity, and start to think about them and their choices and surroundings, it’s much easier to swallow and to move past it. And you know what, if you have these feelings, that is OK! Whether people are or aren’t judging you. If you didn’t have these feelings, you wouldn’t be human! We all get jealous, or envious, or insecure. Just figure out how to deal with it. How to release it. It’s NOT your burden to carry what others think of you.

I’ve learned that my body is beautiful, I love it. It brought me my beautiful daughters. My husband finds it sexy. He loves my curves, my strong arms, and even my little bit of cottage cheese on the backs of my thighs. Yep I said it. And cellulite sucks. Bless sarongs.

We live in an era now where social media is taking over the world, almost forcefully it seems. It’s become a normal part of our lives. It’s how people communicate, stay in touch, blog, inspire, sell, promote, complain...which isn’t great, but hey, better out than in (wise words from Shrek). People are open about anxiety and depression and panic attacks, and the struggles of parenthood, and many more struggles, and it’s much more normalized now, because it IS part of being human. A big trend in society is wellness. Documentaries on thinking yourself well, how the mind and attitude contribute to your overall health. Which, I mean, how great is that? There’s a huge abundance of it on social media.

I personally get anxiety from time to time, I recognize it, I share it, using writing to express myself, I move past it, and I find a lot of inspiring, real life women from across the globe, posting about the very same thing, and how they personally cope and manage. It’s a great tool for advice, tips and feeling human.

Exercise is my go to for EVERYTHING! Same routine for the past 10 plus years. Up early, coffee, workout, start the day. I love working out in the comfort of my home, I didn’t always, but once I got into a good groove, I really started to love it, and as I’m aging, I’m also noticing more tweaks and pangs in my body, so I listen. I alternate workouts, whether it’s running, or yoga, or HIIT, or my newest passion, spin!

I feel good, I feel fit, I’m not skinny. I’m strong, and maintaining muscle mass as we age is crucial in keeping our bodies strong, so if I can emphasize one thing, it’s be, and stay active. Good for mental health and good for physical health. And please don’t diet! It’s a short term solution! Be patient and consistent with just a well balanced diet, smaller portions, better choices, vegan is seriously amazing, and do something active everyday for at least 20 minutes.

Now back to the social media thing...it’s a wonderful tool, but it’s also a very damaging tool to people suffering from low self esteem or who are comparison living. I find myself getting caught up in it too sometimes. And I notice my emotions drastically change. I don’t feel great, and it turns into irritation, and mood swings. Hmmm irritation and mood swings from scrolling social media? Sound familiar? Yeah...because it happens to most of us. What is it exactly? Jealousy? Annoyed? Just an overload of pretend? Comparing? So guess what...change it. Unfollow. Hide. Or eliminate. Anyone who doesn’t make you feel good when you see their picture or post, should not be on your feed. My biggest goal this year and forward, quality in life, over quantity. “The little red heart on Instagram is now widely considered currency for public approval” ~ Health Canada How unhealthy does that sound?

Some don’t like my honesty, but I’ll never change who I am because of it. I like to share personal and honest so that whomever out there, even if it’s just one person, can read it, and exhale and feel normal or not alone.

You don’t have to accept aging if you don’t want to. You can express being overwhelmed. You don’t have to be a part of something that you can’t be yourself in. You don’t have to go to that family function. You don’t have to please people. An actual statistic, 64% of women have people pleasing coping mechanisms!!! 64%!! That’s 6.5 out of 10 women are trying to please others at the cost of what?

You are the only person who can protect your peace and those who matter in your life, really don’t mind. Remember my blog about the ripple affect. It’s very real. Push yourself to be or do what you don’t really want to be or do, and watch it ripple down into other aspects of your life. Relationships shift, weight shifts, work is harder than normal, motivation tanks...it all gets affected when you aren’t living true to yourself. And when I say true to yourself, I mean, when you are feeling at your best, not questioning anything, or putting yourself in uncomfortable situations, when you feel like the best version of you, stop and take note of what’s exactly going on in your life, and strive for more of that. It’s not all gonna be perfect, there’s always gonna be ebbs and flows...but you shouldn’t be living everyday feeling awful on the inside, but smiling on the outside. Reach out. Or write it down and burn it. Find a way to get back to you. Have a time out.

Surround yourself with people who truly inspire you. Who are consistent in their behaviour. Who you feel really good around. Not unsure, or uneasy. That, my friends is your intuition speaking to you when you don’t feel quite right around a person or people, or in a situation you shouldn’t be in. Listen to it.

Yes it’s great to step out of your comfort zone, but not at the cost of your peace.

I used to feel bad about being such a home body, I’m missing this and that, but in the past few years I’ve stopped feeling bad about it, because this time, right now, this tiny window of time that I have with my kids is so valuable and important to ME personally. Travelling with my family, weekend activities, downtime.. I’ll have all the time in the world to do other things when they’re grown. And that’s just me. Some women thrive on ALL of it! And you are amazing too! I feel overwhelmed and get run down easily if I pile my plate too high...maybe because I’m an energy absorber? Maybe not. But I’ve learned that I don’t function at my best on mom auto pilot. I’ve learned though to say, I’m tapping out, BEFORE the eruption of motherhood. That’s part of getting to know yourself. Time with your spouse. Time out. You time.

Don’t set unrealistic goals, don’t force yourself to do things you don’t wanna do, celebrate yourself with self care as much as you can, confide in your spouse, or closest confidantes, and nobody else, change jealousy and bitterness to empathy and curiosity about why people are the way they are. And use challenges with people as growth.. what did I learn from this.

Everyone’s fighting a battle we know nothing about! Even the happiest people in the world have struggles now and again!

I’m enjoying the shift I see happening in the universe. People calling people out for their wrong doings. Not accepting that in our world more and more. Reusing more. Not ashamed to state we buy used. Used clothing is no longer taboo! People are spending more time with family. More time getting to know themselves, FOMO is becoming a thing of the past, as it’s now trendy to enjoy being a homebody, listening to a podcast. Women are empowering each other more than ever. If a woman is body shamed by one or two, one hundred or two hundred are defending her. Magazine covers are curvy women, elderly women, disabled women...and they’re just as beautiful, as any model that graced the covers in the past. Men are allowed to cry and show emotion, and promote being family men and active dads over “bread winners and workaholics”. Skinny is out. Healthy is in. Strong is in. Kindness is in. Vegan is in. So even though the world still seems a bit scary, it is shifting...focus on the positives. And allow yourself to have days where you see the negatives, but don’t stay there, allow it, move on. You are human. It’s not only unrealistic, but unfair to yourself to not have bad days! They’re growth days ♥️

Living your life simply, true to yourself, focused on the right priorities, knowing you are loved, and giving love back, is how you manifest all the goodness and goals and dreams. Living otherwise is putting a block on allowing good things into your life ✨ Just be you and watch the magic happen.

[void-official]

“Micro-identities/’Mogai/ya’ll literally just be making shit up now” OK. i’m sorry im stuck on this and this is the last i’ll talk about it today bc fuck it. I’m gonna be Real for a second. And it’s going to be awkward, and it’s going to be long, and I’m gonna Lose Follower bc defending micro-labels is Cringe. Whatever. I get it. go ahead and unfollow. The rest of you who actually care. and in the spirit of Pride Month, as someone who feels like they’re almost never allowed to express Pride in who I am? Here we go.

I’m bi. Most of you can probably tell, im not exactly subtle about it.

I’m bi. But

my actual interest in dating or having sex with Anyone has been pretty much negligible for my entire life. I just don’t Care. I never have. Dating and sex seem like a hassle to me and I don’t feel like i’m particularly missing out by not taking part in them. It doesn’t negate my enjoyment of peoples bodies necessarily, nor does it mean I never get crushes on people it just means at the end of the day, my desire to go out there and find people to have sex with and/or date has always been like. really really low. Even if the opportunity was there. And i’ve come to terms with this. I accept this about myself.

There is actually a great deal of overlap between bi and ace identity. all those ‘weird little terms’ like ‘demisexual’ you guys hate so much were originally created for people like me, who feel like they are fundamentally not allowed to call themselves something straightforward like ‘bi’ (or straight/gay/lesbian) without people inevitably screaming at them for Doing It Wrong. So they can describe how they feel in a brief word, instead of having to go through the pains of explaining the complex relationship they have with sexual attraction to every fucking person who asks what their sexuality is.

saying ‘well you should just be able to say bi and leave it at that’ doesn’t actually account for the experiences i have when i Just Say i’m Bi. Even me Just Saying ‘im bi’ i’ve always gotta deal with harassment from people whoget weirdly agressive about -why- i’m not out there fucking or dating the people i claim im attracted to. Am I a prude? a Tease? Just an ‘Acey’ lying for brownie points? Am I Actually Just Traumatized? (They ask in a really aggressive condescending way, like thats actually how you should talk to someone you think is potentially traumatized) But by the standards of this discourse, i’m not allowed to call myself ace either, because then people are going to yell at me that if I experience the tiniest smidgen of sexual attraction or romantic inclination sometimes, or post pictures of sexy video game characters, clearly i cant be that either  I literally can’t win. there is not a thing I can call myself that won’t earn me the ire of LGBT people on tumblr who think they know me and what i should call myself better than I do. And believe me i hate talking about this More than you do. I’d rather just shut up and let people Assume i’m whatever they want me to be sometimes but then mutuals i thought i trusted will inevitably openly make fun of the people who outwardly call themselves demisexual or whatever microlabel is trendy to shit on currently, and usually i bite my tongue cause at the end of the day its Just Words, right? I don’t even use that word, right? Its just words and some words can be interchangeable and not everyone knows what they mean which can feel alienating and unnecessary to people who don’t understand them. I -get- why people ‘cringe’ when they see like 10 terms they don’t understand in someones bio. why do you think i don’t even list anything about my sexuality in mine other than my pronouns?

but I always remember like. just bc that label isnt For Me, it doesn’t mean there might be someone in a similar position to me who doesnt feel comfortable just calling themeslves bi, and prefers the label ‘demisexual biromantic’ who feels like that phrase puts them in a place of peace and contentment, and I wouldn’t argue with them about it. Bc thats their fucking choice. Them being happy with who they are takes priority over my personal opinions of the language they use. same with gender nonconforming people who dont want call themselves trans or nonbinary. Thats fucking Fine. I’m not telling you to have to use the same words as me if you don’t feel like they’re necessary or accurate. I literally don’t give a rats ass what words you use to identify yourself so long as they’re not being used to hurt other people. I just want to be able to have Words, for myself, that describe how I feel, that don’t result in people treating my entire identity like some shitty discourse Meme. And right now I have none. No matter what I call myself, people choose tell me it’s not accurate, or its too complicated.

As for all these shitty fucking posts about people ‘forcing’ young people to take up labels. This. This doesn’t actually happen? (OK I won’t say it doesn’t happen ever on an individual level? but that its not something enforced or encouraged by any group as a practice, and that distinction is necessary, bc saying it happens on a large scale literally implies predatory intentions from a massive group of people instead of members of the group behaving poorly as individuals)

Demisexual people as a whole have literally never told me i had to call myself demi just bc my sense of how i experience attraction might be similar to theirs. Ace people as a whole don’t usually tell people whose lack of sexual attraction is caused by trauma or who havent developed enough to experience sexual attraction that they -have- to call themselves ace. Most Bi or Pan people are fine with the fact that their labels have a lot of overlap and that the line between these things can be murky, they arent actually constantly ready to tear each others throats out over whose terminology is correct. All of this shit is made up by hateful people, or people taking a few examples of poor behavior out of context as an excuse to shit on everyone else, and well meaning people keep falling for it bc it -seems- helpful to be. reactive. I guess? to people you’re constantly told are hurtful to the causes of marginalized people. but im telling you. its not true. literally nobody forces you to call yourself any of these words, they just Exist out there in case you want them, and if you think thats somehow a threat to other peoples identities or to Minors just like, conceptually, for existing, for being Too Specific, im sorry but what other word is there for your reaction than phobic? If an individual derails a conversation about Y to be like “You didn’t include _X_” or tries to force their views on a minor who hasn’t developed a stable sense of identity yet, that is an Individual behaving in an inappropriate manner, not an invitation for you to throw the whole group under the bus. I hate to tell you but if you’re using examples of individuals on tumblr who say stupid shit, everyone on tumblr says stupid shit and butts in conversationally where they’re not welcome. Universally. It’s how tumblr is formatted. Trust me, I have like 4 viral posts going right now.

i’m just tired of it at this point. im not cool with people who stretch to make fun of micro-labels all the time and think they’re being woke allies or w/e to the ‘real LGBTs’.  Even if a lot of the time I personally don’t care for all the labels and wouldn’t choose them for myself, I still feel like If you can’t treat people like individuals and assess their character on a case by case basis, i don’t trust you. I don’t like people who stereotype and LGBT people are not immune to this behavior. Like i don’t say it often but it fucking hurts, and it hurts other people I’m close to who I know have similar complicated identities and struggle coming up w/words to describe themselves that the whole of tumblr LGBT+ will approve of and agree with (clearly an impossibility because there are still people who don’t want bi and trans to even be in there). I might tolerate the constant jokes and not block on principle of knowing not everyone has ingested and thought about this discourse in the same way I have, and im a big tough adult, ultimately i can take it. but inside i know no matter what i call myself, if i were earnest with some of you about how i feel I’d probably be just another ‘special snowflake Delusional mogai creep’ to you, and i can’t deny that fucking hurts to think about. I try not to talk about it openly bc it embarrasses me, bc i dont think my sexuality should have to be battle ground for discourse for people who are supposed to be on my side. But there it is. I think most of this discourse is Trash, and clearly not for the reason most people on here say its trash, not bc theres ‘too many specific words, y’all just be Making Shit Up’ but because so many of you are more caught up in the words than the substance of the arguments or the needs of people whose experiences might have a lot of overlap with yours regardless of what word they’re using to describe it.

Anyway. happy pride to LGBTQA+ people who still dont really feel pride in themselves or their identity. I’d say you’re valid, but you don’t need my validation or anyone elses to understand that you’re a person deserving of respect and compassion. You exist as who you are, and you have to come to terms with who that is, regardless of whether or not you feel like you’re accepted for it. if not pride then, settle for confidence in who you are.

[johnnymundano]

The Theatre Bizarre (2011)

Directed by Douglas Buck, Buddy Giovinazzo, David Gregory, Karim Hussain, Jeremy Kasten, Tom Savini and Richard Stanley

Written by Scarlett Amaris, Douglas Buck, John Esposito, Buddy Giovinazzo, David Gregory, Karim Hussain, Emiliano Ranzani and Richard Stanley

Music by Simon Boswell, Susan DiBona and Marquis Howell of Hobo Jazz

Country: United States

Language: English

Running Time: 114 minutes

CAST

Udo Kier as Peg Poett

Virginia Newcomb as Enola Penny

Kaniehtiio Horn as The Writer (segment 'Vision Stains')

Victoria Maurette as Karina (segment 'The Mother Of Toads')

Shane Woodward as Martin (segment 'The Mother Of Toads')

André Hennicke as Axel (segment 'I Love You')

Suzan Anbeh as Mo (segment 'I Love You')

James Gill as Donnie (segment 'Wet Dreams')

Tom Savini as Dr. Maurey (segment 'Wet Dreams')

Debbie Rochon as Carla (segment 'Wet Dreams')

Lena Kleine as The Mother (segment 'The Accident')

Mélodie Simard as The Daughter (segment 'The Accident')

Lindsay Goranson as Estelle (segment 'Sweets')

Guilford Adams as Greg (segment 'Sweets')

Framing Segments

Directed by Jeremy Kasten

Written by Zach Chassler

Cast:

Udo Kier as Peg Poett

Virginia Newcomb as Enola Penny

The Theatre Bizarre is a series of six shorts largely in hock to the grand-guignol tradition of naturalistic horror (i.e. proper ketchup, matey). I know this not because of any keen interest in French theatre but because the framing sequence is called ‘Theatre Guignol’, and it is into this terribly mysterious theatre that Enola Penny (Virginia Newcomb) dreamily wanders one decisive night. Each of the following sections is introduced by the indefatigable Udo Kier playing a big puppet (literally “grand guignol”) who becomes less puppet-like as the movie wears on and (cue wobbly theremin) Enola become less human. Which might be an artistic statement about desensitisation, but is definitely an excuse to watch Udo Kier popping robot-moves, which I think we can all agree is a good thing.

The Mother of Toads

Directed by Richard Stanley

Written by Richard Stanley, Scarlett Amaris and Emiliano Ranzani

Cast:

Catriona MacColl as Mere Antoinette

Shane Woodward as Martin

Victoria Maurette as Karina

Lisa Belle as The Naked Witch (as Lisa Crawford)

Amelie Salomon as The Monster

The Mother of Toads is apparently based on a Clark Ashton Smith story of the same name which I haven’t read, with a bit of HP Lovecraft chucked in. It features a pair of unpleasant young Americans holidaying in France, and I’m not dissing Americans there, this pair really are unlikable; Karina moans that everything is in French in France (quelle surprise!), while Martin is so anaesthetised by his own acumen he can barely push his smug words past the thicket of his trendy beard. They come unstuck when bargain hunting in a French market where a handsome older lady with a mesmerising accent saucily offers Martin a peek at her Necronomicon. Bundling Karina off to a spa Martin spends the day with the accommodating and increasingly ardent crone, drinking suspicious brews and fingering her dusty leaves. Things end badly. This was an agreeably silly creature feature with plenty of the old ugh! quotient, an endearing lack of logic and a pervading sense of encroaching doom. The humour leavening proceedings is clearly no accident; there’s an excellent joke when Martin attempts to extricate himself from a post-coital bed without waking his sleeping and somewhat slimy partner. Probably rings a few bells in the audience that bit. It’s just enjoyably daft, tongue-in-cheek stuff and a welcome reminder that Richard (Hardware (1990), Dust Devil (1992)) Stanley is still rocking his smart-trash groove.

I Love You

Directed by Buddy Giovinazzo

Written by Buddy Giovinazzo

Cast:

André Hennicke as Axel

Suzan Anbeh  as Mo

I Love You is a pretty tough watch and unusually it’s not because of the climactic gore. Axel wakes up in his bathroom disorientated and bloody; turns out he’s an insecure, self-destructive mess who has driven his lady Mo away. Mo returns to sever all ties and leave for good. What follows is an emotionally harrowing battle between two damaged people where words are weapons and the hurt is internal. As blood spattered as the despairing denouement may be the real horror is the extended verbal flensing Mo delivers to Martin, in which she destroys not only his present but also his past. And is she telling the truth? Or is it a desperate attempt to extricate herself from his unquenchable neediness? Like a fox gnawing its paw off to escape the trap? Sometimes uncertainty can be another level of horror. Buddy Giovinazzo delivers a classily acted, tautly suspenseful two-hander which leaves an emotional stain which persists for days.

Wet Dreams

Directed by Tom Savini

Written by John Esposito

Cast:

Debbie Rochon as Carla

Tom Savini as Dr. Maurey

James Gill as Donnie

Jodii Christianson as Maxine

Wet Dreams is directed by Tom Savini, who is legendary in horror for his SFX work and slightly less legendary for his acting, so there’s no excuse for doing an Elvis double take at the fact he’s given himself a role and that his segment is luridly gory. He’s no slouch at directing either, which is nice. The esteemed Mr. Savini plays a psychiatrist, the kind who drinks on the job and talks about raping his mum (i.e. a movie psychiatrist), treating Donnie, a preening jackass who likes smacking his wife, Carla, about and cheating on her. See, Donnie’s having recurring nightmares wherein his sexy dream fun times climax with him being tortured and castrated by his long-suffering wife, in a series of gruesomely humorous and visually explicit ways. Gentlemen viewers may never again think of a fry-up without skittishly crossing their legs. Serves Donnie right you might think, but by the end of the dream-within-a-dream misdirection and its gruesomely pre-code EC Comics twist finale you might think again. Ugh. I mean….ugh. I...Jesus. What could have just been a gratuitous mess of general dismemberment is deftly directed by the savant Savini, resulting in an amoral immorality tale. And need it be said that his skills in the SFX dept remain second to none? No, it need not. So pretend I didn’t say it.

The Accident

Directed by Douglas Buck

Written by Douglas Buck

Cast:

Lena Kleine as Mother

Mélodie Simard as Daughter

Jean-Paul Rivière as Old Biker

Bruno Décary as Young Biker

The Accident provides a brief respite from the onslaught of sensationalistic gore, a pit stop if you will. Even if you won’t, it definitely centres around a cute child asking her blasé mother questions about mortality, said questions raised in the tiny, inquiring mind after the witnessing of an accident earlier in the day involving a deer and a cocky motorcyclist. It’s a very restrained piece, very accomplished, and softer in tone than anything before or after it. There’s a touch of grue when the deer is finished off, but mostly the horror here is the complete horseshit parents come out with to calm their offspring with regards to the ultimately absurd nature of life and death, a subject which everyone spends a lot of time avoiding thinking about on a day to day basis and about which they would rather not be cross-examined about by a child at bedtime. As upsetting as the sight of the deer’s tongue lolling out of its bug eyed head was (very), it wasn’t as upsetting as realising all the lies you have to fill your kid with just so they can function in what we’ve all decided to call reality. Compared to all that, lying about Santa Claus is a minor misdemeanour.

Vision Stains

Directed by Karim Hussain

Written by Karim Hussain

Cast:

Kaniehtiio Horn as The Writer

Cynthia Wu-Maheux as Junkie Girl

Imogen Haworth as Pregnant Woman

Rachelle Glait  as Older Homeless Woman

Alex Ivanovici  as Junkie Man

I have a thing about eye trauma. Not a sexual thing, a “flinch and wave your hands about like you’re warding off invisible birds” thing. It’s a running joke in the Mundano family unit; if there’s some serious eye trauma afoot in the viewing choice, all eyes fall on the father figure as he  tenses for impact. Those similarly (dis)inclined should be warned that there is a seriously impressive amount of eye trauma in Vision Stains. It’s built in as the whole episode rests on the Horror Movie Science concept of people’s past lives flashing before their eyes at the point of death. So if you extract their eye juice as they die and inject it into your own eye you will get to live the edited highlights of another life. Obviously. That sounds about as appealing as it sounds scientifically feasible, but our serial killer heroine is well into it. She basically harvests the lives of the homeless to make up for her personal shortfall in dreams. Judging by the massive pile of notebooks in which she has written the details of all the lives she has nicked, its worked out quite well for her. But people, even dreamless serial killers who prey on the homeless,  are never satisfied, so she decides to take the next step and find out what happens before people have a life to flash in front of their eyes. The results are mixed. Ultimately you can’t help thinking it would have been a lot quicker and far easier on the homeless population if she’d just read Tbomas Ligotti’s The Conspiracy Against the Human race. It’s all very silly but the po-faced approach suggests it is straining for some grandiose meaning; it fails. But it does feature a fantastic amount of eye trauma. Each to their own.

Sweets

Directed by David Gregory

Written by David Gregory

Cast:

Lindsay Goranson as Estelle

Guilford Adams as Greg

Lynn Lowry as Mikela Da Vinci

Jessica Remmers as Antonia

With Sweets, things close on a hilariously disgusting note. A deadpan Estelle and a semi-hysterical Greg talk about their dying relationship in the most banal clichés imaginable as they sit in what was once an apartment, but is now a kind of edible sty plastered with smushed up confectionery.  As trite nonsense falls from her lips Estelle slowly sucks a melting ice cream into her deadpan face. Greg flailing to rescue the dead relationship counters with the expected whiny responses, while spasmodically picking filthy sweets off the floor and ingesting them with all the automotive panache of the true addict. Their stale interactions are punctuated by a series of flashbacks  which parody cinema’s rote scenes of romance, with the pair swilling sweet shit like swilling sweet shit is going out of fashion. Luckily for Greg, Estelle hasn’t quite finished with him, unluckily for Greg he’s about to find out what that means. Sweets is pretty funny in its lip-smacking attack on love and addiction (and love as addiction), and is delightfully cartoonish in style; Estelle is often colour coordinated from hair to shoes with whatever sickly delicacy she is proffering. Of course all the comedy and caricature serve only to distract you while Sweets prepares a delightful gut punch of horror, before the management politely ask you to leave.

 TL;DR: The Theatre Bizarre: it’s worth a watch, but not if you’re squeamish.

[turnipshepard]

I listened to a talk by someone who has some major criticisms of the current mental health landscape around trauma. Namely, that “trauma” has become too ill-defined to mean anything, that “trauma” therapists are employing a counterproductive model with their clients / that there isn’t much evidence that this model is helpful, and that social media has made all of this worse (which almost goes without saying).

I found it interesting, but something that grabbed my attention even more was that some of the objections in comments on Reddit and YouTube boiled down to, “Well, I use something I call a trauma-informed model in this completely unrelated setting, so clearly this speaker doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Examples:

These examples have nothing to do with the talk except to reinforce the leakage of the word “trauma” into the larger zeitgeist. She’s not talking about whether a yoga instructor should touch you without your consent or whether you should be empathetic to vulnerable populations. It’s just this thing where people get so hung up on words that they reflexively get defensive and don’t even respond to the substance of the arguments. She didn’t address this fringe applications because they’re not material to her topic.

(Also, as an aside, there’s something really weird implied in the responses. Like the reason you don’t touch other people without their consent is because they might have past trauma. Feels like just common courtesy to me? And the second comment straight up says that the trauma context doesn’t actually change how they treat clients and you can just call it “the Golden Rule.” But if “trauma informed” is more legible to the general population these days I guess it really doesn’t matter)

Ultimately I think there is something to the idea that the trauma framework for understanding emotion is very, for lack of a better word, “trendy” right now and should be examined and criticized where needed. And I think responses that miss the point by overfocusing on what key word is being invoked are a good example of how we can get too caught up in fighting over the language to get to the substance of something.

[velvetvent]

i logged into tumblr and realized the internet has changed a lot since i started and i have feelings about it,, these are those feelings. aka a love letter to the days when a fanfic about milk was the biggest thing on this god forsaken website

being chronically online for a decade sucks bc you get nostalgia for the worst times of the internet, like tumblr back in the 2010′s, or the days when we’d go on chatroulette for fun. and all the random kik groupchats. like yeah my trauma is literally from that entire era but also tumblr hasnt hit the same since and i haven’t gotten the excitement of my internet friends finally replying to me or the thrill of being able to video respond to a youtube video since. And nothing really hits the same anymore. Like back then it was adults fucking with kids and yeah it was wrong but it’s not like it doesn’t happen now. It’s all dirtier and cleaner at the same time. More ad-friendly content but there’s still just as much trafficking and toxicity as there always has been, if not more. Youtube is still there but there’s adsense now that everyone has to try and navigate and pc culture exists which is fine but cancel culture is rampant and tiring at this point. And everybody is constantly filtered, but the filters change your face shape now. It’s not just a sepia tone or dog ears anymore, now you get jaw surgery and botox and eyeliner and lashes and an entirely different nose without even asking; plus the sepia tone. But there’s hardly a sepia tone without the automatic photoshop anymore. There’s not anywhere that’s safe anymore. There never was, but I felt safer as an extremely young minor in these vile online spaces back in the day than I ever used to. Yes i was groomed and abused and talked to awful, disgusting people. But i also had a chat of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. I met the best of people and the worst, and it all felt like a huge fever dream that only i had access to. It took me places I would’ve never been able to see. I’m too poor to go to Australia, or the UK, or Cali, or Texas, or France. I’m cultured so differently because I was raised by the internet and by people across the world. They shaped me. I eat timtams because of a very close friend group and significant other; i know about games because of them; my music taste. You name it, someone from across the world probably influenced me to like it in 2012 and i never looked back. But now it all feels so foreign. Somewhere we all used to fit in isin’t a sanctuary anymore. We aren’t free to post the cringe like we used to, we aren’t free to not use filters, we have to be trendy to impress the algorithm and interact with others but if you’re not family friendly you’ll be suppressed too. And in a world of oppression and suppression the last thing we need is the restricted internet that we have now. But i dont think what we had would be a good solution either. But i miss those days. My husband was never online growing up outside of xbox chats and he doesnt share the same sentiments towards it as i do. i still romantisize this shit; we were all broken kids but we were able to keep each other alive. Now if somebody uses a word to identify with they’re relentlessly made fun of; yall dont remember fuckin otherkin? jfc. 

[organiclifestylemagazine]

Gluten Intolerance, Wheat Allergies, and Celiac Disease - It's More Complicated Than You Think

Is “gluten free” a fad? No, it’s going to be a thing for as long as we are producing wheat and bread the way we’re doing it. A lot has changed in the bread industry – it’s not just one thing.

People often comment about how bread didn’t cause problems with our health before GMOs and Roundup were prevalent in our food supply. Our farming practices have changed, and fairly recently, wheat has started being sprayed with Roundup. The newest speculation is that wheat is not the problem – that the problem is glyphosate, the active ingredient in Roundup. People also often suspect that wheat has been genetically modified. And, of course, there are those who believe the whole gluten-elimination thing is ridiculous and that most people are jumping on the gluten-free bandwagon because it’s trendy.

Related: How to Eliminate IBS, IBD, Leaky Gut

In my experience, if one suffers from a chronic illness of any kind, they must remove gluten from their diet in order to get well. I have yet to see an exception. So what’s the problem? Is it the glyphosate or the wheat or something else? The truth is it’s not just one thing. Everyone would already know this if most humans weren’t so bad at thinking in terms of systems. We tend to think linearly and look for singular cause and effects, but rarely if ever are complex problems solved by such simplistic thinking. There are multiple reasons one gets sick, with a cold or a chronic disease, just like there are multiple reasons why our planet’s ecosystem is changing. This is why you can’t blame the rise of autism on just glyphosate, or GMOs, or increased vaccinations, or diminishing food quality, or environmental degradation – they all correlate, it’s all of the above.

Related: Best Supplements To Kill Candida and Everything Else You Ever Wanted To Know About Fungal Infections

There is a very complex system that is causing the decline of American health, and it’s not just the bread. And yes, our health is in decline. If you doubt that…here, google it and take your pick. Our lifespan is actually decreasing.

What’s the difference between Gluten Intolerance, Wheat Allergies, and Celiac Disease

Conventional medicine states that celiac disease and non-celiac gluten sensitivity have a lot of symptoms in common but identifies a key difference. Non-celiac gluten sensitivity is not a genetic disease and does not cause an autoimmune reaction, and celiac disease is a genetic autoimmune disease. A wheat allergy is an allergic reaction to any of the hundreds of proteins in wheat. Gluten intolerance used to be a catch-all phrase for any problem with eating gluten, but now it’s being relegated to mean Non-celiac gluten sensitivity.

Non-celiac Gluten Sensitivity

Non-celiac gluten sensitivity is believed to be the most prevalent of the gluten-related disorders, but it’s not as well defined as the other two. It’s not an autoimmune reaction nor is it an allergic reaction. There are no tests or biomarkers to identify this disorder. Other components of gluten-grains may be causing symptoms. In order for non-celiac gluten sensitivity to be diagnosed, a doctor will rule out celiac disease and wheat allergies or other possible causes of the symptoms first.

Common Symptoms for Non-celiac Gluten Sensitivity

Fatigue

Mental fatigue, aka “brain fog”

Headaches

Migraines

Bone or joint pain

Gastrointestinal distress

Gas

Bloating

Cramping

Indigestion

Abdominal pain

Diarrhea

Constipation

It’s said that individuals with gluten sensitivity do not experience damage to the small intestine or develop tissue transglutaminase antibodies like they do with celiac disease. Non-celiac gluten sensitivity has been linked to a variety of health problems including, diabetes, allergies, autism spectrum disorders, and much more.

Related: How to Avoid GMOs in 2018 – And Everything Else You Should Know About Genetic Engineering

Gastroenterologists looking for celiac disease typically test for a few specific antibodies, and if found, they do an intestinal biopsy to determine if tissue damage is present. Chris Kresser addresses the issue with this kind of testing in 3 Reasons Gluten Intolerance May Be More Serious Than Celiac Disease, which I highly recommend reading. He states:

According to some estimates, for every diagnosed case of celiac disease (CD), there are 6.4 undiagnosed cases that remain undiagnosed—the majority of which are atypical or “silent” forms with no damage to the gut. (1) This silent form of CD is far from harmless; it is associated with a nearly fourfold increase in the risk of death. (2)

I believe that patients with NCGS are even more likely than patients with CD to go undiagnosed. Most gastroenterologists today know how to screen for celiac disease. They will typically test for antibodies to antibodies to alpha gliadin, transglutaminase-2, deamidated gliadin, and endomysium, and if positive do a biopsy to determine if tissue damage is present.

However, we now know that people can (and do) react to several other components of wheat above and beyond alpha gliadin, the component that is implicated in CD. These include other epitopes of gliadin (beta, gamma, omega), glutenin, wheat germ agglutinin (WGA), gluteomorphin, and deamidated gliadin. What’s more, people can react to other types of tissue transglutaminase, including type 3—primarily found in the skin—and type 6—primarily found in the brain. (3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8)

Celiac Disease

Celiac disease is considered a genetic, autoimmune disorder. Ninety-eight percent of people with celiac disease carry one or both of two very specific genes, HLA DQ2 and DQ8. On the other hand, so does up to 25-30% of the general population. Carrying one or both of these genes does not mean you have celiac disease nor does it mean you will develop it. Doctors often use gene testing to rule out celiac disease, but there are some cases where people who do not have either of the genes still tested out to have celiac disease.

Though celiac disease is said to be genetic, genes cause predispositions and our diet and environment adjust our genes. Environment can alter gene activity without changing the DNA sequence. This is called gene expression. I also believe that the environment and diet can actually alter the DNA sequence, but from what I’m seeing, current science doesn’t agree with me on this. Regardless, how your genes affect you is altered by our diet and our environment, and those traits can be passed down to our offspring as well. In other words, a predisposition to celiac disease may be hereditary, but whether or not we have celiac disease could depend on our genetic health, which depends on our overall health, which depends on our lifestyle. And this can all be traced to gut health – you cannot have a healthy gut without a healthy lifestyle, and our gut health is something most of us have complete control over.

Related: Gluten, Candida, Leaky Gut Syndrome, and Autoimmune Diseases

Common Symptoms of Celiac Disease

Fatigue

Mental fatigue, aka “brain fog”

Headaches

Migraines

Bone or joint pain

Gastrointestinal distress

Gas

Bloating

Cramping

Indigestion

Abdominal pain

Diarrhea

Constipation

Arthritis

Dermatitis

Eczema

Osteoporosis

Liver disorders

Depression or anxiety

Peripheral neuropathy

Seizures

Migraines

Irregular menstruation

Miscarriages

Canker sores

Doctors believe that in order to develop the disease, a person needs to have the genetic predisposition while they are consuming gluten and to subsequently have the disease activated. Activation triggers are said to potentially be stress, trauma, and viral infections. I contend that vaccines and antibiotics are the two most common triggers for the disease. Damaging the gut is what leads to problems with wheat, but we’ll get more into that below.

Wheat Allergies

Celiac disease and non-celiac gluten sensitivity have many symptoms in common, but wheat allergies are often much more distinctive. Symptoms include itching, hives, or anaphylaxis which is a life-threatening reaction. A wheat allergy is an immune reaction to any of the hundreds of proteins in wheat. It is possible for a person to be allergic to wheat and to have non-celiac gluten sensitivity or celiac disease at the same time.

What About Roundup?

Monsanto introduced glyphosate under the trade name Roundup in 1974 shortly after DDT was banned. It wasn’t used very much until the late 1990s when Monsanto genetically engineered seeds to withstand high doses of Roundup, and the product took off. Eager to sell more of its flagship herbicide, Monsanto has encouraged farmers to use their glyphosate as a desiccant. Wheat can be harvested quicker and easier if you dry it all out ahead of time with Roundup. It’s also used in this way on wheat, barley, oats, canola, flax, peas, lentils, soybeans, dry beans, and sugar cane.

Studies have concluded that chronically ill people have higher levels of glyphosate in their bodies. Glyphosate has been attributed to an increased prevalence of most of our common chronic conditions including, but not limited to ADHD, Alzheimer’s, birth defects, autism, cancer, kidney disorder, irritable bowel syndrome, Parkinson’s disease, depression, diabetes, heart disease, thyroid disorders, liver disorders, multiple sclerosis, reproductive issues, adrenal failure, obesity, asthma, and of course, celiac disease.

It’s not hard to understand why. Glyphosate is poison and so are the other ingredients in Roundup. People have to wear protective gear to apply the product. It is designed to kill. It kills plants by preventing them from making certain proteins. Just imagine what that does to one’s gut ecology.

How Wheat Has Changed

The wheat we have now is very different from what our ancestors consumed. Modern dwarf wheat is hybridized. That isn’t a GMO, but the genes of our wheat plant have certainly been modified to grow faster, and to be more resilient. We used to eat wheat called einkorn, which was actually one of the very first grains we humans cultivated more than 10,000 years ago. When you read in the Bible about how we should eat bread, this is the wheat it refers to.

There is a lot more gluten in modern wheat than there is in einkorn, and the gluten that einkorn wheat does contain is different. Einkorn also has 15 percent less starch and 30 percent more protein. Modern wheat has a lower nutrient content and a different protein structure. In fact, many with celiac and gluten intolerance report being able to eat einkorn without issue.

Also, that blood sugar spike experienced after eating bread does not happen with einkorn.

So I conducted a simple experiment on myself. On an empty stomach, I ate 4 oz of einkorn bread. On another occasion I ate 4 oz of bread that dietitian, Margaret Pfeiffer, made with whole wheat flour bought at the grocery store. Both flours were finely ground and nothing was added beyond water, yeast, olive oil, and a touch of salt.” – Einkorn and blood sugar

“Ancient wheat diets caused a downregulation of key regulatory genes involved in glucose and fat metabolism, equivalent to a prevention or delay of diabetes development. Spelt and rye induced a low acute glycemic response compared to wheat.” – NCBI

How Bread Making Has Changed

Most commercial bread contains bromides, added starches, refined sugars, added gluten (vital wheat gluten), preservatives, artificial flavorings, leveling agents, and stabilizers. Potassium bromate is an additive used in commercial bread and baked goods that make the products lighter and fluffier. Bromines are part of the halide family, a group of elements that includes fluorine, chlorine, and iodine, which are all endocrine disruptors that cause digestive issues and a host of other health problems.

Related: Sugar Leads to Depression – World’s First Trial Proves Gut and Brain are Linked (Protocol Included)

Baking Soda, baking powder, and cream of tartar are often used in place of yeast or in addition to rapid rise yeast to make the bread rise quickly and more uniformly. Modern bread rises for a couple of hours or less, whereas homemade bread traditionally takes at least 12 hours to rise. I got curious about the difference between baking soda and baking powder, and I thought you might be as well, hence the video below.

Traditional bread recipes typically utilized a few common ingredients including flour, yeast, salt, water, a sweetener, and some spices or herbs.

Related: Holistic Guide to Healing the Endocrine System and Balancing Our Hormones

Refined flours started to be widely used around 1880 which caused worldwide epidemics of pellagra and beriberi. Refining the flours removes bran and germ which increases shelf life. It also removed the B vitamins. Previous iterations of bread did use bolted or sifted flour which did refine the wheat somewhat, but it didn’t remove all of the bran, germ, and endosperm, and that flour was never bleached.

Bread with Whole Grains that are gently stone ground just before mixing the dough and then allowed to ferment slowly and naturally, in other words — authentic sourdough. That’s how the Egyptians made it 6,000 years ago.”

Bread was fundamentally redesigned. Refined flours, large quantities of commercial yeast, and a combination of additives and intense energy created the modern industrial bread. Fast mixing, fast rise, fast baking. Industrial bread is made far too fast.” –  Mario Repetto

How Our Gut Biology Has Changed

We keep eating more and more sugar. In the early 1700s, the average sugar consumption was about 4 pounds a year. By 1800 we were at 18 pounds a year. By 1900 we were up to 60 pounds of sugar a year. Today the average American consumes between 130 and 150 pounds of sugar every year.

Sugar feeds pathogens. Our healthiest gut bacteria like the healthiest foods: vegetables and herbs. Nature wouldn’t work any other way; how could it? You’re probably thinking, “What about fruit?” We don’t eat the fruit we used to eat. Like wheat, our fruit has been radically altered through hybridization. But that’s another article (I’m working on it). For now, just Google “wild banana” or “what watermelon used to look like“.

We get way more sugar than our ancestors got even if we cut out refined foods. This causes an abundance of Candida. I believe Candida is prevalent in every single person with chronic illness. Everyone has yeast but when yeast is left unchecked they turn into pathogenic fungi. Tests for Candida aren’t accurate. Candida, when in it’s in the virulent fungal form, will make the gut more permeable. When this happens food proteins are absorbed into the body before they are digested. This causes allergies. This is one of the main causes of allergies, but there are others at play as well. In my experience, every single person who has cut refined sugar out of their lives and decreased their body’s Candida was able to rid themselves of seasonal, environmental, and food allergies. Every single time!

In addition to that, a study published in The Lancet showed that the candida protein HWP-1 is similar in structure to gluten.

A candida infection in the gut can cause an immune system reaction to HWP-1, which then stimulates an allergic reaction to the gluten in wheat and other grains and may trigger celiac disease in genetically susceptible people.” – Leyla Muedin, RD

Wheat proteins can also cause an immune response against the thyroid.

An obvious explanation is that the initial attack on the thyroid by anti-tTG autoantibodies of celiac leads to thyroid inflammation and presentation of TPO, with a second round of autoantibodies produced to TPO resulting in Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis.” – Dr. Art Ayers

Celiac disease and hypothyroidism beget more chronic autoimmune issues. Allergies lead to autoimmune disease. Allergies lead to chronic health issues. Medical science has established this. Medical science is just starting to understand the fact that a permeable gut causes allergies. Science also has established that an abundance of Candida causes a permeable gut. What they haven’t figured out yet is just how prevalent the permeable gut issue really is. But the bottom line is that our poor diet leads to allergies and almost all that commonly ails us.

Suggestions

If you have a healthy gut, make your own sourdough bread using heirloom wheat and the old-school practices. If you have any chronic illness, then you do not have a healthy gut. Here’s how you fix it. If you’re not well, wait until you get well before consuming any kind of bread. And don’t think of old-fashioned bread as healthy. Vegetables are healthy. Bread is at its best a neutral food with some health benefits and easy calories that can help sustain life like brown rice and millet. Vegetables and herbs heal the body.

Obviously, stay the heck away from poisons! Glyphosate is a cocktail of poisons. Science has firmly established this. And avoid GMOs as well. They weren’t designed with our health in mind, they were designed for profit, and in most cases, to sell more Roundup.

The hard truth is that letting companies cook your food for you leads to poor health. People often ask me, “If you can cure cancer why aren’t you rich?” If I could cure cancer and figure out how to do it while still eating refined, prepackaged, and processed foods that we humans have grown accustomed to, I would be rich. But people would rather die for convenience food than give it up. Obviously. We see this everywhere.

Being well long-term means preparing all your own food yourself the right way, or being rich and hiring someone else to do it. There is no shortcut. Certainly not with bread.

Sources:

Your Ancestors Didn’t Eat The Same Type Of Wheat That You Do (And They Were Healthier) – Off The Grid News

4 Ways Modern Bread is Different From Traditional Bread – Our Heritage of Health

The Real Problem With Bread (It’s Probably Not Gluten) – Mother Jones

Problems Linked to Monsanto’s RoundUp – EcoWatch

15 Health Problems Linked to Monsanto’s Roundup – EcoWatch

Consumption of Sugar – Sugar and Sweetener Guide

Gluten Intolerance, Wheat Allergies, and Celiac Disease – It’s More Complicated Than You Think was originally published on Organic Lifestyle Magazine