#now we might not be able to afford groceries anymore and my mother will hate me even more

[fruitysoupy]

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[thetravelerwrites]

Ravadhi (Part 9)

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationship: Female Human x Male Half-Orc Additional Tags: Exophilia, Half-Orc, Monster Boyfriend, Interspecies Romance,Angst, Slow Burn Content Warning: Domestic Violence, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Alcoholism, Drug Abuse Words: 4148

Holly finds out what her mother left for her in the deposit boxes. Afterward, she and Ravadhi settle into a comfortable routine until it's suddenly shattered. Please reblog and leave feedback!

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Holly arrived at the bank only ten minutes after leaving, which was not at all enough time to mentally prepare her for what she was about to find in the deposit boxes, left for her by her dead mother.

She waited in the line anxiously, her fist clenched around the keys that Tonri had given her and her chest tight.

“I can help the next guest,” The teller called. Holly knew him distantly from school, he was a Ratfolk man name was Auro. The two of them hadn’t been friends or really even spoke to each other, but like everyone at school, he knew who she and her dad was, and speculated along with everyone else. Despite that, he hadn’t ever bullied her or ignored her existence out of guilt.

“Hello, what can I help you with today?” He asked as she approached

“Hi, I inherited the keys to safety deposit boxes--” She checked the paperwork she’d received from Tonri. “F152, F153, F154, and F155.”

“Okay, I’ll just need the keys, a photo ID, the death certificate of the decedent, and inheritance letter?”

“Uh, yes, right here.”

She handed the documents to Auro, who took them and scanned them briefly, stopping on the name and glancing up uncomfortably. It was a well known fact that Holly’s mother had disappeared when she was young, but she guessed the news that she was dead hadn’t made the gossip rounds yet.

Auro cleared his throat. “Of course, right this way.” He left his desk and led Holly to a private room. “Wait here a moment and the boxes will be brought to you,” He said.

“Okay, thanks.”

She waited tensely for about five minutes. Then, Auro returned with the four boxes, setting them on the table in front of Holly. He also left a large bank bag on the table.

“Would you like privacy?” Auro asked.

“Yes, please,” Holly replied in a small voice.

He nodded and smile sympathetically, then left and closed the door.

Feeling tears prick her eyes, she sat in front of the four boxes, steeling herself to look inside. She picked the one on the right and pulled it toward her. With shaking hands, she turned the key and slowly opened the lid.

The first thing she saw were the pictures. Hundred of them. Pictures of her, of Holly as a baby, of the two of them smiling and happy and together.

Holly cried softly. She thought all the pictures had been destroyed. She spend a long time looking at the photographs of her and her mother. As she shuffled through them, and envelope fell out from the pile. She picked it up and examined it, and on the front, in her mother’s handwriting, was the word, “Holly.”

Sniffling and attempting to stem the flow of her tears, she carefully slit open the envelope and took out the contents. It was a letter. It was dated seven months before Holly’s mother disappeared.

            My baby girl,           I’m so, so sorry.        If you’re reading this, it means that son of a bitch actually killed me and my attempt to escape with you has failed. I’m sorry. I tried. I tried so hard, but he was always one step ahead of me, no matter what I did.        You once asked me, when you were very little, why I was with your father if he made me so sad. I couldn’t answer you then, because you were too young to understand. I was hoping to tell you this story in person one day when we were free of him, but it looks like that day will never come.       Abusive relationships never start out that way, you know. Your father started out sweet and kind and affectionate, and I was fooled. By God, was I fooled. He spent the first year of our relationship waiting on me hand and foot, doing anything I asked, lavishing me with gifts and attention. I was so struck by his attentiveness and loving nature that I fell for him very quickly. Looking back, I realize it was too quickly. I didn’t realize that his attention was manipulation, or that a pattern of dependence was beginning to develop.       The change was so slow that I didn’t even see it. It started with comments, off-handed observations. “Your mom was kind of rude to me today and your brother doesn’t like me. We shouldn’t go over there as much. Your friends talk about you behind your back. You should dump them and get better friends.” He began to drive a wedge between me and all of my relationships, until he was the only one left. He’d convinced me that my family hated me, that my friends were jealous of me. I started cutting ties with people who I loved dearly, and when no one was left, all I had was him. Which is exactly what he wanted.       Then there were sudden negative criticisms about my appearance or how I cooked or cleaned. I was gaining too much weight and wasn’t as pretty as I had been when we first started dating. I was spending too much time at school or work and not enough time with him. He began questioning where I went, how much money I spent, who I was with, why I was out so long. Whenever I protested, he simply said he was worried about me and that he didn’t want anything bad to happen to me, that I was careless, even reckless sometimes, and that I could get myself in trouble. I started questioning myself and actively avoiding things that would upset him. I thought he got angry with me was because he loved me. I didn’t realize he was trying to control me.       Before we got married, he had been pressuring me to leave school, saying that it was too expensive and he couldn’t afford it. I told him I could apply for grants and scholarships, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it. His temper was getting shorter and shorter by the day, and before I knew it, it seemed like he was always angry. He started drinking not long after we were engaged. But I loved him, and I figured it was just stress because of money. It was easy to dismiss the emotional and psychological abuse as stress or concern, but now I know it was never any of those things.       The physical abuse started shortly after we got married. By then, I wasn’t speaking to my family or friends anymore and we had moved to Willowridge for his work, so I was completely isolated. We had another argument about school, and it was the first time he laid a hand on me. He slapped me so hard that he knocked me to the floor, and I was shocked. Looking back now, it’s almost comically obvious that the relationship was heading in that direction, but at the time, I was terrified and so very confused. I was a smart person; smart people didn’t get into abusive relationships, it wasn’t possible. And now that I had alienated all of the people who could have helped me, I felt powerless.       My mother died, and I wanted to go to her funeral and patch things up with my family, but your father convinced me that my family didn’t want me there. They hadn’t called me, after all. There had been no invitation to attend. So I didn’t go. Then my father died, and shortly afterward, my brother took his own life. Suddenly, I was without family and it was now too late to reconnect with them. I dropped out of college due to a mental breakdown, which was what your father wanted. It was then that the abuse became extreme.       He would beat me for any small thing. I had no money, no friends, no resources, and I was now living in a town of which I wasn’t familiar. I felt trapped, but I also felt like it was my fault for falling for it, so perhaps it was what I deserved. I developed an eating disorder, lost a lot of weight, stopped leaving the house, and fell into a deep depression. I always felt anxious and sick. I didn’t even realize I was pregnant with you until I went into labor.       You were a month early, and so tiny. I hadn’t been to the doctor since before our wedding and the eating disorder made my period stop for months at a time, so I had no reason to believe I could have been pregnant.       When you were born, everything changed. I may not have been able to get out for myself, but for you, I would move mountains. I made a deal with your father; you know what it was. He wouldn’t let me work, so I had to scrounge and save any way I could. I was the weirdo who took all the coins from the “take a penny, leave a penny” tray. I dived into wishing fountains and scooped up handfuls of quarters. I’d lie to your father and say I lost the receipt when I went to buy groceries and couldn’t remember what the total was. It always earned me a beating, but it was worth it if I could manage to squirrel away even five dollars. I even sold my wedding and engagement rings. I expected to tell him I had lost them and get a beating, but he never asked about them. Someone who controlled every aspect of my life for years didn’t care that the proof of our marriage was missing. Fitting, I suppose.       I’m not sure how much I’ve managed to save; I’ve never had the chance to count it. I’ve also put away all of my jewelry, collectables, and any small thing I thought might be valuable sentimental or otherwise. I hope beyond hope that you’re free from him as you read this, but if you’re not, I hope I’ve saved enough to give you a chance to get away and live a better life. If there’s only enough for you to buy a bus ticket and get out of this godforsaken town, it’ll have been worth it.       I love you, Holly. I love you so much. If any good thing came out of that miserable bastard, it was you. You were a surprise, but once I saw your little face and your tiny hands gripped my finger, I’d have done anything to keep you safe. I’m sorry I fell short. If you hate me, I understand. But please, never doubt that I loved you. I only wish I could have been a better mother and protected you, and I hope you’re not too disappointed in me.          Forgive me. Forgive me.                    Mommy

There were tear stains on the paper, old ones from when it was written, and new ones as Holly read it. Holly held the letter to her chest and wept bitterly.

“I don’t hate you,” Holly sobbed. “I don’t.”

It took several minutes to compose herself. When she’d sniffled to a stop, she turned her attention to the other boxes. In the first, she found jewelry, coins, stock certificates, and the proof of purchase on the house. In the second, there were trinkets she’d saved from Holly’s childhood, like her footprint, her hospital bracelet, and the blanket in which she’d been wrapped in. In the third was a single item: a bank account card.

Holly took all of the items in the boxes and stepped out of the room, walking back up to the teller’s desk.

“There was this account card in the box,” She told Auro. “Do I have access to this?”

“Yes,” Auro said. “Your name is on the account.”

“Oh,” Holly said, surprised. “Can I check the balance?”

“Of course,” Auro said, entering the number into the computer. His hands stilled and he stared at the screen.

“Well?”

“Right,” He said, clearing his throat. “At present, you have $53,640.35 available in your account.”

“Fifty-three…” Holly trailed off. “That’s… mine?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Auro said. “You can use it whenever you like. I can give you a checkbook before you leave, and have a debit card mailed to you within the week.”

“Yes, please,” She replied faintly.

She rode home in a numb fog. When she arrived, Ravadhi and Sarah were sitting on the front porch as if waiting.

“Are you okay?” Ravadhi asked, immediately pulling her into a hug. You accepted it gladly. As soon as he wrapped her up in his arms, she started sobbing again, unable to stop, and started to collapse, her legs crumpling underneath her.

“Hey, it’s okay,” He said softly, moving to sit her down on the porch. Sarah sat on your other side and rubbed her arm.

“What happened?” Sarah asked.

“She left me some things,” Holly managed to gulp out, pulling some of the things from her bag to show Sarah

“Are these you when you were little?” Sarah said. “I’ve never seen pictures of you as a kid.”

“Dad got rid of them all,” Holly replied, shuffling through them to show her. “Or, I thought he had. Mom managed to save some.”

“You were really small,” Sarah said wonderingly. “Even smaller than me.”

“Mom said I was a month premature. I didn’t know that before,” Holly whispered.

“You’re mom said?” Ravadhi asked.

“Oh, she wrote me a letter,” Holly replied, pulling it from her pocket. She began to read the letter out loud to Sarah and Ravadhi. As private and emotionally charged as the letter was, Ravadhi and Sarah were the only two people in the world who Holly felt she could share it with, and because she could, she did. Not only that, she knew they would understand it in a way that no one else would.

“Do you hate her, like she said?” Sarah asked.

“No,” Holly told Sarah. “No, I couldn’t hate her if I wanted to. I wish she had been your mom, Sarah, she was such a good mom. The best.”

“Dad tricked her,” Sarah said, looking up at Holly sympathetically.

Holly nodded. “Yeah.”

“He didn’t trick my mom,” Sarah said bitterly. “All he had to do was pay for her drugs and vodka.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” Holly said. Sarah shrugged.

“So you own our house?” Sarah asked, changing the subject. “Are you going to kick mom out?”

“No,” Holly said. “It doesn’t matter what my feelings are for your mom, I will always make sure you have a home to go to, no matter what. But I think it’s best if she doesn’t know I own it, so maybe keep it under your hat.”

Sarah nodded knowingly.

Holly sighed heavily, wiped her face, and stood up abruptly. “Well, I am absolutely starving. Do you guys want breakfast?”

That night, Holly lay in bed, unable to quiet her mind. She had decided to keep the news about the money to herself until she knew what she wanted to do with it. There were a million possibilities bouncing around in her head, and she couldn’t pin one down. She could fix up the house for Sarah, put it away for Sarah’s college, put a down-payment on her own house, go back to school, anything. But deep down, Holly was worried.

Ravadhi had said at the beginning that she was to stay with him until she got back on her feet, but now they were dating. Would he want her to to find her own place since, she had the money to do it? She liked living with Ravadhi. It was the healthiest environment she’d ever lived in and she didn’t want to have to start all over again on her own. Was that co-dependent? Maybe, but healthy co-dependence was better than depressed, anxious solitude, as far as she was concerned. She didn’t want to leave, and she didn’t think he would just kick her out. But, as her mother’s letter had taught her, you could never be truly certain of a person’s motives or intentions. Ravadhi had been nothing but kind and caring toward her, but… people can change.

What if she could get custody of Sarah? That would be amazing. If she could prove Diane was an unfit mother, would they even let Holly get custody? She knew that they wouldn’t let Sarah live with a convicted felon, though, so if she could get custody, the matter of continuing to live with Ravadhi in his house would decide itself. As much as she cared for Ravadhi, Sarah was her first priority.

What if she lost the custody case and they put Sarah in some kind of group home? Ravadhi’s tale of being in a group terrified her and she’d never subject Sarah to it. Was it best to leave her in a neglectful environment where at least Holly knew she could take care of herself and be safe? Or try for custody and run the risk of losing her in the system?

Maybe she could ask Sarah. She had a good head on her shoulders and could make good decisions for herself. A lifetime of neglect from her own parents as well as having to take care of her beaten and bloodied sister on a regular basis had aged her prematurely, so she was used to it. Unfortunately.

There had been another thing that had been weighing heavily on her lately as well, even before learning about her inheritance: she and Ravadhi had been officially dating for about a month, but they had both cared about each other longer than that. Would… he be expecting sex? Even if he did, she didn’t think he would be the type to pressure her into it, especially given his history.

Eventually, she fell asleep, wondering if she should ask him about it. A few days later, when they were alone with each other and just sitting down to dinner, she broached the topic.

“Ravadhi?” She piped up shyly. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, anything,” He said, picking up his fork and getting ready to tuck in to his pork stirfry and rice.

“Do… do you want to have sex with me?” She asked.

He immediately began to choke on the first bite of his food, and Holly rushed to get him some water in alarm.

When he was able to speak again, he asked, “Before I answer, is that an inquiry or a request?”

“An inquiry,” She replied.

“Okay,” He said, taking a deep breath and bracing his hands on the table. “Okay.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Holly said, wincing.

“No, no, it’s okay,” He replied, clearing his throat and taking another sip of water. “I’m glad you feel comfortable enough with me to ask. That’s really important to me, that you feel safe and comfortable.” He knitted his fingers and took a second before answering, pondering the question over in his head.

“The short answer is: yes, I do, because I care about you in both a emotional and a physical way, and part of that is wanting to be intimate and sexual. The long answer is: yes, I do, but.”

“But?”

“Yes, I do, but… I know that it scares you and that you’re not ready. Yes, but I never want to do anything to hurt you or make you feel unsafe. Yes, but I’m willing to wait as long as it takes until you feel the time is right, even if that never comes. I’m here for you because I love you, not because I want to have sex with you. Your happiness and well-being is more important to me than that.”

Holly blinked and her mouth fell open. She stared at Ravadhi in silent shock.

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“You said you loved me.”

His cheeks darkened. “Oh. I… well… yeah. I do. Love you, I mean. It’s okay if you don’t or don’t want to say it.”

Holly’s heart raced and she felt confused. “Give me some time?”

He nodded. “Yeah, absolutely.”

She nodded in return, relieved. “Thanks. And… I appreciate you being cool with everything. It may not seem like a big deal to you, but it means a lot to me.”

He smiled fondly at her and continued eating.

The school semester came to an end, and Ravadhi passed all his exams, despite working two jobs and having taken Holly in during the month when he needed to study the most. Now that school was over for the summer, he took some more time to work on the house, which he hadn’t been able to do for a long time. Holly was happy to help him, and it became a new bonding activity for them both. Sarah slept over often since it was summer break, and the three of them were happy.

It was becoming easier for her to be physically affectionate with him, holding his hand and giving him hugs and kisses more casually, which was a huge step for her. He never brought up sex or being more intimate, and Holly appreciated it.

Ravadhi still had the plumbing and overnight security job, but now that school was out, he was able to take more shifts. Holly would stay up and text him until at least his lunch break at eleven P.M. to help him stay awake.

On a warm Thursday evening as the sun was going down, Holly sat on the back porch overlooking the closed-in backyard and watched some videos on her phone while texting Ravadhi back and forth. He was bored, like he always was during his shifts at the power plant. He worked alone at the front lobby and watched the cameras, which Holly was sure was nothing short of riveting. At least he was allowed to listen to music.

>What have you got playing? She asked.

>Sevendust. It’s my go-to band. Very effective at keeping me awake.

>I bet. Do you listen to any female fronted metal bands? I think you’d really like Epica and Otep. Epica has got a great opera vibe. Oh, and Sister Sin is a really good hard rock band. Great vocalist.

>I haven’t heard those bands. They sound awesome.

>I’ll make you a playlist.

>Nice. What are you up to?

>Enjoying the nice evening. I was going to clean up the kitchen before I went to bed, but I was tired. I’ll do it tomorrow after work.

>Going on rounds. I’ll text you back in a minute.

Holly switched back over to watching true crime videos on YouTube. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes, suddenly the sun was completely down. She looked at her phone and realize she must have fallen asleep: two hours had gone by. She went over to messages and texted Ravadhi. He hadn’t texted back yet, which was weird.

>Sorry, I fell asleep. Find anything?

Holly decided to go inside and actually clean the kitchen. By the time she was done, Ravadhi still hadn’t texted back.

>Everything okay?

Ten minutes passed and there was no response. Holly began to feel uneasy. With a pit in her stomach, she dialed the power plant’s main line. Ravadhi had to answer that phone, it was part of his job. The phone rang and rang and rang. Ravadhi never picked up.

Holly’s breath stalled in her chest with panic and she called the sheriff’s department.

“Sheriff’s department,” Holly heard.

“Hi, um, look, my boyfriend is at work and he’s not answering the phone, which is part of his job, and I’m worried something may have happened to him,” Holly said in a rush.

“I’m sure he’s fine, ma’am,” The deputy said dismissively. “He’s probably in the bathroom or something. I’m not sure this warrants a welfare visit.”

“I’m telling you, something is wrong,” Holly insisted. “I haven’t heard from him in hours. That’s not something that happens.”

“You’re probably overreacting,” He said. “Just calm down--”

“Who am I speaking to?” Holly asked, getting angry.

“Deputy Reynolds.”

“Well, Deputy Reynolds, my name is Holly Stevenson. Do you know that name?”

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end. “Yes, ma’am, I know who you are.”

“Then you know you owe me. You owe me.”

The deputy didn’t respond.

“The least, the very least, you can do is make sure the person who saved my life is okay. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” The deputy replied. “I’ll send an officer right away.”

“You do that,” Holly said. “And I expect a call when you get there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” The deputy said.

Holly hung up the phone and waited anxiously, biting her nails and pacing. A full thirty tense minutes later, she saw red and blue lights outside. She rushed to the door and threw it open. The sheriff himself stepped out of the car.

“What happened?” Holly asked.

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[sailorsilverladybug]

An Apology to My Readers: Delays

I wanted to let everyone know that I fully intend to finish my stories, but over the past few days I just haven’t had any will to write. Unfortunately, I am afraid. I’m afraid for my life. I’m afraid for my family. I’m afraid for my town. I’m afraid for my state, and for my country. I live in constant fear, and it hasn’t been helping me find inspiration. It’s been tearing me apart.

I have asthma, or more specifically severe allergies to perfumes and chemicals that react like asthma. This means that I am more likely to have a severe reaction if I come into contact with Covid-19. Comorbidity. You see that word and all you can think is that this is a death sentence. I have left the house three times since early February. Each time I come back and worry for the next several days that I’ve somehow been exposed. Except, my husband is a necessary worker and went to his job every day through the lockdown and continues to go now when the country is reopening too soon and there are thousands dying.

Worse, I have a son in the marines, and he doesn’t always have time to contact his worried mother. I’ve always been a worrier, but never like this before. I wish I could tell you why I am so afraid, but I don’t even know myself. I’m not afraid to die, I suppose, but I don’t want to go out struggling for days, maybe weeks, without enough air. That sounds horrible to me.

So I haven’t been able to write. I haven’t been able to find the hopeful part of me that never writes an unhappy ending. The part that believes there will always be another miracle. The piece of me that thinks everything will work out if you just do your best. How can I, when all around me thousands of people are dying and many of those deaths could have been avoided if people had common decency.

For all those people out there who think a mask is a political statement, please stop. It doesn’t mean you support the democrats. It means we want to live. I am horrified that you could play Russian roulette on not just your life, and the lives of your parents, siblings, spouse, children, and grandchildren, but on MY life, and the lives of MY husband, my son, my nieces and nephews, my sisters and brothers, my mothers and fathers, my grandparents, my friends, and my neighbors. Please stop thinking just because you might survive it, that everyone else will. Some of us won’t.

Be a hero, wear a mask.

Social distancing, proper safety precautions, and wearing masks shouldn’t be political. Stop listening to ANYONE who says it is. Keep your politics away from my immune system. At least let me have the RIGHT to live. That’s all I can ask of anyone.

So no, I haven’t been writing, and I haven’t been responding to emails, because how can I have hope if the very people my town needs to survive are ignoring that we have to live and are refusing to social distance, refusing to wear masks, refusing to remember that people live here all the time. They hear people say we had no cases in our area, so they come in droves, bringing it from outside. My community is almost HALF senior citizens, and the rest of us are made up of couples and young families.

I want to live long enough to meet my own future grandchildren. I want to live long enough to walk the Appalachian Trail, and to see the rest of my beautiful country. I want to live long enough to publish my novels and see them sell millions of copies. I want to live long enough to accomplish my dreams.

Sailor Moon is the type of hero we really need right now, and I so wish that I could sit down and give you a story with her hopeful tone and her joyful light, but I can’t. Right now I would put her on a mission of vengeance, and that isn’t my Sailor Moon. My Sailor Moon always does what is right, even when it’s hard, even when it hurts, even when it means she will lose, because she is the true hero, who refuses to give in, or to give up. My Sailor Moon could never be turned dark because there isn’t a scrap of darkness in her. She has everything she could ever want or need. She is a good daughter and tries to obey her parents and do what they’ve taught her. She is truth and hope and unconditional love.

Sailor Moon would wear a mask. She would wear that mask and walk right out into the middle of town and she would stand up for those of us who need someone to hear us. Not just those with compromised immune systems, but those who have been treated badly for centuries, for the ones who need a place to flee because they don’t have a home anymore due to war or terror. Sailor Moon would love the way we need a hero to love. She would show us that anyone can change, that any heart could be healed, and that any barrier can be breached with a hand outstretched, with love, with friendship, with faith.

Unfortunately, that isn’t the world we live in. It isn’t the world around me right now. I live in a world where a man drove into a grocery store parking lot in MAINE with a rebel flag proudly displayed on his back window... who walked into the grocery store full of necessary workers and refused to wear a mask because it was his ‘right’ to make a political statement. I live in a world where people think it’s perfectly fine to treat others like their lives are meaningless, and where those who are the most necessary workers among the population are often paid the least. Where they can’t afford to stop working even to protect their families because they don’t have that nest egg of savings that those who have more had. I live in a world where people are being evicted from their homes for not paying rent they couldn’t meet because they weren’t ‘essential workers.’

Find me hope and I think I would write a million stories in a day, but I have none. Not when the man who is my president is drawing crowds of unmasked people together and those people then go and infect other people. Meanwhile people who are trying to stay safe are treated like they are making a political statement.

Be a hero, wear a mask.

I’m living in a world where I am afraid to let people into my home for fear they might have Covid. A world where I’m afraid to go out with my sister-in-law to the grocery store... and after the one trip I took with her I panicked for days. Where going out with my husband makes me terrified because someone coughed near me and wasn’t wearing a mask. Where walking into a bookstore means a handful of hand-sanitizer to protect the elderly couple who work there and I still have to listen to people treat them rudely, then force their way past me out the door and ignore the fact that using a walker means it’s more difficult for me.

I want to live in Sailor Moon’s world, where an entire community would come together to tell the military to leave them alone. Where Sailor Moon can take the hand of her enemy and remind them how to be human. I want to live there, where magic could fix a pandemic, and there is always someone there to take your hand when you’re afraid and you wouldn’t be afraid to reach back.

Bring me some hope and I’ll show you my dreams for a world like Sailor Moon’s. But until then my pen is down. My torch is out. My muse is huddled in a corner unable to come out because she’s me, and she is afraid to die like this. Bring me some hope, please. Tell me everything is going to be okay, because right now, I don’t think it will be. Even after this disease goes away, there is still so much hate and so little empathy. I don’t think we will get through this. Bring me some hope.

Be a hero, wear a mask.

[wontonsupremacy]

Living with your mom is like:

Living with your mom is like living with a roommate that has every right to boss you around and maintain rules around you for most people.

Living with my mom though is like living with a roommate that doesn’t respect boundaries because she used to do all the groceries and what’s the matter if she uses all your baby carrots that you buy, or the American cheese she’s never bought before because she doesn’t care for cheese or washing your clothes the day of your job when you need your clothes, but she doesn’t understand that this is why I want to wash my own clothes now. Sharing a car? That’s even worse. Every time your work schedule won’t work with hers, she’s the one that “gets left behind” and she’s the one who doesn’t give you any information but expects you to be able to show up and provide.

We’re a single parent household, and it’s always been me as the oldest to do everything with her. My younger brother doesn’t cooperate with family things, but he stays out of trouble and has his own shit together. My mom though just won’t take any initiative to do things on her own. While I have a limited ability to be responsible because I’m manic adhd and bipolar and depressed a lot of things can go wrong with this kind of schedule. It’s often than nothing goes right, and literally I have to hear an earful when really she did help me pay for the car but the maintenance, insurance, gas, and everything else at home is literally paid by me as of now.

She keeps saying she “never asked” for me to pay for everything or for anything, and maybe she’s right. But she’s the kind of person who would never turn on the heater in winter because its expensive, no wifi or phone bills because “you don’t need any of those things”, and she will also skip out on important car maintenance because “it’s not really necessary and the car will run”.

She is the person who will repeatedly tell you that you’re a good kid but that you’re never good enough that you’re fat and she doesn’t understand why you’re so fat— meanwhile if you don’t eat what she cooks she’ll get upset and blame you for “eating out” (even if I haven’t?) and shell overcook and overcook that things start piling up in the fridge and start to go bad but she’ll never throw it out because “it’s still edible”. Anytime you DO try to make dietary changes she doesn’t care or listen and will eat your vegetables or smoothie mixes so there’s nothing left for me to replace unhealthy snacks.

She complains when I socialize saying I don’t do anything but play around and honestly I’m sorry but I really need it right now. You make me never want to be home and even when I’m home I’m depressed I cut myself to sleep I drink alchohol to sleep and I smoke cigarettes outside so I can get out of the house. The only socialization I get with you in my house is arguments or financial questioning and so many goddamn questions about who’s driving the car at what time and it’s like living with a coworker you hate and only talking about work. I don’t want to hear her talk anymore sometimes and I don’t want to have to fight a war at home. I think it means a lot for me to be able to connect and call up people outside who are great friends and great times that I can spend away from the stress but sometimes I wonder if there’s really no way to fix and balance out my mother from my stressful life...in which case I’d have to actually move out, and probably move out of town , the city, and cut off all my current friends —-which will definetly hurt me.

As someone who wants to die at age 26, my countdown is down to (apparently) 3 years with my age being 23. (I thought I was still 22 fml). Either way, 3 years may seem short now, but with the dread I carry sometimes it feels like it might be ages. And maybe the first step is to get away from my mother and to let her be alone. I really wonder though, if she’ll be okay alone. And this is one of the reasons I try to tolerate so much but don’t leave her, because after my dad left, who really is there for her at all? Who knows. Maybe she needs to learn being alone sometimes instead of blowing up my phone.

Life sucks guys. But there’s a lot more to it than it just sucking. Is love a form of tolerance? Or a binding by the labels of family and blood line? Or is it just that as humans we emotionally bond with anyone who knows us well enough and we can’t just leave behind the time we’ve spent with them?

Sometimes I feel like I’m becoming abusive like my dad, toward my mom, and sometimes I worry how quickly I have to kill myself before I truly become a hideous human being. But I also realize I can’t and mustn’t be abusive to my mom and respective but it’s so goddamn hard when you shut in so much already and you’ve tried to casually put the complaints out there only to be dismissed and unrecognized.

Even small things like her pursuading me to “detransition”, “dye my hair black again”, or “stop looking so ugly”, builds up to the point that I want to go get hormones ASAP even though I can’t afford it at all.

Am I selfish? Horrible? Or abusive? I’m problematic and I have my own problems to fix, can I, should I, even take the time to fix this with her, or should I actually just see this whole thing as a problem I don’t need and take the risk of moving out of state and living by myself with nofucks to what may happen to the rest of my family?

I hate this. This whole thing. I hate life. I hate me.

[whatthehelltimespell]

Only Time Will Tell Chapter Three

Title: Only Time Will Tell Chapter 3/? Rated Teen-ish By they way I actually did research into different traits for development of a four year old and Cody was spot on!!!  So I tried to stick with that with the emotions and things like that.  I did research into older kids as well, because I plan on helping the character mature mentally and emotionally over the course of a few months.  Not sure about romance yet, but I’m already against anything really sexual considering his mental age.  (I found Michael to either be asexual or definitely demi-sexual, one or the other.  Like he could use sexuality to bend others to his will, but he himself didn’t feel it, if that makes any sense.)  Plus, isn’t his ending mental age - before the episode from hell - like between 7 and 9 or something, so at the most he may be curious in my story, but . . . yeah, no.

The night Michael spent at Elizabeth's was uneventful. They played a card game and then they both went to bed. She had a guest room and that was where she put him. She waited until he was good and asleep before going to sleep herself. She'd locked her door, just in case, but nothing happened. Michael was still in bed when she woke up the next morning.

It gave her plenty of time to get breakfast started. Since she had a guest, she made bacon, eggs, and biscuits instead of just enjoying a bowl of cereal. A sleepy-eyed Michael with bedhead came into the kitchen as the smell of frying bacon filled the house. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds before deciding he was too tired to stand and ended up plopping down on one of the chairs at the table.

She held back a grin. The only thing he was missing was a blanket trailing behind him to complete the picture of a rumpled kid rejecting the idea of being awake and out of bed. Some anti-Christ, she thought as she rolled her eyes. Mallory and Constance really had it wrong.

"Good morning."

"Mm," he harrumphed.

"I feel ya. I hate mornings too."

That got a smile from him at least.

"I actually usually like mornings," he admitted. "I still don't feel great."

He was probably still drained. She'd never met anyone as highly sensitive as he was – then again . . . four-year olds did get their feelings hurt very easily. She still couldn't believe she was even considering the idea that he'd grown up overnight, but she could see it, she really could. It was impossible, but . . . Michael did have childlike ways about him.

She guessed she would learn more later when they had their meeting with Constance. ---------- Once Elizabeth was done cooking, she piled everything into containers and set it on the table. She got out two plates and all the silverware needed and then sat down across from Michael. She gave one plate to Michael before putting the utensils where they needed to be.

"Help yourself," she said.

She learned that Michael loved food and loved eating, but she didn't know if it was because he actually liked it or if his body was trying to keep up with itself. Even if he was stuck with four-year old traits, his body very much was not. He would need as much nutrition as an actual teenage boy did. He seemed to really like the biscuits, which were just the ones that came in a can that you popped in the oven for about twenty minutes.

"So . . . when do you want to go see your grandma?"

Michael paused as he was beginning to scoop up some egg and then put his fork on his plate. He shrugged. He shut himself off almost immediately and Elizabeth realized again how much it had hurt him to be kicked out of his house. The woman he'd spent his life with had abandoned him.

"I'll be there with you, Michael. Maybe we can figure something out. Okay?"

He nodded, but she could tell he wasn't certain there was anything to figure out.

"Anyway, eat your food. We don't have to worry about your grandma until we go see her." ---------- Elizabeth and Michael went to see Constance right after breakfast. Mallory was there also and Elizabeth had a few things she wanted to say to both of the women before allowing Michael into the conversation. They left Michael in the living room while they went into the kitchen to talk, much like they had the day before.

"Is the . . . body gone?"

"Yes," Constance said.

"Okay, good. I have two requests for our conversation today."

Both women seemed a little suspicious of what Elizabeth would say. She didn't know why. If anything, she should be suspicious of them.

"I didn't tell Michael about what you guys planned to do to him, so don't mention it. Right now, he only thinks I saved him from getting run over and nothing else. Not who did it and not that you meant to."

Mallory didn't seem to even have to think before agreeing to that. Elizabeth was just happy she wouldn't have to argue her point.

"Second thing is . . . don't mention the anti-Christ thing. Okay? You tell him that and he might not let us help him. He might not even care if he does bad things anymore because . . . well . . . anti-Christ. In fact, I don't want to hear anything negative about him because there are only so many times you can hear how much of a monster you are before you just become one. From all I know of what you told me . . . he needs positive reinforcement in his life."

Constance and Mallory both seemed to be thinking it over and then Constance asked, "Miss Garnet, how old are you?"

"Twenty."

"How is it you can afford to live on your own here? It's not cheap. Where is your money coming from?"

She shrugged. Her home life was nothing to brag about but she wasn't against talking about it either.

"My father is a lawyer and my mother is a doctor. I found the house and they helped me with a down payment; I've had a job since I was seventeen, which helped. I'm just getting settled now. I make money delivering groceries. I plan on finding something else in the near future and then starting school next year. Psychology will be my major."

"Is that why you think you can help him?" Mallory asked, skepticism very apparent in her voice.

"I don't know if I can help him at all," Elizabeth said, "But I will at least try to lead him the right way." ---------- Michael stayed in the living room for what had to be a good fifteen minutes until he was invited into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway until Gramma gestured to a chair at the table. Elizabeth and his Gramma sat down, but the other girl, Mallory, remained standing. He noticed she kept her eyes on him and he didn't like it, really. It was like she expected him to snap and do something horrible.

"Michael, it's okay," Elizabeth said.

The way she spoke made him think that it really was, that she wouldn't let anything hurt him, especially not the other girl in the room. He chose to sit beside her. Gramma might not want him to sit by her, and he didn't really know Mallory. He'd only met her that day when they'd arrived; he didn't even know why she was there.

"Michael," his gramma said, gaining his attention. She wasn't as upset as she had been yesterday, which had to be a good sign. "You know why I made you leave yesterday."

He did and he didn't, but he wasn't going to argue.

"You said you knew you were doing bad things and that you didn't know why you kept doing them."

"I don't know why."

"I think I do," Elizabeth said. "Your grandma told me about how you grew up overnight. That you are basically a four-year old in a sixteen-year old body."

Michael was hesitant to let her know that was true. How much weirdness could she take before she would want him gone like Gramma?

"As a four-year old, you will lash out when you're angry or scared. Like I said last night . . . you were defending yourself against that priest. You could have done it a different way, but . . . you were defending yourself."

"Yes!" Michael agreed. "That's what I said yesterday before –"

"She shouldn't have kicked you out," Elizabeth said, looking at Gramma. "I told you yesterday that Michael needs guidance. At that level of development – I'm speaking mentally, here – he has to have an adult lead him when he gets out of control. From what you said, you never did. Children need rules and boundaries. Some doctors even think they like them; it can make them feel safe because they know their parents, or whoever, care enough to set them."

Had Gramma ever given him rules or boundaries? He couldn't think of a time when she had. He didn't know if he wanted them.

"Mallory and your grandmother came up with a plan to help you, Michael."

Elizabeth gave him an encouraging smile and then gestured for Gramma to speak.

"It was Elizabeth who suggested it, actually," Gramma said. "She thinks she can help you if you stay with her for a while."

"Because you don't want me anymore."

"You'll still be able to see Constance," Elizabeth assured him. "Remember I live right down the street. You'll be able to come and go as you please."

"But your home will be my home?"

"Well, yes. That's why we're here, really. So you can bring some of your stuff with you."

"I – okay."

He really didn't mind. He couldn't. Elizabeth's house was the only one available to him at the moment, since Gramma didn't seem willing to let him come back permanently.

"Okay, so here are the rules."

Michael's shoulders tensed. He didn't like rules, not so much because they were rules but because he was sure he would end up breaking them. He always messed up, so it was sort of inevitable really.

"Relax, I only have two right now. That may change later, but right now I just want you to focus on not hurting or killing anyone or anything. Those are the most important things for me right now."

Oh. Michael was able to relax as Elizabeth had asked him to. Those weren't horrible rules at all and they were things he could remember because he never wanted to hurt anyone, it just sort of happened that way.

"I don't mean to."

"I think I believe you," Elizabeth said. "Still, it's something we're going to figure out, okay?"

"Okay. And . . . that's it?"

"For now."

"That doesn't seem too hard," Michael said and couldn't help but feel the warmth when Elizabeth smiled at him.

"I don't have anything a young boy would like at my house aside from a TV, so you need to pack up some of your stuff to take with us. Clothes, toys, games, whatever you might want."

He nodded but sat there until Elizabeth gave him leave to go. She wanted to talk to Gramma and Mallory again. ---------- Elizabeth watched Michael go up the stairs toward his room before turning to the other two women.

"How is he the anti-Christ? He's been nothing but nice and polite to me."

"You have yet to make him angry," Constance said.

"No. Mostly he's just been scared of being abandoned by me, which is understandable considering what happened yesterday."

"What happened once you took him home with you?" Mallory asked.

"There was a lot of crying. We ate pizza and watched TV. He fell asleep on the couch, and then I came over here. He was very upset when I got back because he woke up alone. He'd looked all over the house for me and when he couldn't find me, he went down into the basement and just . . . cried. That's where I found him."

Elizabeth shrugged. "I don't know who that man was in that thing you showed me, but it's not him. Or at least not yet. He hopefully won't ever be if I have anything to do with it. Psychologically, I think we can help him in as much as he'll allow us to."

"And if he doesn't allow us to?" Mallory asked.

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean, what if he gets to a point where he no longer wants to be good? Or no longer questions why he isn't?"

She didn't know what to say. She couldn't imagine Michael any other way than he was right then.

"You've already grown attached, haven't you? It's not just because he's a boy; it's because he's Michael."

"Who is a child," Elizabeth claimed. "He's . . . there's something about him. I've always sensed it, the youngness of him, even before finding out his true age. And I feel he deserves a chance. He knows my rules. If he breaks them, then it will have been his choice and . . . I will let him go." ---------- It didn't take long for Michael to pack the things he wanted – mostly his video games and everything that went with it, and clothes because Miss Elizabeth had mentioned them – and he went back downstairs to find the three women in the living room instead of the kitchen.

Was Miss Elizabeth ready to go? He stood there, taking his cues from her. She didn't sit down, so he didn't either.

"We can leave whenever you're ready, Michael."

"Well, I'm – I was just waiting for you."

She gestured to the front door then and he went ahead of her. He stopped at the door and turned back to face his gramma.

"Goodbye, Gramma," he said. "I hope I can become what you want, so I can come back one day."

She didn't say anything, but Michael noticed that her eyes filled with water. That had to be a good sign.

He didn't know Mallory so he didn't speak to her, and he began to move again once Miss Elizabeth put a hand on his jacket-covered arm. It was her cue to let him know she was ready to go.

Once outside Michael didn't look back, not as he had the day before. He had somewhere to go now and he could visit with Gramma when he wanted. This wasn't a permanent thing; he would get control of himself. Gramma would let him back in.

"We're going to drop your stuff off at the house and then I have to go to the store. I wasn't expecting a house guest," Miss Elizabeth said. Her tone didn't lead him to believe that he was a burden in anyway. In fact, she sounded almost playful.

"Can I go with you? I've never really been to a store before."

He still wasn't too keen on being alone, being without an adult. And he really hadn't been a lot of places most people had. He'd been a baby when Gramma had first taken him from his parents – his mother had died and his father had never claimed him, so it wasn't like she'd kidnapped him or anything, really – and she'd kept him for the years it had taken him to get to the point he was now. He'd been kept in the house mostly, and he hadn't been able to go out much at all since he'd gotten bigger. How would he or Gramma explain who he was and how fast he'd grown?

"All the time you were with Constance, she never let you go to the store with her?"

Michael shrugged before swinging the bag he was holding up over his shoulder.

"Gramma never really went to the store either. There were others before you. Men mostly."

"Hm. Okay, then. And . . . how do you feel about going with me? Around people you don't know."

Michael stopped walking as he thought about it. He wasn't feeling great about it, really, but he wasn't staying by himself in that house that wasn't really his.

"I'll be with you, right?"

"Yes."

"Then I should be fine. Just don't leave me." ---------- Elizabeth owned a small Ford Focus that Michael's head almost reached the ceiling of when he was seated in it. She laughed when she realized. She should have known; he was almost a whole head taller than she was.

"Think about some stuff you like to eat on the way."

She assumed he did because he wasn't talkative at all on the way to the store. She had the music on low but she didn't think either one of them was actually listening. It was mostly just background noise for her, anyway.

She couldn't believe what she'd agreed to do. The whole anti-Christ thing aside – if that was even true; she still wasn't sure about it – she was taking in someone who was basically a child. She was agreeing to help teach him wrong from right. She had impulsively made that decision because she felt sorry for the boy sitting across from her in the passenger seat. She still kind of felt sorry for him – his grandmother had given him up easily and willingly, so of course she felt sorry for him. Everyone deserved someone that would stand by their side and fight for them. So that was what she would strive to be as long as he didn't resort to murder again.

Once at the store Elizabeth noticed just how anxious it made Michael feel to be in place where he didn't know everyone. He stuck to her side much like an actual child would its mother when around strangers. She was surprised he didn't just grab onto her arm and hide behind her. She didn't know if it was from being shy or afraid, but it was one of the two. He had social anxiety, though, that was for sure.

"Are you sure you're okay to be here?"

"I'm fine," he answered quickly.

"Mm-hm."

She grabbed a cart then began making her way further into the store. She was planning on getting only a few things, things that Michael wanted, because she had enough stuff for her already at her house.

"Do you like cereal?"

"The sweet kind," Michael answered.

"So the unhealthy kind then," she teased.

He looked down as if she had berated him and she realized just how unused to casual affection and positive reinforcement he must be if he didn't understand that she was just messing with him.

"Hey, it's okay. I don't really like cereal that isn't sweet either." She touched his arm briefly. "I'm even letting you pick it out."

He basically beamed a smile at her and she could practically feel the enthusiasm bouncing off of him at the prospect of him getting to pick out the cereal. If that was indicative to how easily it would be to make him happy and keep him that way, then she figured having him as a housemate wouldn't be hard at all.

As they walked up and down the aisles, she had Michael point out things that he liked. They couldn't get everything that day, but at least she would know in the future. She noticed that he was really into things that had a lot of sugar in it. She didn't know if that was because he was four years old or if that was just him, but she got a few things to snack on – Oreos, chocolate chip cookies, and ice cream – that was specifically for him.

She went through the check out line with more things than she had originally planned, and she was surprised when Michael helped take the bags to the car. He was actually pretty strong, which shouldn't have surprised her. He was about fifteen or sixteen physically, so the bags weren't a problem.

Once at home Elizabeth went about showing Michael where everything went in the kitchen. If he was going to be staying there, he would at least need to know where the dishes and silverware were. She would not be waiting on him hand and foot.

"Earlier you said that you didn't mean to hurt people," Elizabeth said. "What did you mean by that?"

Michael stopped what he was doing – putting the cookies on top of the fridge – and turned to her. He looked at the floor and shrugged as if he didn't know what to say.

"Is it maybe that you lash out? You get angry . . . or scared?"

Again, he shrugged, and after a few seconds he shook his head.

"It's like I go away and when I come back . . . people are dead."

"Like something else takes over?"

"Yeah."

That would explain the priest in his room, and it confirmed her exorcism theory.

"And when you come back . . . do you ever remember how you got there?"

"I don't know. I mean . . . a few nights ago I remember going to Gramma's room. I wanted to know if I could have a glass of water. I remember that, and then I went away and when I came back, I was on top of her with my hands around her neck. She was scared and I got scared and I didn't know anything else. I don't remember getting on the bed and I definitely don't remember putting my hands around her neck, but . . . that's what happened."

Constance had failed to mention that particular incident.

"Were you angry at her at all before that?"

"I mean, I was a little upset because she kept telling me what to do, but she always told me what to do."

"Like what did she tell you to do?"

"The way I speak. She doesn't like it sometimes. I sometimes say 'Can I have a glass of water?' instead of "May I?" and she corrects me every time."

Elizabeth couldn't help herself; she laughed. Constance had a kid who would kill animals and had worked his way up to people, and she was correcting his grammar? Maybe the whole family was nuts.

"That would get annoying. Not enough to choke somebody," she clarified, "but it would get annoying. And you speak very well, so . . ."

"Thank you."

"Mm-hm. Go ahead and put the cookies up. And just so you know . . . you never have to ask for a glass of water here. Or food. If you're thirsty, get something to drink. If you're hungry, get something to eat."

"Okay."

From what Elizabeth had found out that day, Constance seemed to have kept Michael very sheltered and had been very strict in some ways, but not in the ways that mattered. Michael was very polite and almost sweet, in a way, and even though she now believed he had killed at least one person, she found him at least a little innocent because of the reason he'd killed them.

Add in the fact that he didn't seem to know he was doing it when he was, in fact, doing it, she wanted to help him more than ever.

She just hoped she could.

[fuck-customers]

Warning for a couple walkthroughs of my mild anxiety attacks, mild cursing, and some alcohol and drunkenness mentions. Context: My parents and I just get home from grocery shopping after picking my dad up from work. I get started on my dinner right after we get all the groceries in. It is after 6:30pm. I live on the eastern seaboard. My mom has a private number pop up on her phone and she answers cause we have fucked up legal shit going on and you never know who's calling. "L, it's uh, a guy from /not risking those bastards finding it with even a fake name bullshittery lets call it C corp/ and its for you." My immediate thought is someone from work needs to know if I know a policy question or if I know where a tool might be or how to handle a situation. But then my heart sinks cause my mom knows everyone there and half of them call her mom because she's there early to pick me up all the time. 1. She'd have given me a name, and 2. They'd have texted me first because sometime my phone is off for a week or more because sometimes a can't afford my month by month plan. It happens, I'm poor, but my moms is always on because of legal shit, doctors appointments, job stuff for all of us, and everything else. Thing is. No one who is working tonight really knows that. They're all new or new ish and haven't had thrat happen when they try to call me yet. But it irritates the store manager to no end. She thinks I make enough to not be poor. I make pennies over 11 bucks an hour and close to a quarter of that (like 23%) gets taken out in taxes. Even with our other two incomes right now my family of 6 is broke as fuck. We were homeless for two years (TWO FUCKING YEARS) because our former slumlord neglected to pay his mortgage and the court pushed us out onto the street while charging us with evictions because the bank wanted them to. That is a whole other basket of raging, rapid, monstrous beasts, but that's beside the point. Anyway back to the story, which I now know my manager is involved in because who from corporate would know to call my mothers phone instead of my primary number. So I answer the phone and its a guy from corporate. Technically he works in my region but as far as I'm concerned district manager is corporate. So I'm in the first stages of an anxiety attack and I can barely breathe and I'm shaking and my heart is racing and I'm already tearing up. He wants to talk about a comment I made on the C corps employee resource/announcement/inventory/paperwork page. We are 'encouraged' to make these comments, I believe primarily to out unhappy people, but I had never made a comment before. Last week though, after a few days of other people commenting how unhappy they were regarding the announcement, I felt like I was safe enough to do so. Apparently not. :/ The announcement was about raises in January but with additional 'tenured' 'part/ner' raises. I'm just short of the cutoff for the three year better raise and. I. Am. Livid. Enraged. Pissed. Infuriated. Raging. Antagonized. Outraged. Inflamed. Wrathful. I've been a supervisor for nearly a year and a half. And I've been the only fucking closing one they have been able to keep. I replaced one while she went on her sabbatical, she works mornings now. The other that was there before I was promoted moved to mornings because she got burned out on nights. Which I understand. If you work nights, you get burned out. I only close. I have requested to have at least one mid shift a week, I'm tired and I deserve it. But I'm not allowed. Because this store has been through the first two who are veterans and who trained me, two men one who quit with no notice because he and most of the rest of the team (see, morning crew) and he loathed each other. Another who quit walked out on her last day because she hated the manager, a morning crew member (see a theme? Morning crew hates nights and night crew just sits there, understaffed and denied all there requests off, seething, while the manager only calls out or writes up evening crew). So right now there's me, I close 4 nights a week. I used to be full time but I had to beg for 7 months. SEVEN FUCKING MONTHS. to have one day taken off my schedule. Literally I had tears running down my face as I had to explain to her why I needed go not work t days a week. Finally, convinced I still regularly work an extra day because she's desperate and I need money. But I won't close that extra day because I asked for 3 closes and one mid a week and was still denied it because the morning crews schedules come first. There's a second closing supervisor but she happens to enjoy using racially charged words despite being white as I am and us closing with mostly poc. She sucks at her job and was only promoted because she lied about having experience as a supervisor because she can count cash but she can't run the floor. She forgets everyone else's breaks and runs hers late and literally cannot get done close to being on time. I have been told by at least four closers and preclosers that they will quit or transfer if I do because they cannot stand her. Sorry I'm really pissed and kinda drunk now so I'm getting really off topic but I promise that all of this backs up why I'm fucking pissed. So this guy from not-really-corporate ill call him D, wants to know why I feel the way I do. We have a conversation that was at least 20 minutes long. C corp is obsessed with their 'total pay' style. None of which really helps me. I'm too poor to get their healthcare, I get Medicaid. I never used it but I have to have it so there it is. I use it for glasses and that is it. They offer stock options, which take either two or three years to be available in cash I don't really know all I know is my parents advised me to leave them for when we /really/ need it but I can only.take a small amount of cash out. They offer retirement options and whatnot through a certain financial service but, once again, cannot afford to take money out of my paycheck. They offer a small handful of majors through an online school. Thing is you have to pay upfront for it, and I want to go to art school which obviously isn't offered through this program. We get a food item and free drinks every shift. I can eat a total of 1 food item available to us out of like a hundred. I ate it every day for a year and a half. I can't eat oatmeal anymore. Free drinks are great but even the theatre i worked at offered that. We go over all that. I explain that I have a family of six. I need money now. Not later. Not healthcare. Not a pay up front education (don't worry we'll pay you later if you get good grades). I get sick when I think of eating oatmeal (yeah oatmeal is literally a trigger for me now I used to love oatmeal). I explain that I once applied for the donation fund by part/ners for part/ners on the worst day of my life and when I got the reply email I was told that because I didn't have any utility bills, because my family was FUCKING HOMELESS. He went on to say that if I wanted more money that I should move up in the company. The three people I have watched try to move above a supervisor position have been led along with a carrot attached to a fucking string. One person finally got an ask position and the other even after 9 years is still stuck in the same place I am. I don't want to move up. I want to make a living wage. We discussed this. He asked me how much I thought I should be making. I lied and said 13 an hour. It should be 20. Customer service employees and ESPECIALLY FOOD SERVICE EMPLOYEES should get hazard pay. Forget the raise for managers and supervisors. I do my job. I used to do it better. I left behind two other jobs for this piece of shit company. I have taken shit raises. Pennies. God damned pennies as a raise. I work only closing shifts for three years. I have covered other stores for days to help them out. I have dealt with the shittiest of shitty employees and customers. I have taken panic attack after panic attack and have taken shit from every customer and every single person I have worked with. I like plenty of my team members but goddamn are they catty ass bitches. I take the shift no one else wants. I have taken nothing but shit from my manager who thinks that my dreams don't make money, because its art. He literally didn't care about anything I had to say. Just repeated that there is a cutoff for a reason. Which I fucking I understand. I'm not a goddamned idiot. Doesn't stop me from being fucking enraged. Well ill keep y'all updated when this posts. But its Tuesday and if not friday, I don't think ill have a job by Monday. It's been like an hour since I started this and I'm still crying and still breathing heavily and I hate everything. I fucking hate my job I fucking hate my life and I'm tired.

[whitneyrmcguireblog]

Looks

Making time to reevaluate childhood trauma as an adult before its too late. Sometimes I feel like i’m a passenger on a speeding jet, ascending into the air, my life, the landscape beyond my window. Everything feels like a blur. As I am working through upending fears to create joy, I have decided to write through this process as best I can. Feel free to leave feedback. Or not. Today’s fear: Looks. Read more below.

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I always took pride in being different. Standing out amongst the crowd whether it was because of my height, foot size, or sharp wit. I never stood out for the things I really wanted to, like looks. I remember once agonizing over the fact that I didn’t have lighter skin like my mother. We were leaving a grocery store parking lot when she stopped the car abruptly, “your are beautiful! Don’t ever discount your beauty,” she said with the same tone of command she used to shift the Buddhist gods into protection during her prayers. There is this theory that the Buddhist gods offer protection to those who inspire them to act through prayer. My mother had a way of activating these gods. Though deeper study of this religion, has revealed to me that these gods are actually just synonymous with the unspoken spiritual energy of human beings. Her commanding voice when it came to protecting her child made me feel simultaneously comforted and insecure. I learned early that the world offered little protection to those who looked like me (regardless of age) and that my mother would have to pray extra hard to make sure I didn’t fall victim to an accident or an act at the hands of someone who didn’t quite see the value of my life. I also learned at an early age that she, nor her prayers would be able to prevent either one of those things from happening to me.  

The first time I was asked why I didn’t wash my hair everyday I was three weeks into boarding school. I intentionally showered at night to avoid the morning rush of blonde haired, blue eyed girls in the shared bathroom. I also showered at night because it was my only bit of welcomed solitude amongst a flurry of freshman welcome events. There were 40 of us admitted to St. George’s that year — Twenty girls and twenty boys. I was the only dark-skinned black girl in my class. And apparently the only one who had never gone to sleep away camp. The boys had more company, counting four amongst themselves with deeper hued epidermis and tightly coiled hair that I ended up knowing intimately due to the absence of adequate barber services for black boys in the traditional seaport town of Newport, R.I. I doubt the Vanderbilts contemplated the need for such services when they erected one of their many mansions in the popular seaside town decades prior to our arrival. Regardless, I honed my hair braiding skills (for a ten dollar fee) over the next four years and my retort to the inquiry of less frequent washing. But the first time I had to answer this question, I paused. Quite frankly, I had never really thought of washing my hair everyday. I just knew I didn’t have the time, nor the tools to tackle my chemically processed strands the way my hair dresser did back in Dayton, Ohio. “It takes me a long time to straighten it after I wash it. I have to go to someone special to do it.” A look of confusing and eventual acceptance swept across her face and that was that. This was the first time I understood that I would have a lot more explaining to do these next few years, and the last time I would make the mistake of showering in the morning that semester.

My inquirer’s name was Madeline. She was a 5’4” thin girl with large green eyes. Her hair was wavy and the blondest I had ever seen on a person outside of an albino person. She was strikingly beautiful with facial features of a baby leopard. She hailed from somewhere in the south and also somewhere from the north as the result of divorced parents. I related to being pulled in opposite directions and the sweet reprieve of being away from the rigors of delicate emotional labor to prove to both parents they were loved equally. We became friends quickly and she invited me into spaces i otherwise may not have gained entry into. Like Whip-It sessions after “lights out” in the dorm. Despite her invitations, the acceptance of others who felt comfortable with her was not afforded to me. Maybe it was because I never did drugs with them.

I lived with a Latina from East New York. We quickly realized we were made to share a room that year because we were the only two racial minorities in the class of boarding students that year. We hated each other. I often came back to my dorm room with pants, underwear, and pens stolen only to find them in her dirty clothes hamper once my theory that she might be the culprit surfaced within the first three weeks of our arrival. Our school was on a hill top, surrounded by three beaches. Even amidst this picturesque setting, the details of my experience were littered with conundrums often stemming from the fact that I apparently had a lot more to lose than my classmates. Walking a tight rope of assimilation, which so far, wasn’t boding so well, and the intrinsic reflex to “knock a bitch out,” became a daily exercise. The last time I heard her speaking to my boyfriend in a flirtatious way while I laid above her in our bunk beds, I snapped. “What the fuck are you really doing?” I asked harkening back to my days in Dayton when I had to have both bark and bite to fit in with my classmates whose vocabulary’s were less evolved and enunciation was not as refined. “You talk white,” became a mantra for them before I stopped speaking and lunged at the main culprit of the group in fifth grade resulting in detention for weeks. This was also the first time I realized, I circumvent logic when catalyzed by anger. And the last time someone in that school told me I talk White.

I jumped down from my bunk bed and began a series of expletive ridden diatribes, somewhat still trying to insert a bit of stern compassion, or evoke some from her. We were, after all, the only minority girls in our class. She laughed. I got louder. Soon my dorm parents, and a few of the girls on our floor were crowded outside our dorm room. She remained silent and as I finished that good ol’ cussout, I became uncomfortably aware of the fact that I now had an audience and they weren’t coming to defend me. Tina, my roommate had more palatable features. She was light skinned with thick dark eyebrows, a chiseled nose and full lips. In fact, all of the black guys in the school complimented her on her looks whenever I was around and I’m sure more often when I was not. My boyfriend at the time was a tall brown-skinned junior from Pine Bluff, Arkansas and he spoke so slowly and with such a deep southern drawl, I often questioned his intelligence and whether he was worthy to have been afforded entry into our school. He too gained admittance, as many of us did, via a financial scholarship. I dumped him on Valentine’s day, just three days after this altercation. It also happened to be his birthday. My dorm parent, a Chinese man from Taiwan had just moved his family to Newport two months prior. His name was Mr. Wong and I often participated in singing a song employed by one of the more rebellious blondes on my floor whenever she protested his authority, which was often. All I remember from the song is the melody and instead of saying “the wrong way,” we substituted his name: “the Wong Way.” He laughed with us until it wasn’t funny anymore. Unfortunately for me, it had stopped being funny just before Tina incited this debacle. “Uh Miss Megwere,” I am giving you a green card. I could hear gasps from the growing crowd outside of my door. Green cards were one’s ticket to entry into boarding school’s version of detention— Early Morning Proctored Study Hall. And despite the cajoling of my rebellious blonde friend, Abagale, I in fact was the first to receive an infraction for my behavior in the dorm. “But, SHE IS TALKING TO MY BOYFRIEND ON THE PHONE AND FLIRTING WITH HIM!!” I pleaded for logic to infiltrate his heart and that he would renege on the offer to admonish me into early morning study hall, but the insignificance of teenage girl drama deafened his ears. “No no no, I am giving your a green card. Everyone back to your rooms and lights out!” The door closed and Tina wished me an ironic “good night.”

[inspirationallyinsane]

January 7, 2017

I just got off the phone with my mother and I am very upset. I left Chapman University to go to the cheapest school I could just to appease my parents and it's still a fucking issue. I can only take three classes this semester because those are the only classes open that would give me proper credits and that don't have a prereq that I needed to take in the fall. I literally can't take any other classes. But my mother is still mad at me because I'm only taking three classes and "we don't pay per unit, we just pay for the semester" so I should be taking 18 credits which I actually can't do until my third semester at this disgusting school which I told my mother but she doesn't seem to be able to process information properly and continues to insist I take more classes despite the fact that I CAN'T TAKE MORE EVEN IF I WANTED TO. NOTHING IS OPEN. I CAN'T. She is mad at me for not FIXING the school. A school that I hate. A school that I don't want to go to. In a location that I have despised my entire goddamn life. I am doing this for them. I could have transferred to another school in LA if I didn't love Chapman. I could have gone to a school that was just as expensive. I could have chosen LMU or fucking Pepperdine but I didn't. I didn't do it because my parents couldn't pay for those schools (even though apparently they can pay for 850 dollar dinners and spa trips and shopping sprees. Even though they can afford to buy all new glasses for parties and new blenders. I'm shopping at the goddamn dollar store for food, buying cranberry juice which has a warning saying it can make me infertile to try to save money and they aren't doing fucking shit to save money). Cutting organic foods out of your life, not spending 300 dollars two times a week at the grocery store, that is not saving money. That is living like a normal fucking person. They must think I'm fucking stupid that I wouldn't notice that they're spending all this money on all this unnecessary shit. They put me in this 750 dollar a month apartment in Ashland, like if we were actually trying to save money, if my life was a burden to them financially, I could have gotten an apartment in phoenix or talent for 300 dollars a month or less. It is insanity. My mother is pissed off that I am going to spend more time and money in school than what is absolutely necessary but guess what??? She spent 5 and a half years in college?? She switched her major after she finished a different one!!!! How is that any better or different??? She's talking to me like "Oh I went to college I did 18 credits" Yea well guess the fuck what??? We are different people in different situations?? You had your classes handed to you because you were on the basketball team going to a goddamn community college. I don't have priority classes. I don't get to sign up first and since I had to transfer schools so you wouldn't have to stress out about paying for my school, I was the very last person to register. There is nothing available for me. Nothing. I COULDN'T TAKE THE CLASSES IF I WANTED TO. WHICH I DID. I emailed my academic advisor four times to try to get into the advanced German class I tested into but I can't get into the class. The system is 'broken'. And now according to my mom that is somehow my fault. It is my fault I had to transfer schools. How is this my fault?? After that whole debacle in May that whole conversation we had this is my fucking fault. I desperately wish I just didn’t give a shit but I do. I want my parents to be proud of me. I came back home, even though I can’t live in my home, just so they’d be better off. This is all for them and they can’t give me one ounce of sympathy or understanding. I am trying my best. I don’t even have a bed to sleep on. I can’t even afford a mattress at this point. I have nowhere to put my clothes, I got my furniture from habitat for humanity. My lifestyle has changed so dramatically over the last few months and theirs has hardly changed at all. I go grocery shopping with my father and it isn’t about the prices for him. He doesn’t even look at the prices. But I have to go to the dollar store. The pasta at the dollar store doesn’t get soft. You can boil the shit out of it, put butter in it, put sauces on it, it never gets soft. It’s all chemicals. It makes me feel sick but that’s what I am eating because I am trying to save money to buy a mattress. And my mom is pissed off because I don’t play basketball and I don’t have a job and I’m only taking three classes (which no matter how much I explain that I can’t take more, she does not listen to me). I’ve been here for two weeks. Two fucking weeks. I am working on getting school settled, trying to find loopholes to sign up for more classes just to make her happy. I tested into the most advanced German class because I actually made an effort to study beforehand because I knew I couldn’t take a fourth class unless I tested into it. Apparently I can’t take the class anyway. I am planning on getting a job. I have to. I have to buy a mattress and that money has to come from me. I can’t keep buying my food from the dollar store and that money has to come from me. And I wouldn’t be mad if my family actually couldn’t afford to support me. I would do anything for them. I would switch schools and move back to a place I hate for them. To help them afford me. But when they’re out spending money on clothes and spas and vacations and 850 dollar dinners for four people, I get upset. Do you know how long 850 dollars would last me?? 850 dollars in extra funds. It would mean the goddamn world and to throw that away on one dinner which included my brother’s girlfriend of three months?? Fucking ridiculous. My parents can say they can’t afford to give me anything else all they want and maybe they can’t when they’re spending so much on themselves but I see that money and I see them spending it on themselves and I can’t imagine what else they are buying, the things I can’t see. The new clothes I don’t see, the grocery trips I’m not there for. It hurts my heart. I feel like they don’t care. They care more about getting themselves nice things and fun experiences than their daughter eating properly and having a fucking bed to sleep in. But I’m somehow the financial problem. I’m the burden because I am not taking 18 credits. 18 credits I would take if I were allowed to because I would let myself get walked over and force myself into classes I hate just so they would say that I am doing something right. It’s shit. I’m tired of it. I’m tired. I listen to all their shit about each other constantly, since I was fucking 12 years old, both of them shitting on each other to me, I took that for six years. I still do. It’s fucked up. And they can’t even support me financially when they have the funds to do so. I’m not asking for anything excessive. I just don’t want to be shit all over for taking the classes the school signed me up for, the only classes available to me, the classes that were given to me by my academic advisor which I made the effort to go and see and email multiple times just to make sure I was doing all I could. And I would like enough money to shop at Albertsons and buy things that are on sale. I don’t even want the nice things. I buy soy and almond milk because it is almost always on sale and usually two dollars cheaper than regular milk. Do you know that soy milk is a bit chunky? It is not smooth like normal milk, it has the consistency of milk that has gone bad for a few days. I try to make the best of it saying that it tastes better or whatever but last week the love of my life gave me 20 dollars to treat myself to a nice dinner and so I bought regular milk for the first time in months and it is amazing. I am so happy. I bought real pasta that gets soft when you boil it and I bought a bag of salad and I bought cheese that melts (dollar store cheese doesn’t melt. It tastes like plastic. I think it might actually be plastic). It was a like a dream. I am drowning worrying about my financial situation and trying to spend as little as I can so my parents don’t have to give me more money but the longer I do this for the more they seem to be spending and the less I seem to be getting. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of worrying about them and myself when they clearly don’t need to be worried about. I know that eating ramen noodles every night is part of the college experience but guess what?? I can’t even afford to do that!!!!! Those are one dollar per cup. I can’t afford that shit. I have to buy bulk noodles for a dollar. Everyone knows what cup noodles taste like. Now imagine a cheaper version of that. It is hard to believe it even exists. I cut myself the other day because I have to open bags with a knife that I stole. I can’t afford scissors and I don’t steal things anymore so I have to use the old shit I used to take. I really can’t even buy bandaids and neosporin for it. I’ve been wrapping my cut in tissues and using wet wipes to clean it. Although I’m sure I’ll run out of those soon too and I’ll have to start using clorox to clean it which I know is terrible for me. Did you guys know that dollar store soap doesn’t get soapy? Like it doesn’t make the bubbles that normal soap makes. It just kind of slides around and then disappears. I’m banking on the fact that it actually does wash my hands but honestly I don’t really know. I don’t mean to complain so much but everything feels like shit right now. I need help and I need support. I just want someone to take care of me. I know this is what it is to be an adult but I feel like I was thrust into it too fast. It is such a dramatic lifestyle change for me and I am not handling it well at all. I am trying my best for everyone else and everyone is still mad at me. I want to try my best for me. I want to take creative writing classes or film classes and not have to worry about my parents going into crippling debt because I’m an artsy type of person. I’m willing to go into something I lowkey hate for them. I’m taking these math and science classes for them. None of it’s for me and they still want me to do more for them. None of this is for me. I could be living in a two bedroom apartment in medford or talent with my boyfriend but I am stuck here in this shithole because my mother insisted this is what I wanted. Is this for me? Is this what it means to be living my life the way I want to? I am making these decisions, they are my decisions, but they are not for me. They are for people who would rather spend thousands of dollars on their own parties and dinners and experiences than give their daughter money for proper food. I don’t know how I feel anymore. I want to be ok. I don’t even need to be happy. That would be asking too much. Everything is so different now. I’m tired. I’m so tired. I just want a little help.