#oh also in abuse cases parents are almost always believed above kids

[obsidianstrawberrymilk]

Estelle Vacker and Auberon Dizznee meet when they are going to foxfire, they start dating when they are about 15-16 keep their relationship secret because Etstelle’s family would have a fit.

Auberon’s twin sister Soreya (who went to Hinterland not Foxfire) didn’t like the idea of her brother dating a Vacker because she was worried that her family might get him banished to get away from Estelle, because that had happened to other people in the past. she ended up telling Oriana (the teacher at Hinterland) who tries to talk Auberon out of dating Estelle because he’s talentless and she’s a telepath and a Vacker.

Auberon wasn’t worried because Estelle knew that she would be disowned and didn’t care, she had insisted that her family would never get him banished and Auberon told Oriana this, but she wasn’t convinced.

he proposed to Estelle when she graduated the Elite levels, her family found out, but instead of threatening to disown her, they said they would get Auberon banished just like his sisters said they would. the treats would also include his family as time went on, but Estelle is convinced that it’s just a bluff and continued with the wedding planing. they thought maybe if Estelle got pregnant with his kid her family would have no choice but to let them get married (they where like 20 and very dumb)

that’s not what happened, when her family caught wind of her pregnancy, they conjured up a lie that not only involved Auburn but Soreya as well, to punish him for wasting her first child. about both of them being involved in questionable activities (idk what they are) and made up proof. getting them both banished and causing Auberon’s entire family to hate Estelle because they saw it as her fault.

Estelle was forced to marry her #1 match not even two months later and everyone around her pretend like it was perfectly normal and like Aubron never existed.

Estelle’s new husband was physically, verbally abusive and controlled every aspect of her life, making it so she couldn’t get out because she had no friends. it’s not like elves believe abuse anyways.

she ended up getting pregnant with his twins and when he found out he was furious and caused her to go into labor early, with the twins the boy Marcel ended up with cerebral palsy while the girl Odette,was fine. Marcel couldn’t walk well and was mute, their father called him it and kept in locked in the house not letting anyone know he had a son. while he acted like Odette was his pride and joy at least in public. if she made any sort of mistake he would berate her and tell her to stop acting like a twin unless she wanted to be locked in the house like her brother.

while Marcel was unable to speak he was just as intelligent as ever other child, and his mom knew this because she got in the habit of having Telepathic conversations with the twins to keep them quiet when their father was home.

when the twins where 11 she got pregnant again and had a little girl named Vivianne but they called her Vivi. when she was four she knocked over her fathers work and he smacked her, the screamed at her for crying before throwing her in her room. Marcel heard her crying and came to comfort her. when Odette came home from school Vivi had a bruise on her face so she didn’t have a hard time figuring out what happened to her baby sister.

the twins stayed with Vivi until she fell asleep and decided that instead of telling their mom who they thought was going through enough as is that they would take matters into their own hands.

they found their father in his office and Odette went inside while Marcel stayed outside. Odette knew she was the favorite and thought maybe he loved her enough to listen to her, and stop hurting them. so Odette asked their father why he hit Vivianne, he told them to leave and when they didn’t he started screaming, it escalated to the point that he threw s decoration off his desk at her and hit her in the head drawing blood and causing her to fall to the ground.

Marcel heard her fall and came in the room as quickly as he could to find her bleeding, he was furious and was done with his father treating them the way he did. Marcel wished that he could make his father hurt in all the ways he had hurt his family, he imagined all the things he would do if he could fight if he was bigger, and how much pain he would put his father though. he would make sure he never hurt his mom or sisters again. the images he imagined almost felt real.

he was snapped out of his thoughts by his mom holding his face and transmitting the words “Marcy Stop” over and over into his mind

he snapped out of it to see he father bleeding and unconscious on the floor, and Odette crying on the floor trying next to him get him to wake up.

while he treated her badly her father still acted like he cared about her at times and unlike Marcel she loved him, and didn’t want him to die. as confusing and conflicted it made her feel

this is all i have written in one place atm but it keeps going (i wanna make this a fic)

HOLY SHIT that's so intense oml ;-; yeah this is exactly the type of 'Vacker Legacy' bullshit that family would try and keep covered up huh-

This is so good though, it really shows the issues with letting families and status have so much power and also provides a really interesting dimension to Dex's early books dislike of Fitz.

I love Estelle, Odette, Vivi, and Marcel ;-; lowkey I think Marcel deserves to kill his dad. As a treat.

How do they get along with Fitz Alvar and Biana? What about the rest of the family - like did they all know about Estelle's husband?

Lmao all my hcs for Vacker cousins were 'they're the most unbearable pieces of shit ever' so this is much better

[6knotty6thotty6]

So a couple of months ago, I saw a YouTube video that was an audio recording of season 5, episode 6 of Bojack Horseman, “Free Churro.” In the episode, the main character, Bojack Horseman, spends 20 minutes giving a eulogy at his mother’s funeral. There’s one big problem though, his mother was an abusive bitch. His eulogy is him trying to contemplate what she meant by her drying words, “I see you,” and whether or not she loved him. As someone who has a dead parent who was abusive, this is probably my favorite episode of any show ever for how much it helped me understand my feelings. The comments section is filled with people sharing their pain with their abusive families, but one comment stood out to me above all the others by how raw and relatable it was. This comment was by a YouTuber named Moonstruck. At the bottom of this post is a link to her channel. Please support her. After reading this, she deserves a million subscribers. Also please watch Bojack Horseman. (I corrected some of the grammatical errors to make it easier to read)

Disclaimer: Child abuse, bullying, trauma, and mental health:

Moonstruck: 

This is a great monologue, but one part of it, in particular, really caught my attention was the 'grand gesture' bit.

When I was a kid, I read this book called "Chicken Soup for the Soul." There's a shitload of them. I don't remember which particular one it was. I hated the whole series because it's just someone profiting off a bunch of other people's stories rather than trying to write their own, in my opinion. 

Anyway.

This one story that I remember, the ONLY one I remembered,  was sent in by a little girl. She wrote about how her father never told her that he loved her. He never once, in her whole life, said the words "I love you." I don't remember her mom being mentioned, maybe she was dead; it doesn't matter. The point is her dad was basically an emotionless asshole. Well, one day, this girl gets sick. Really sick. Possibly on her deathbed sick. She wrote that one day she woke up to find a necklace sitting on her nightstand that had a pendant that looked like her dog. She said she held it to her heart and cried because that necklace said all the things her father never had.

I thought, "What a load of bullshit."

A cheap trinket doesn't make up for years and years of emotional neglect. Anyone can buy a thing and toss it your way. Hell, he didn't even hand it to her himself, just left it there for her to find if/when she woke up, then left her alone again to possibly die.

A lot of people say that actions speak louder than words, in cases like political protests and shit. While that's true, scenarios that this that girl are different. Gifts can never replace the words, "I love you."

When I was a kid, my father never told me he loved me. My mother didn't either, but she's a whole other kettle of fish. I would say 'my biological mother or father,' but I never got adopted ones, so who gives a shit. Anyway. My father was rarely around, and when he was, he just spent the entire time fighting with my mother and leaving again. He would do and say anything that could get him to spend less time in the house with her. With us. I can't blame him. If I could've left during those times, I would have. I tried more than once. I even earned the nickname 'runaway' from a family friend because of it. 

I was told that I was worthless as early as I could understand words. I don't know what it is about me that set my mother off, but she HATED me. I was always told how expensive I was to keep alive and how I wasn't worth it. If I dared ask for anything, she would remind me how much she spent just to keep me from starving to death and that it was too much already. On the rare occasion I was given something, it was so she could use it as a threat. She was like, "Sure, you can have that toy horse since we got your sister a real one, but you better behave or we'll give it to her and let her break it." Or "Oh, fine, we can keep this dog as a FAMILY pet (NOT YOURS), but if you do something we don't like, we'll take it away and kill it." 

Oh, yeah. I have a sister. She’s cut from the same cloth as our mother. I don't consider any of them family anymore. She was two years older than me. She was the "we should have stopped while we were ahead" kid. Anything she wanted, she got. 

"Mom, can I have an award-winning horse and expensive dressage lessons?"

"Sure!"

"Mom, can I have a car?"

"No problem!"

"Mom, can you pay for my ballet lessons?"

"Absolutely!"

She was the golden child. The one that could do no wrong and wasn't a mistake. Even after she totaled her car, got arrested for an underage DUI, and got pregnant three times in high school, she was still the good one. I never even asked to go to school dances, parties, or go out with the one friend I had. My sister liked to see me in pain. She'd tell our mom that I did things just to get me in trouble. Whether it involved blaming me for things she did or fabricating stuff, she'd say whatever it took to get my mother to beat me while she watched and laughed. Oh, yeah, our mom was BIG on physical punishment. I've been whipped with everything from a riding crop, a wooden paddle, spoons, and especially belts. Anything that was close at hand when my mother got irritated, I've been hit with it. 

At one point, my sister had three tall, beautiful show-worthy horses. I was allowed to keep a sickly old pony for all of a week before she was taken away, then I'd get called ungrateful for asking why we had to get rid of HER instead of one of the horses. Even though my mother said it cost too much to keep them all. With horses being obviously too rich for my blood, I asked for something cheaper, and for once, I got it. I was given a baby goat that one of our neighbors' goats had abandoned for being too weak, and they didn't have time to raise. I loved that goat. I bottle raised him, and named him Ben. He was my best friend for a while. When he grew up, he got so big that I was able to stand on his back to grab tree branches and pull them down so he could eat the leaves. I walked him on a leash like a dog every day. I loved him so much. My mother had me enter him in a show, and we won ninth place! I was thrilled to have something to show against my sister's collection of dressage show ribbons. I finally had proof that I could do something right! Sure, the prize money was taken away from me, but I still had Ben.

But Ben didn't come home with me after the show. It turns out he was sold to a slaughterhouse because that show was for meat goats. I didn't know until he was already gone. Of course, my mother punished me for being upset and even forced me to write a thank-you card to the people who bought his meat. 

My mother was always like that. Anything I loved was used as a threat. I eventually accepted that loving anything was a waste of time. I learned to detach myself from my feelings, and I got really good at it. I can completely turn off my emotional reaction to anything. One time I had to put down one of the egg-laying hens at work that got too sick to save, and I felt nothing while bringing down the ax. When I lost out on a job that could have changed my life, I told myself how stupid it was to hope for anything good. Any positive emotion I felt got me punished, so I learned to feel nothing at all. To this day, I still have trouble feeling things, even when I want to. I'm taking pills now, and they help, sometimes. 

I've had several suicide attempts. I keep a box of razor blades in my desk just to have them close. I got a tattoo of a heart with rainbows on my wrist. Partially for LGBT solidarity, but mostly to remind myself that there is still beauty in the world. I still struggle with wonder if I actually believe it or not. 

I've tried so hard to be a good kid. I never partied, never drank, never smoked even when the chances were there, and I would have greatly loved anything to make the pain stop or even just dull it a little bit. I was in the gifted and talented program at school and was able to graduate at fifteen. For a while, I was sent to a children's home where I was passed around to many people I didn't know, including a clown who I may or may not have actually been related to, until I eventually wound up out here where I am now. It's all pretty hazy, and the details get scrambled. 

It's been 10 years since I've had contact with my mother and sister. I can't even keep in touch with the one friend I had, even after I lived with her. She's tried to reach out to me, but I just… can't. I try, but I can't. Sometimes, I can almost pretend that my past wasn't real. It's just a hazy fog that isn't really there. I want to believe that if I don't allow something, or someone, who was part of that past, someone tangible and real, into my life again, then the fog will go away. This is why I can't do it. I know I'm a terrible friend. Ariel, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. You're better off without me in your life anyway. 

I typed all of this out because sometimes, about fifty dollars or so shows up in my PayPal from my father's email address. I don't know if it's from him or from her using his email, but it doesn't matter either way. The point is I know my mother is the one sending the money.

I know my mother likes to think she's a good person. She went to church every Sunday, and probably still does. She organized a lot of church events and participated in every church function. I had to be an altar server for several years until I aged out of it and was in the choir. She kept going to that church even after the priest got drunk, called me many horrible names in front of everyone, and was revealed to be a pedophile that raped a little boy at gunpoint. She probably still goes to that same church and organizes things. She likes being in charge. She likes having people look at her and say, "That there is a good person."

But are you, though, Mom? Are you really a good person? Were you a good person when you hit me? When you lied to me? When you laughed with my sister about how much I got hurt for things I didn't do? Were you a good person every time you told me you'd kill my cat or leave my dog at the pound? Were you a good person when you sold Ben to be eaten, knowing that I loved him? Were you a good person when you made me read "A child called It" and told me that you'd start doing the things in that book to me if I didn't behave? Were you a good person every time you told my father I was a liar whenever I tried to tell him what you were doing to me? Were you a good person when you told me I wasn't worth the cost of being alive? Were you? 

Fuck you, Mom! Keep your fucking money! A necklace on the nightstand isn't enough. A trinket can't heal years and years and years of abuse and hurt. You can't hide these scars under dollar bills. I hope you die alone. I know I probably will, but I don't even care anymore. I lost the ability to care thanks to you. You can't make up for the things you did and the things you didn't say now. Too little, too late! 

[cotncandyboifics]

1989 [High School AU]: Chapter 8

AO3 Link

Masterpost

Chapter 1 ~ Chapter 2 ~ Chapter 3 ~ Chapter 4 ~ Chapter 5 ~ Chapter 6 ~ Chapter 7 ~ Chapter 9 ~

Pairings: slight Logince, eventual Prinxiety & Logicality

Word count: 2,407

Story summary: Roman Prince is your stereotypical Jock, with everyone swooning after him. Every day a crowd of people follow him around, only to disperse at his personal whim. In reality, he's lucky to have such good acting skills that help him cover up the disdain he has for his life. He only wishes he could use his skills properly.

Patton Whitelock's always there to lend a helping hand, no matter who you are. If you need a favor or just need someone to talk to, go to him. In reality, he's been taught from a young age that kindness should be held above all else. No one suspects that he took it the wrong way.

Logan Montgomery is the smartest boy in the Senior class. He's stern, and most people are too intimidated to speak to him. In reality, he despises most all of his fellow students. He sticks to his studies and doesn't stray, for fear of being stuck in his father's shadow his whole life.

Virgil Black is the most emo kid in school, let alone 12th grade; everyone knows to leave him be. In reality, he's very fortunate. He has two parents who love him dearly. But everything beyond his life, everything within his mind, is utter chaos and turmoil.

what will happen when they're assigned a biology project together?

General CW: food, swearing, implied s-lf h-rm, non-graphic descriptions of s-lf h-rm scars, graphic and non-graphic descriptions of anxiety attacks and panic attacks, drug abuse, minor character intoxicated on heroin, non-graphic drug overdose description, sickness/description of sickness, blood, non-graphic descriptions of needles, (will be added to as I write more)

Chapter CW: food, (let me know if i missed anything please!)

Author notes: alternate title: Virgil's very subtle epiphany. also Patton has a gay panic moment lol

...

Slam.

Monday morning. Mr. Berry was slapping a small poster on each student's desk like a stamp, one-by-one and painfully slowly.

"This," he began, "Is the official welcome to the schoolyear; audition posters for the Fall Talent Show." His bloated belly hardly fit between the desk rows, and students made futile attempts to scoot away from him before they were bombarded by his tyrannical tummy. "As a retired thespian and a life long supporter of theatre and the arts," he continued, bringing his pile of posters to his chest in his passion, "I highly recommend you at least consider looking into auditions. Everyone has a passion, or at least a hobby, and the talent show is a perfect freelance opportunity to show off your skills."

Roman rolled his eyes too dramatically. This was upsetting him more than he thought it would, and his eyes shot daggers up at his large superior as he slammed the next poster onto Roman's desk.

"Auditions will be held next week, on the specified dates. The show itself will be two weeks later, I believe on Friday night. Be there, and I will award you some extra credit points. All you must do is present me with your ticket, which must have your name on it," he eyed a few mischievous students in the room, "With a stamp on it from the Talent Show admissions booth, on the following Monday." As soon as Mr. Berry had given a poster to Virgil and moved on, Virgil quietly crumpled it and shoved it into a random part of his backpack, proceeding to fold his arms on his desk and put his head down. This caught Roman's attention, and his subconscious latched onto formulating a teasing remark for after class as a distraction from his own feelings about the Talent Show.

After class, the usual place where Roman and Virgil were shortly alone and had a short interaction - most often consisting of some insufferable tease from Roman or occasionally a debate spurred by Virgil making a witty side comment - the two met once again. After their first class of the day was usually the only time they were both at their lockers at the same time, as it happened, and Virgil was always thankful that it was the only time. Since their assignment to the Biology project, however, Roman had taken to walking with Virgil from their English class to their lockers and beginning his bouts of banter prematurely.

"Not a fan of the infamous talent show, are we?" Roman paced quickly over to Virgil, who had just made it outside the classroom door as they'd been dismissed. Virgil huffed in defeat as his attempt to escape before Roman could catch him had been fruitless.

"It's ridiculous," Virgil didn't slow his pace for Roman, and began essentially speedwalking down the hall. Roman was slightly taller than him and was able to keep up, but still got a little out of breath doing it. "Hey everyone, come and show everyone in the school something you really enjoy so they can all collectively judge you and make you self conscious about your interests and - oh no! you don't wanna do it anymore because you feel horribly inadequate? shoooot. Sorry man, no one could have seen that coming. Oh well, better luck next year when you'll just ruin a different passion for yourself!" Virgil flailed his hands at the end of his mini-rant.

"How can you stay that sarcastic for that long consecutively? I'm honestly impressed," Roman said, huffing as they arrived at their lockers. Virgil's permanent frown seemed to somehow deepen. "Though, I guess I really can't argue, Count Woe-laf. I see your point. The pressures of an impromptu performance are... undeniable." Roman focused his attention on the padlock hanging from the latch of his locker, while Virgil looked to him with widened eyes.

"Really?" He didn't look away from Roman until he would look back.

"What?" Roman defended.

"It's just..." Virgil focused on his own padlock now, "You never agree with what I say. It always becomes a debate," he pulled his locker open lazily, pulling his backpack off his shoulders and putting it on backwards so that he could more easily exchange things. When Roman didn't reply, he continued, "like... I don't know. Why is it any different now?"

Roman was exchanging things as well, and didn't have an immediate answer. Well, he knew the answer (or in this case, answers), but it wasn't one he was even ready to admit to himself, let alone anyone else, and especially let alone Virgil. He just eventually shrugged.

This reaction only further alarmed Virgil. He opened his mouth to continue his flabbergasted interrogation, but the bell rang right at that moment. Roman slammed his locker shut suddenly.

"Well, that's our queue I suppose. See you tonight, Incredible Sulk." Roman elbowed Virgil in the shoulder a bit awkwardly and began skipping down the hall to his next class. That left a dumbfounded and nearly-panicking Virgil standing in front of his open locker in an almost completely empty hall.

He wished Roman would stop leaving him like that.

...

Roman had texted the Biology Project group chat that weekend, saying he had an important football practice on Monday that went until 5. they'd have to have their meet-up at Roman's a bit later in the evening. Logan simply waited it out by heading to the school library to get his other homework done, while Patton and Virgil shot the breeze, walking down random hallways of the school.

The two of them were grabbing a snack from a vending machine when Virgil checked his phone. It was 4:50. They got their respective snacks - Patton got a strawberry Pop tart and Virgil got a Sunny D - and made their way to the designated meeting place. It was a concrete bench at the front of the school. They expected to find Logan there, but he wasn't. The two of them simply sat on the cold bench and exchanged bits of each other's snacks, and continued talking until Virgil noticed someone approaching.

He figured it would be Logan, but this person was shorter and more filled out than Logan. He trained his eyes better and realized that it was Roman. Roman, who happened to have a towel around his neck and sopping-wet crimson curly hair unabashedly on display. A drip of water rolled down his cheek and along his jawline, and Virgil realized he was staring. Roman finally got within conversation distance.

"Like what you see, Charlie Frown?" He teased. Patton looked to Virgil, noticing his awe, and giggled.

"Hah, in your dreams, Meta Knight," Virgil deflected half-heartedly, still finding it hard to pull his eyes away from Roman's unfortunate perfection. It was only worse that Roman knew just how attractive he was.

"Why's your hair all wet, silly?" Patton asked, standing energetically to greet him.

"We rinse off after practice. I considered leaving my shirt off so i could just get a clean one when i got home, but i knew that might be a bit too much to handle for some of us," Roman elbow-nudged Patton, who just giggled again and pushed his glasses up. Virgil knew that was extremely forced, especially after their conversation on Friday.

"Well," Roman checked his wristwatch, "Where would my nerdy Wolverine happen to be? It's ten past, and if there's anything Logan certainly is, it's punctual."

"Quite right you are," a stern voice came from behind them, to reveal Logan's lengthy form approaching casually. "My apologies for my tardiness. I got quite engaged in a particular Physics problem." Roman turned to him smiling, and pecked him on the cheek. Virgil didn't need to look at Patton to feel his friend's heart sink through the floor.

"Shall we then?" Roman turned to lead the way on the five-block journey to his house.

...

"hmm, that reminds me," Roman said from his sprawled position on his bed, "what are all your sexualities?"

That sure caught everyone's attention. The clock beside Roman's bed read 6:28 PM. Logan was studying their plants and taking notes, Patton had been cooing quietly to Roman's pet turtle, and Virgil was sitting in Roman's spinning desk chair scrolling on his phone. They all looked at Roman at once, and then at each other.

"Heh," Roman sat up, "My apologies for blurting such an intrusive question, I was just looking up at my-" he gestured toward his ceiling- "glorious flag, and it made me wonder. No man must answer that which he does not desire to." Roman was blatantly referring to the Bisexual flag that was pinned to the ceiling above his bed. They all looked at it, and back at him. "I suppose it's obvious now, but yes, I am undeniably bisexual," He faux bowed.

The silence wasn't doing anyone good, so Patton broke it before it got too much more awkward. "I, I'm gay," he said sheepishly, continuing to observe the turtle. Virgil gave him a soft smile, and decided to offer himself up next.

"I'm pan," he seemed to recoil further into his hoodie, if that were even possible. Logan turned to the other three, adjusting his necktie.

"I'm not usually one to admit this to many people, but since you have all been so transparent and calm about such personal information," He started, "I am comfortable telling you that I am Asexual."

No one regarded this with much surprise, except for Roman. "Oh really?" He said, seemingly surprised and embarrassed. Virgil scoff-laughed at him.

"What, upset you can't make your sexual fantasies a reality?" Virgil teased. Roman gasped, bringing a hand to his chest in an offended gesture.

"Excuse me!" He exclaimed, a look of disgust contorting his face.

Before a classic Roman-Virgil debate could ensue, Patton decided to share his thoughts.

"Well, I, I mean, I'm not ace but I, I guess sex isn't really so important to me," he was fiddling with his ring yet again.

"W-well, it should never be the centerpiece of any relationship!" Roman declared. They all looked at him skeptically. "what? I mean, personally, I prefer grand gestures." As he spoke, he stood and walked to Logan. "In my opinion," he produced a pristine bouquet of deep red roses that none of the others had noticed anywhere in the room before, "they are the key to any person's heart."

Logan seemed tame, Patton thought. As if he were performing. If he were being his normal self, he would have been very confused by where Roman had hidden the bouquet, and how it looked so perfect after being concealed. Instead, he just took it with a very gentle sweet smile, and thanked him quietly. Instead of Logan, Patton was now the one confused.

Virgil's face was red, and his neck a blotchy pink; thankfully he was mostly hidden under his purple bangs and hood. He huffed and excused himself to use the restroom. Patton noticed this time, and grabbed his arm before he made it out of the room.

"You okay?" he whispered gently to Virgil. Virgil just looked at him, mustered a small smile and a nod. Patton knew exactly what that meant. Virgil was okay, he just needed a moment. He returned the smile, and released his gentle paternal grip on Virgil's arm, allowing him to leave.

There was the sound of someone calling Roman's name from another part of the house, and Roman excused himself, rushing off to find its source.

Logan slipped his phone into the pocket of his navy slacks. "Well, I must be going now," He began. Instead of reaching to gather his things, he trained his acute attention directly on Patton, who was startled by the sudden focus on him. "Patton, do you have a ride home today?"

"I, uh, well," He tried blurting out an excuse but none came to his mind. "No, not exactly..."

Logan was slowly approaching, and Patton tried to back up but hit the terrarium containing Roman's turtle after just one small step. "Would you like a ride? My parents would be more than happy to assist in your safe transport home."

"Well, well I really don't want to intrude, or-" He stopped dead when Logan placed a slender hand gently on his shoulder.

"I insist. It's no intrusion or burden to them. They appreciate being able to help others when they can, especially people whose company I enjoy." Logan didn't feel as though he was figuratively lying through his teeth, but he knew that his parents didn't exactly feel that way. The nature of the situation was more that they took kindly to those that Logan worked well with on academically related subjects, such as people from his study group or the like.

Patton caught himself before letting the thought "you enjoy my company?" escape his lips. He just smiled. He knew there was no way he could get himself to deny Logan's offer when his heart was taking the reins.

"I would.. really appreciate, a ride home, yeah," He said quietly. Logan was just looking into his eyes with a tenderness Patton hadn't seen before. He pushed away any thoughts that Logan may have looked at Roman the exact same way during their date. He hoped he hadn't, and cursed himself for hoping it.

"Wonderful," Logan pulled himself out of their shared momentary trance. "I will let them know. I'm sure they will find it a pleasure to become acquainted with you. They should be here in less than five minutes, so I suggest gathering your belongings." Logan's thumbs padded across is illuminated phone screen as he spoke, until he once again slid it into his pocket and began collecting his things along with Patton.

Virgil entered once again, hood off and face slightly red and wet. it was clear that he hadn't been crying due to the sporadic nature of the droplets of water across his face; it looked more like he'd just haphazardly washed his face in the sink and hadn't bothered to wipe the remnants away. Patton smiled at him brightly.

"Ah, Virgil," Logan addressed as he slung his bag over his shoulder, "It was pleasant to see you again. We are on our way out now. Are you ready, Patton?" He looked to Patton, who also slung his bag over his shoulder.

"Yep! Logan's giving me a ride," Patton blatantly could barely contain his excitement in his ever-growing grin, so Virgil only returned it with a small thumbs up.

"Alright, ill see you guys in class tomorrow," He hugged Patton tightly, and half-heartedly saluted to Logan without making eye contact. Logan simply nodded to him, and the two left shortly, leaving Virgil alone in Roman's room.

[sepublic]

Over-Analyzing Boscha

           Given what we’ve seen about Boscha, specifically her mother… And how she ends up coming across as emotionally-clingy and needing, asking if she can join her daughter’s sleepover (while at the same time only learning at the last second and not even remarking on this), I’ve gotta wonder…

           This is just speculation, but maybe Boscha’s mother (and potentially father, or other mother) is someone who treats their kid more like an emotional crutch and somebody to take care of them, rather than somebody they’re responsible for. And obviously, this kind of thing has BAD effects on a kid (see my previous analyses). I wonder if Boscha was conditioned from a young age to see emotional openness and vulnerability as a weakness, and very toxic because of how uncomfortable it made her as a child.

          Perhaps to her, friends are people you should keep a certain distance from, lest they become clingy, overstep their boundaries, and start weighing you down with insecurities as they become overly-reliant on you. In her opening monologue from Wing it like Witches, Boscha apparently believes this principle applies to fans, since she thinks that being feared and hated is just another sign of success and supposed to be normal.

          Given how prior to their falling out, Boscha constantly followed Amity around and seemed to be almost fishing for approval at times… As pointed out to me by @theowlhouseheadcanons, I wonder if Amity was someone she actually admired and look up to, as a guide for how to act; Or at the very least, Boscha looked up to the façade that Amity put up.

          From Boscha’s perspective, Amity is cooler than her; Her own parents may have some status, but Amity always talks of her friendship with Boscha as a privilege she’s extending. Amity is the Top Student at Hexside for a reason, and the personal favorite apprentice of Lilith, Head Witch of the Emperor’s Coven! She’s aloof, while keeping people at a distance, and was always better at Grudgby than Boscha.

          To Boscha, Amity may have been someone she wanted to emulate; And with the distant, cold way Amity acted around her, always setting boundaries and maintaining a distance between the two, I could see Boscha legitimately thinking that; Oh, this is how friends should act! Because keep in mind, Boscha was basically ‘gifted’ her position as Team Captain, and all the fame that went with it, from Amity; And all because Amity felt bad for injuring her.

          Boscha seems very much like the kind of person who doesn’t realize that you can dislike a person, while still treating them with dignity and respect… So if Amity felt bad about injuring her to the point where she quit Grudgby, cold-turkey, at the height of her success? Clearly Boscha means a lot to her! I mean, why else would Amity choose to hang out with her?

          Which naturally, this leads to Boscha believing that her and Amity ARE friends… And that Amity’s cold, distant way of regarding her, always keeping each other at a distance while making sure to remind Boscha who’s the dominant one in the group, is how friends should act. Coupled with what I said earlier about Boscha seeing emotional openness as weak and toxic, and I can see Boscha being under the impression that people should be admired from a distance, even by their friends, and that maintaining that kind of distance is important and just a natural thing in a good relationship.

          Which, there are differences between setting healthy boundaries, and always keeping ‘friends’ at a distance from you, reminding them of one’s superiority over them, and applying this to fans and admirers as well. What’s worse is that to Boscha, getting injured by Amity may not have been something she held against her; Not just because it was a legitimate accident and Amity even gave up her position as Team Captain to her… But I could also see her legitimately thinking that it’s totally fine to injure your friends to achieve success, and that real friends should let themselves be hurt for the ‘stronger’ of the pair!

          Obviously, I can’t see Boscha letting herself get hurt for her other friends, nor do I necessarily think she actually hurt any of them either. Which leads me to my point that Amity, or at least the image she put up, was the only person that Boscha ever actually respected and looked up to for a while (given her lack of reverence for rules and the adults); That she was always content with being second-best because it was to Amity!

          Perhaps Boscha regularly followed Amity around, always trying to get her attention and ‘impress’ her, show her how much she was like Amity, while unintentionally being clingy in her own way like her mother. So when Amity, seemingly inexplicably, leaves Boscha behind for Willow… Boscha is now at the top of the friend group, but like with Grudgby it’s only because Amity stepped down.

          What’s worse is that Amity did it because she actively rejected Boscha for being a toxic person as well. She’s now at the top, but what does Boscha do with this position, having lost the one person she looked up to, now that they’ve been ‘corrupted’? Having nobody to look to for guidance, when her own parents were unreliable? Especially now that her position at the ‘top’, both in Grudgby and amongst the friend group, is becoming hollow as attentions diverts to Willow…

          (Not that I think Boscha’s friends necessarily intended to displace her with Willow, but to someone unhealthily competitive as Boscha it would definitely seem the case.)

          Being at the top is already lonely enough as-is, but considering Boscha’s outlook on life and the way she treats people, it’s only going to get worse. I can see her being trapped in a period of confusion, not sure what to think anymore, wanting to hate Amity but also realizing that a lot of the things she knows, she was taught by her; So can she keep operating by these rules still? And so Boscha tries to distract herself from it all by just throwing her entire soul into Grudgby, only to be left in despair when Grudgby Season inevitably ends, regardless of whether or not Boscha becomes THE champion of the sport that year!

          To Boscha, she HAS to be the best, because if she’s not, then maybe she’s a loser like her parents… And she has to distance herself from them. Boscha’s parents prioritized themselves over her, so she was taught that to have any real happiness in life, she has to put herself above everybody else at any cost, lest others try and ‘take’ that from her, that she has to keep a tight hold on what she has lest it be jeopardized. Everybody is a selfish enemy trying to encroach on her territory, so Boscha has to defend at any cost!

          Obviously, I’m not saying Amity is somehow a bad person, or that she’s necessarily ‘responsible’ for who Boscha is. Amity was distant from Boscha because she was forced to be friends with her and just genuinely did not vibe; Not to mention, she was also internalizing a lot of abuse from her own parents that encouraged Amity to be someone who was cold and closed-off, which when coupled with her loneliness in the situation… It’s no wonder she didn’t really interact with Boscha on a personal level. Really, I just see the situation as being the fault of both girls’ parents, for not being caring enough and leaving their kids confused and trying to navigate one another, and getting the wrong lessons in the process.

          Clearly Boscha has some issues of her own, that are of her own choosing and fault; She’s spiteful and petty to a degree that Amity has never been. But ultimately, I think it’s fun considering why she is the way she is, and what her relationship with Amity was like, in the wake of Amity revealing more about herself and thus re-contextualizing a bunch of interactions!

          Amity isn’t at fault here, she’s a kid who was forced to hang out with someone she didn’t want to, and it’s not her fault that Boscha got the wrong messages because of abuse from her parents. And if Boscha’s mother was a ‘lonely loser’ who was clingy and toxic to her, then I can see that influencing Boscha’s way of treating Willow and her outlook on lonely people as being ‘desperate’, ‘pathetic’, and deserving to be mistreated for being ‘parasites’.

          That they need to be taught to always know their place and maintain a distance from those who matter, lest such ‘losers’ drag them down with them as well. Similarly, I can see her bullying Willow almost as a means of garnering Amity’s approval, because obviously Amity seemed intent on telling Willow to leave her alone; So Boscha would prove her loyalty and helpfulness as a friend, by telling Willow to back off! Amidst her own narrow mindset, it must be incredibly baffling to her for Amity to suddenly be hanging out with Willow and defending her from Boscha, who had always ‘protected’ her!

          I don’t know why Boscha’s mother is like this, or if her other parent is complicit as well. But generally speaking, a parent usually doesn’t resort to asking to hang out with their own kid if they aren’t lonely; So I wouldn’t be surprised if Boscha’s other parent is also distant, and responsible for her mother being emotionally needy… Which then causes Boscha’s mother to rely on her own daughter, making Boscha uncomfortable around those kinds of people, and causing a chain of events that result in the messed-up fourteen-year-old we see today!

          And again, Amity’s not responsible for Boscha, and she’s still busy trying to heal herself as well and definitely has worse self-loathing issues- Amity has never been truly selfish, mainly doing what her parents want; Which of course, she confuses as being what she wants as well. Obviously I don’t want to compare abuse, but at the same time it has to be acknowledged that Amity REALLY needs to prioritize herself and the friends she’s actually chosen for once.

          Amity is NOT a hypocrite for calling out Boscha on her bad behavior and indicating she’s more mature than her, especially since she’s never been an active bully and already made clear that Willow is to be respected. She’s still unlearning the abuse from her parents that makes Amity believe that kids like her are supposed to ‘be mature’ at an early age. She never planned to be Boscha’s friend, and Boscha was clearly more interested in the façade she put up; And even then, the image that Boscha had in mind wasn’t entirely accurate to Amity’s façade either!

          Boscha’s idea of what Amity was supposed to be like no doubt contributed to the pressure Amity had to be someone she wasn’t. It’s best for both girls that they separated, honestly- So that Amity can finally be free to make her own friends and not be beholden to someone she was forced to be with, and so Boscha can stop using Amity’s fake self as an unhealthy standard to follow, stop participating in a one-sided and unhealthy ‘friendship’, recognize where she’s messed up, respect others’ boundaries, and hopefully become kinder to others.

          Maybe then, Boscha will stop almost projecting her insecurities and needs onto Amity, looking to her almost as someone to depend and rely on, without considering who Amity ACTUALLY is and what she truly wants; Because Amity isn’t some stoic emotional crutch, she’s still a kid with her own insecurities and needs, just like Boshca. Boscha can perhaps stop looking at Amity for who Boscha wants her to be…

          …You know, the way her mother treats Boscha herself.

[solarcelest]

escape route

Day #8

It was one of those horrid, much dreaded nights. The type that comes only once a month and somehow that still seems to be way too often. None of the family took too well to attending Fathers galas, all doing their best to produce excuses and reasons to warrant their absence. Most get away with it, especially Dick and Jason since the public are aware that the oldest Wayne has his own, separate life in Bludhaven and the second eldest is hardly ever in the public eye. He wished that Richard were there, he at least would wave off some of the offending hands and, unlike the unfortunate Cass, the irritating miscreants surrounding him would listen to the five foot eleven man. For now however he was there to suffer, with some of the other members of his family who seemed to have more of a difficulty cultivating excuses to escape these horrid gatherings.

Cassandra, the only official female member of the Wayne family, was absolutely adored by the press. There were more gossip magazines and new articles about his sister than Damian was able to make himself aware of (no matter how hard he tried to keep up on all the tabloids about his siblings). The public was always going on about how what a beautiful young lady she is (something Cass doesn’t particularly appreciate) and how everyone knows she will grow up to do great things for the world and about how great she is for the family.

Tim, being the CEO of Wayne Enterprises is therefore obligated to attend nearly every company event (except for the many he doesn't) and always does his ‘best’ to show.

Such a surprise he was not there tonight.

He was, Damian does have to credit him, at the gala for a brief time earlier in the evening. But, the city calls and with the Bats already short staffed and Tim neck deep in a nearly solved case, he had checked out early to go on patrol.

Oh, how envious Damian was of him. He was getting antsy, crowded into this (really not so) small room with so many intolerable people.

Damian was similar to Cass. Through the oh so innocent eyes of the public, ten year old Damian Wayne was nothing more than a poor abused child who was always clinging to his family members like shadows. Just a little kid who had been beaten and abandoned by his mother for the first decade of his life before being left to the father who wasn’t even aware of his existence.

And, well, Damian did have to give them a few points for accuracy.

The thing they didn’t have the right, however, the fact they had absolutely incredibly wrong was the assumption that Damian Wayne was cute. Which, to anyone idiotic enough to have to question that fact, was not.

Still, the rich snobs who occupied the event hall seemed to believe otherwise with how often they approached simply to coo and attempt to ruffle his still baby soft raven hair or pinch his, only slightly, chubby cheeks. Damian, who was not the biggest fan of physical contact already, disliked the constant attention from the ogling strangers and thus was his reason for tagging so close to Cassandra that night.

The two stood as they were, would probably make the front page, or at least popular photo the following day. Cassandra, who, even at her short stature stood nearly a foot above Damian, had each of her hands placed on either of shoulders. The boy was nearly rigid beneath her slender fingers, anxious from the crowd around him and the constant touching and pestering. She herself wasn’t much better but still, be older and the current big sister kept her discomfort to herself and helped to ground her brother.

They made their way off to the side, standing a ways away from the denser areas of the crowd in order to breath again. Pulling cover a chair, Cass motioned for her little brother to take a seat.

“Going to help Bruce.” She said, gesturing to where he was being bombarded with Vicky Bales never ending questions. She then turned back to Damian before pointing to the food tables not far to his right. “Eat.” She said, before sauntering off, her black dress flowing behind her.

Damian watched, more than a little jealous that at least she had something to go and do before he sighed and headed over to the food tables. He want necessarily hungry, he was trained to run in very little nutrients (much to Pennyworth disliking) but decided to at least see what was available.

Most of the items in the spread were finger foods, small sized appetizers and tapas that were meant to be grabbed and easily snacked on, not like the three course meal that was planned to come later in the night. There were a few different things though, a chocolate fountain that dripped lazily and cheese fondue. Damian sighed at both of the rather fattening choices, opting instead for one of the oranges resting in the fruit bowl.

He grabbed a dull steak knife then, the only blade near him that was not secured to his hip by a holster or tucked into his sock, resting the fruit on a plate set on the table before going about cutting it. He realized how hungry he actually was then, his stomach growling in response to the fresh smell of the fruit.

He had only altered his focused to his plate momentarily but, as it seemed, a second was all it had taken. Suddenly, all too quickly, there was a breath on his neck and a voice in his ear. It was sweet, sickly and male. The exact kind of things his father and siblings had always warned to watch for at events like these.

Bold of them to assume that Damian wasn’t always watching.

“Hungry?” Was all the voice asked. Yet the simple question carried so much weight and implied all the wrong intentions. Damian jumped, shocked by the voice and even more so by what was said. As he startled, the knife slipped, fingers moistened by the fruit juice, the handle slipping easily through them.

The blade, no longer in his control, cut down into the orange once again. But this time it was too far forward, too near his other hand and cut through the skin between his thumb and forefinger.

The cut was jagged, the blade too dull to slice evenly and blood began to seep from the wound almost immediately. Acidic oils from the citrus began to sting at the cut, causing a burning sensation to add to the pain.

Damian saw his opening.

After staring at this hands in offense, easily mistaken for shock by a bystander, he promptly burst into tears. It was humiliating, most definitely and he could nearly feel his pride dwindling on the spot, but Damian thought that was an okay payment if it meant he able to leave this wretched event even a little bit early.

Turning around and sliding past the creep, only after wiping just enough blood on the man's coat to mark the offender, Damian made a beeline towards his father and Cassandra. The buffet table, though out of the way, was still close enough to where the crowd was more congested, that numerous heads had already turned to see the source of the sound. Father was included, the man tall amongst the other elites, was brushing by them as he hurried past.

Damian met Father in the middle. By this time, the crowd had begun to form around them, interested in the cause of the scene. Damian had salty tears running down his soft cheeks and snot collecting in his upper lip. The perfect picture of a distraught child, he nearly smiled at his own perfected acting skills.

“What’s the matter, son? What happened?” Father asked as he kneeled down. Even then, he was slightly taller than Damian. Father was a large man.

Damian sniveled, offering his bloodied hand for observation. Father took it gingerly and began to gently prod at Damian’s minuscule fingers.

Damian had suffered much worse during his training and on patrol and was well aware that Father knew he was playing this up. Like, a lot. Presumably, the ‘world's greatest detective’ also knew his sons motives.

“I-I was c-cutting an orange a-and someone snuck up b-behind m-me!” He gasped, sucking in large gulps of air between his sobs, just as he had seen the misbehaved children and the park do.

Perfect.

“What man?” Father inquiered, looking around at the crowd. Damian reeled, pointing a shaking finger at the man accusingly. He still wore his suit jacket, a red swipe of Damian’s blood across the pocket, he was also turning to walk away. Only guilty men attempted to escape. Father nodded to Jim Gordon, who had been running security at that nights event, before turning back to Damian.

“I think this needs stitches.” He said, grabbing a cloth napkin to press against Damian’s hand. “Come on, we’ll go to Leslie’s.” And then, much to Damian’s surprise, Father lifted Damian by his underarms and rested the ten year old on his hip, motioning to Cassandra to follow. Damian stiffened, unused to the feeling of being held like this, of his feet dangling above the ground even though he was not in shackles. Father didn’t seem to mind though, and was able to easily support Damian’s small weight on only a single arm.

From over Father’s shoulder, Damian could see the other guests of the gala stare at the trio as they left the hall. Most of their faces held concern, some confusion at Bruce’s relatively calm hold on the rather bloody situation. Damian ceased his tears as the crowd became smaller, but hid his face in the collar of Bruce’s coat nonetheless. He never liked the feeling of eyes boring into him, of having all the attention on him when he was out as a civilian. It was unnerving, even if he would never admit it.

Bruce hadn’t said anything about the incident as they left, but Cassandra sent her brother a knowing look. Damian knew he would not be getting out of giving his sister the full run through of tonight's events later in the evening. He had a feeling he would not be in trouble though. After all, as a civilian child, a cut such as so would have them heading for the hospital whether he played it up or not. He was only staying in character acting as he was.

Father had acted well too, playing the part of the concerned parent and comforting Damian. No doubt it would be the top headline by the following morning, pictures everywhere.

Pennyworth was waiting by the main entrance for them, a gauze wrap in his hands for a temporary bandage.

Cass was looking at Damian again, a soft smile on her lips as Pennyworth began to wrap the tender cut. Father had yet to put him down and Damian was beginning to wonder why. After all, he hadn’t really been in danger and, even if he had been, Damian was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, thank you.  

But, even as Pennyworth secured the wrap and the buildings staff opened the door for them Father did not loosen his hold. And still, when they stepped into the cool autumn air, Father went further as to place a hand on Damian's back and honestly, the boy couldn’t tell whether the act had been continued for the sake of the few valets tending the entrance or, if it was simply just a dad, looking for an excuse to hold his son.

read on Ao3 instead

[jamiebluewind]

Fantasy High Theory: Fabian has an eating disorder

TW: eating disorder symptoms, anorexia symptoms, abuse mention, death mention, violence mention, gun mention, alcohol mention, drug mention, trauma mention, smoking mention,...

Word Count: about 2100

I know this is a big assumption to make with what we have, but I couldn't ignore all the data and the warning signs. In fact, I think that even if Fabian does not have an eating disorder at this time, he's certainly at risk for one and needs the issues addressed before it gets worse.

Before I get into it, let me remind everyone that I am about to talk about a very heavy subject. Remember, stay safe and consider the warnings before you continue. You can always message me for a summary of the red flags or for an edited version if you need it. I would rather you be safe than to have you're like on my theory.

Okay? Okay. Let's start by defining a few things.

Eating Disorder: Any of a range of psychological disorders in which people experience severe disturbances in their eating behaviors and related thoughts/emotions. People with eating disorders typically become pre-occupied with food and/or their body weight/shape.

ARFID: Avoidant/restrictive food intake disorder is an eating disorder characterized by eating very little food and/or avoiding eating certain foods. It does not include having a distorted body image (as occurs in anorexia nervosa) or being preoccupied with body image (as occurs in bulimia nervosa). People with avoidant/restrictive food intake may not eat because they lose interest in eating or because they think eating has harmful consequences. They may avoid certain foods because of their color, consistency, or odor. When it becomes more severe, it can cause substantial weight loss, slower-than-expected growth in children, difficulty participating in normal social activities, and sometimes life-threatening nutritional deficiencies.

Anorexia nervosa: Diagnosed when patient BMI (body mass index which is a rule of thumb measuring body size vs mass) is low for their age and height. Severity is classified as mild (BMI of greater than 17), moderate (BMI of 16–16.99), severe (BMI of 15–15.99), or extreme (BMI of less than 15). Hallmarks of anorexia include limited food intake, excessive monitoring of the calorie and fat content of food, fear of being “fat”, problems with body image, denial of low body weight, excessive exercise, food rituals, cold intolerance, mood swings, sleeping issues, chronic fatigue, distorted body image, and many more. Eventually, the body goes into starvation which cause a lot of bad symptoms.

Atypical anorexia nervosa: All of the criteria for anorexia nervosa are met, except the individual's weight is within or above the normal range.

Again, ANY BMI can still mean a person has an eating disorder. It is NOT confined to those that are underweight. The BMI is only there as a red flag and to help classify severity of anorexia. I want to make this very clear, not just for my theory, but for the people reading this who recognize parts of it in themselves or others. I'm about to give an example that gets... personal in order to show that people who don't fit the stereotype of being underweight can still have an eating disorder. How personal? My own.

I am overweight to obese (depending on the doctor and the range). I don't exercise much. I eat pretty well around friends. But I have an eating disorder. I just... don't get hungry most of the time, so I forget to eat a lot more often than is healthy. A LOT more. I've been to the hospital a few times due to dehydration. I've collapsed because I literally forgot to eat for two or three days. I could have died at one point because despite being overweight, I was eating so little that things just... stopped working. Again, I was overweight. People and doctors thought I was just lazy. I was told to eat less and exercise more. Even my blood tests came back fine until one day, they didn't. And even then, nobody listened. Somebody doesn't have to look how you expect them to in order to have a problem. Also, don't be afraid to reach out for help if you feel like some of this hits close to home or someone you know is showing symptoms. It's okay to need help.

So remember, eating disorders can affect anybody with any body. The important thing is to be kind, supportive, and encourage professional help such as cognitive therapy.

****

Now to list Fabian's risk factors (I only listed the ones I believe he has)

Dysfunction family: This is a big risk factor for Fabian. His father is chaotic evil and (despite loving his son) puts massive pressure on him and tries to make him conform to his ideal for most of Fabian's life. Fabian has seen his father abuse his crew and snap at the drop of a hat. His mother has been a heavy alcoholic and mostly absent his entire first 16 years and when she gets off alcohol, she puts an extreme amount of pressure on him herself.

Abuse: This is another big one. His parents have been verbally abusive, emotionally abusive, neglectful in a variety of ways, controlling, manipulative, isolating, and his mother rested his food intake. He could have also been physically abused in the guise of sparing.

Genetics: Fabian's mother is very slim. Using images of weights and comparing it to her shape, she in fact fits the underweight shape which may or may not imply a genetic component depending on if the normal body shapes are different for high elves or not.

Exposure to warped body ideals and weight stigma: Exposure to "body ideals" in places like the media (especially if at a young age) can increase body dysfunction and eating disorder risk. Weight stigma can make this worse due to discrimination and stereotyping based on a person’s weight. Fabian has actually been exposed to this a lot due to his father and the crew. He's a kid around very strong muscular people and he feels pushed to get stronger to live up to his dad. It's also very easy to imagine that crew members who were not strong or active enough got a very bad reaction from his father, which would reinforce the ideal. Some of this is conjecture, but it's not so far outside the realm of possibility to be impossible.

Participation in sports: He's on the Bloodrush team and is a fencer.

Pressure to have a certain body shape from family: I think this risk factor is there too, especially when his mother takes over training.

Bullying/Teasing: Fabian was actually bullied by peers when he first starts school, but I believe his parents were bullying him long before that.

Trauma and PTSD: Oh boy, is this solid. He was most likely traumitized by his parents before high school. He saw two new friends die the first day of school and nearly died himself, only saved by Riz. He watched two teachers die by gunshot right in front of him (and a staff member killed by bludgeoning). Fabian mentions having nightmares about Riz killing Daybreak which might have been due to it being via gunshot. He was forced to kill people due to the situation he found himself in. The person who was supposed to have been helping them the entire time (Biz) turned out to be an evil dude who trapped one friend in a palimpsest and wanted to capture another. He was stuck in jail for weeks! His family was attacked, his home was damaged, and his dad died (and by his hand no less). He and his friends almost died to a dragon. That's a LOT of trauma for a kid to try to process and Jawbone mentioned that he never came to visit him, so he probably dealt with a lot of it on his own.

Low self-esteem: This is unfortunately something else he has. Despite all the bravado, he doesn't know how to be a friend or have people like him for who he is (instead of who his parents are or how much money he has). He tries to put up a cool front, but he judges himself very harshly.

Perfectionism. One of the strongest risk factors for an eating disorder is perfectionism, especially self-oriented perfectionism, which involves setting unrealistically high expectations for oneself. If they fail to meet their high expectations, the person becomes very self-critical. Fabian has this type of perfectionism.

History of an anxiety disorder: This one is reaching, but possible. People often show signs of an anxiety disorder (generalized anxiety, social phobia, OCD,...) before the onset of an eating disorder and Fabian stays on edge a lot, worries excessively, puts up a front, and deals with nightmares.

Substance abuse: Fabian has had alcohol and drugs before the age of 16, his parents almost encouraging it. He smokes regularly. Addiction runs in his family as well with his mother being an alcoholic and his father doing multiple drugs. Neither parent even hides the fact that they take drugs and drink alcohol to excess, the crew probably took drugs and got drunk in front of a young Fabian, and Bill offered drugs to his friends upon meeting them.

History of using weight-controling methods and dieting: Fabian exercises a great deal. He skips meals. He has a limited number of things he will eat. There is a lot of evidence to back this up.

Limited social networks: This was a HUGE issue before high school. Fabian was very isolated. He had no friends, limited social activities, and lacked proper social support. Recently, he's been skipping class exclusively which on top of smoking a lot, puts distance between him and other people.

Long story short? Our boy is at risk. Big time.

****

List of common signs of eating disorders (including anorexia)

Limited food intake: Seen when he has mostly protein smoothies, his mother tries to give him limited rations, and when he refuses to eat with his friends more and more as the series goes on. The first incident of it was in Cool Kids, Cold Case where Fabian refused the food he was offered on two separate occasions, passing it to Riz both times. Once was after the battle with Daybreak and being stuck at the police station a good while. The other was when the teens were hanging out at Riz's appartment when Sklonda got takeout. Fabian's mom also makes him earn food as seen in the live show. This mentality could have very well been internalized, even with Cathilda there to try and give him more.

Excessive monitoring of the calorie and fat content of food: He worries about empty calories, how fattening something is, and removed the cheese from a slice of pizza and dabbed the oil

Fear of being “fat” or in a shape that is not the ideal: In episode 1 of season 2, he is very preoccupied with staying trim and tight.

Excessive exercise: He exercises who knows how long every morning plus for Bloodrush plus the times outside of that

Food rituals: This is interacting with food a certain way (like small bites or how it's prepared) which causes anxiety when not followed. The pizza event might be one, but it's hard to say without a pattern.

Sleeping issues: Fabian has issues with sleeping, dreaming, and nightmares. His father confirmed this and he himself mentioned his nightmares.

Weight loss: By comparing his previous official artwork with his new official artwork, it's easy to see that Fabian looks visibly thinner. He's also VERY cut. (very defined muscles requiring very little fat) for his age. He was muscular last year sure, but his chest and abs are much more defined this year. Being that cut means that despite how muscular Fabian is, he has been eating less and probably doing fat burning exercises, getting a lot of his nutrition from multivitamins and whey, and would have less energy than normal.

Negative energy balance/chronic fatigue: This is only a possibility, but it deserves being mentioned. If this is going on, it puts a spin on some of Fabian's other actions in season 2, episode 1. He showed up late on move in day and didn't really move anything (just carried a book), which might have been a character thing, but could have also been because Fabian is running on empty and capable of things like adrenaline fueled busts of energy, but otherwise dealing with low energy and fatigue.

Also, Fabian is smoking now which works as an appetite suppressant as is common among those with eating disorders.

(Signs with no evidence as of this post: problems with body image, denial of low body weight, cold intolerance, mood swings)

~*~*~*~*~*~

TLDR: Fabian is showing a lot of symptoms of an eating disorder and also over a dozen risk factors. The number of both is substantial enough to see a pattern. Enough that I sincerely hope that it's acknowledged during the season because if Fabian does not have an eating disorder, he is at substantial risk of developing one.

PS: I know it's data heavy, I might have missed a few things, and it could be totally wrong, but I seen enough there that I thought it might make for a solid theory. D20 is no stranger to heavy subjects and I think if they do cover it, they will do a good job (as always). If they don't, I still learned a lot making this theory and maybe a few of you will as well. ^_^

[moon-beam95]

Two of a kind

By: Moon-Beam95

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy

Pairing: Klaus x Reader

Every child wants to be a hero, to have super-strength or to soar above the clouds, but let’s be real it won’t pay the bills. So when you realised you could see things others could not, you did the only logical thing and kept shtum. Like hell you were going to tell anyone about this freakshow. Thanks, but not thanks. Yet, you found that the older you became the harder it was to ignore them. The dearly departed wanted to talk, pass on message, demand that you help them, as if you owed them something. Fuck that noise! If they wanted your help they could damn well pay like every other fucker.

You started a sort of PI service, think Randall and Hopkirk, helped by the dead who you would then help, a little quid pro quo if you will. You had come to heavily rely on your powers a far cry from the child who was easily traumatised by the admittedly terrifying spectors. How do you tell the police that your sure your uncle murdered his wife when there was no proof, except his wife standing over him screaming obscenities, and gesturing wildly? How do you tell your parents that your not in fact playing make believe but playing with a lost little girl who never made it home? The one time you tried to explain,practically begging for them to say it would all be ok, they looked at you as if you were a monster, terrified beyond relief. So you sucked it up and laughed it off as it was all one big joke and never mentioned it again.

But like you said as you got older your powers grew stronger, which meant that the voices got stronger and you could slowly but surely could touch them, though this took a lot of effort on your part, easier for them to do damage. How do you tell the school nurse who slips you a pamphlet on abuse into your shaking hands, that the bruises littering your hands are from a man shot point blank by his lover in a jealous rage and not from an unfortunate home situation? Again, you don’t.

One of your cases brought you into contact with him. Klaus Hargreeves. At first you dismissed him as nothing more than another druggy, passed out in a literal shitty bin after coming down from a high. Yet, when you questioned the nearby girl, dressed in a ridiculously short dress, blood dripping from her sliced neck, needing to know if she'd seen the girl in the photograph you brandished, he reacted. He stopped whatever he was doing in the bin, peering over the edge and checking that yes you were talking to the dead girl, and clambered out of the bin. You tried to ignore him and the racket he created but he picked you up and swung you around squealing in joy.

“You see them too.”

Startled, you froze. It was then you noticed the ghost following him, oh great. You slapped his arm guestering for him to put you down.

“What the fuck man? Don’t go randomly touching strangers. I’m working for fucks sake,” you swung back around but the girl had gone, “Great and now my lead has gone. Thanks a bunch!”

He laughed, still giddy and clearly not at all repentant. “Klaus.”

“What” you said distractedly, not at all interested, mind already racing through other possible leads. A hand shot out and you took it out of reflex.

“My name, Klaus.”

“Y/N”

You turn around to head out of the alley, waving over your shoulder as he calls out.

“Wait. I’ve never met anyone who can see what I do.” You carry on walking, too far now to hear what his ghost had called out.

The second time you meet, you've managed to get yourself cornered by a thoroughly pissed of spirit. The fight hadn’t been going to badly, until you head a disgustingly cheerful voice shout

“Oi, weird girl its you.”

The spirit takes advantage of your distraction and he dives at you, slamming your head against the wall, hand encircling your neck. Screeching in your face, and let me tell you, ghostly spit, gross as shit. You rear back in what little space you have and slam your head into his, causing him to stumble. Ignoring the pain you start towards him but he fades with a parting -

“Bitch.”

You turn to Klaus head throbbing "You again. Really, what do you get a commission each time you fuck my case up?"

He holds his hands up, the ghost with him smirking. "Nope," popping the p, "But boy am I glad I ran into you. Also the ghost? How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Hurt it."

You quirk an eyebrow "can't you?"

"Nope, just hear them."

You shrug, "dunno always been able to, the more intune I became the easier it was."

His attitude did a 180 and he became quiet, subdued almost. "Can you. Can you make them stop?"

You gave a soft smile, pity blooming, you understood the need to drown everything out .

Feeling sorry you reply. "They don't ever really go but you learn to ignore them, a bit like background noise."

He sighs and the pity surges forth once more. You of all people knew how overwhelming the dead could be.

You reach down and shoulder your fallen bag, extending an olive branch.

"Let me get you a drink."

You look him over, he's still dressed in a long black, fur lined coat that grazed his ankles and trousers that looked painted on. He looks less high this time but the ghost still looks on with a concerned gaze. Your eyes flicker over to the hooded boy "and your friend."

"Brother" He corrects.

You wince, eyes closing briefly, but it does explain his constant hovering and Klaus' lack of concern. In my experience rarely did anything good from them hanging around too long.

The brother warily looks at you before tentatively reaching out a hand.

"Ben"

You smile back in what you hope is a comforting manner and give his hand a soft squeeze.

"Y/N"

His fingers tighten around yours as he looks at where your hands are connected mistified, while Klaus looks on longingly.

The walk to a nearby pub is quiet. The pub itself not so much. You both order and take a quiet booth in the back.

You sit in silence wondering how to broach the subject, him picking at the label on his bottle.

"How did you know you had powers?"

"How did you?" He asks back clearly reluctant but your willing to take a chance. You wished you'd had someone to guide you before you'd found Mildred. Still, you thought rolling your shoulder to relieve tension, better late than never.

So taking a deep breath you began. "It's always been there, figures in the corner of my eye. When I was seven I lost my aunt and police ruled it a home invasion gone wrong. But the next time I went there I saw her. Sat in her usual chair, head caved in. And I could see. I could see it. Shards of bone, brain matter leaking from the crevice." You pause taking a drink, trying to separate yourself from your memories.

"I scared the shit out of everyone when I screamed. She noticed I saw and began to shout, argue, swearing about uncle. I was terrified and begged to leave. They thought I was being a dramatic little shit, but I just couldn't stay there, it happened again and again every time they dragged me there. And each time my aunt got worse, more angry, more vengful and suddenly she wasn't the woman who baked cakes when I slept over or kissed my boo boos, she was this, this wraith."

"Well that sucks."

You snort. " No kidding, I always seem to find the worse ghosts. Wherever I go death follows."

He dropped his eyes and Ben liked on in concern, he was a quiet soul.

He began quietly. "When dad saw what I could do, when I came to him shaking and begging for help, he locked me in a crypt. No light, no nothing. Just voices screaming out." He paused here, taking a breath, giving a worthless chuckle.

"I musta been there hours, bodies screeching at me, all in different states of decay. When the door finally opened I was relieved but he just said, 3 more hours."

You jumped as he slammed his bottle down, cursing out, how could a man do that to his child. Reaching out a hand you caress his. He looked into your eyes and saw understanding.

"What a dick."

"You're not wrong. Then I discovered drugs and the high, the hallucinations drowned them out. So it was Hello drugs bye bye ghosts. And good riddance."

He looked at his brother smiling fondly. "Except Ben, no matter what he always forced himself through the drug filled haze."

"Mildred" you interrupted "I was 17 and my boyfriend, well ex-boyfriend died and completely lost it. He wouldn't leave me alone, he seemed determined to destroy my life. It wasn’t what your thinking no big acts of violence or anything, it started as just a few words here and there, constant muttering just at the edge where I had to strain to hear him. And i was just so happy he was there you know? It grew from there, it wasn’t some great battle it was a fucking siege.Then one night terrified and beyond tired I sat in the bath sobbing I just couldn't take it anymore, the constant whispering, I just wanted it all too end. Then she appeared, sat on the toilet, a bullet hole through the brain watching me. She taught me everything."

Klaus and Ben stared on in rapt attention, drinking in every word.

"Apparently she'd met someone like me ages ago, he'd helped her and so she swore to help those like him. It was little things, guided meditations. She talked about the veil a sort of in between where they reside. I hadn't really understood that at first, but I learned that the hard way. And above all she said your will had to be stronger than theirs."

"Well" he drawled "that sounds anti-climatic."

You shrugged a shoulder, " It worked, so I ain't complaining."

He took another swig of his beer and Ben latched onto an earlier piece.

"What did you mean you leaned the hard way about the veil."

You breathed out through your nose, "What we can do, walking among the dead, touching souls it leaves a mark. When we spend time convening with the spirits we enter the same state, were neither dead nor alive and that, that's what leaves a mark. "

They both quired a brow and despite the situation you had to stifle a laugh you could see the family resemblance now, they had similar mannerisms.

"When I was 18, I was still learning with Mildred, she had set me a simple task to help a spirit. He seems kind enough, he kept up a stream of chatter had he been alive we might have been friends." You laugh darkly, reaching up to scrub at your now stinging eyes. "He was so kind, and understanding, til one night I was in a motel, we've travelled to find some family of his. We were relaxing on the bed, and just as I was drifting off he climbed on top of me and smothered my face with a pillow. He killed me. I wasn't the first and he was beyond pleased when he heard there was someone who could interact with the dead. It was all kind of a haze what happened next, the was light so pure and happy, then pain and heat. Then a tugging sensation and I was back in body. I woke up in a dingy motel room, and the world was cold and numb."

"Jesus" Klaus breathed out. "What a wanker."

You let out a wet laugh, meeting his eyes you give a sad smile that could only have been gained through experience.

"Our powers, our gifts are in some ways the most dangerous, we walk along the living and the dead, yet we are neither. Unlike others, we can be hurt by the residents of both worlds, we have to be doubly careful."

"So we can't die?" He said, taking her word as gospel. There seemed like too many downsides to developing his powers, but for his brother, who spent his death watching over him there was nothing he wouldn't do. Not to mention that whole bit about light and pain and numbness sounded startlingly familiar, but for now that was going in the nope box.

"It seems so, I don't plan on testing it and I don't recommended you do either." You said tipping your bottle at him narrowing your eyes.

He lifted hand, "scouts honour."

"Please" you said " you weren't ever a scout."

You spent the night chatting, keeping it light hearted. The boys would tell stories of a superhero past and shenanigans they got up to. You shared stories of cases that took funny turns and embarrassing ghost requests. It felt so good to have someone who understood and a ghost who wasn't demanding anything or trying to kill you. But all good things come to an end and the pub began to close.

He stood drawing his cost around him, inclining his head "thank you for this love." Ben smiled. As they turned to leave,you found yourself doing something she never imagined doing.

"I could help. With your powers I mean. It'll be a hella lot cheaper than drugs and you maybe able to connect with Ben here more."

The brothers share a quick glance and both flash you excited grins. Klaus steps forward, slings an arm around your shoulders tugging you between the two brothers.

"Y/N, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

End.

[thiscrimsonsoul]

Not to mix up lores, but what would Wanda do if she could visit Stephen King's "Pet Sematary" and she still had Pietro's/Vision's bodies nearby? (Although I don't think it would work with Vision because... He's a super complex being! And I'm assuming you know what happens because you write so well, I'm sure you read a lot) Would Wanda try to bring them back despite the warnings? Or would she let them rest?

{out of paprikash} Oh, this is such a cool question! Lots to discuss here. I’m a big horror book and movie buff and I love both for “Pet Sematary.” So... I think it would depend on Wanda’s mental state at the time, and exactly how much she was told about the results of burying someone at the “Pet Sematary.” Let’s do a best case/worst case scenario thing, shall we?

Best case scenario, Wanda is of relatively sound mind and is shown or told pretty compelling stories to make her think twice. Maybe she was shown a news article of what happened to the Creeds or some other family affected by the place, or she had someone explain to her in gory detail what happened. Hmm... I guess for the benefit of my followers who may not know the story, I should explain a bit so that everyone understands. You know what? Under the cut because I ended up rambling on FOREVER with this ask, haha...

“Pet Sematary,” spelled incorrectly because it was supposed to have been written on a sign by young children, was a place where you could bury the dead and have them come back to life. Sort of, heh. Started as a graveyard where kids buried their pets, it was an evil place that twisted whatever was buried there. It was located on an Indian burial ground (very trope-ish, I know), and basically the premise was that the ground had “gone sour.” Whatever you buried there would come back to you, so I mean it did work, but there were consequences. There was one iconic line in the original movie, I forget whether it was in the book too, I read it so many years ago, but it was, “Sometimes, dead is better.” In other words, as painful as it is to lose someone, it’s even more so to have their memory twisted or overwritten by some perversion or obscene likeness of them. It’s also even more painful to deal with all the other associated consequences, of which there were many...

The first initial moments of the animal or person coming back to you might be nice, only because it takes a while for the full evil to set in, and of course you wanted your loved one back, so seeing them again makes you happy. But pretty soon you would notice them having some weird behaviors. They might stare at you creepily, might want to eat raw meat, might be angrier or crueler than you remember them, might be obsessed with weapons or sharp objects. And the more you either question the behavior or try to correct it, the angrier and more frustrated the person or animal becomes.

The next stage is them trying to harm or even kill random people and animals around you or even people in your family or your friends. The resurrected person or animal becomes more and more violent and murderous, and less like the loved one you buried. Their actions become more impulsive, less rational, and more instinctual, like a crazed animal more than a healthy one or a sane person. They might drool, growl, hit their head against the wall... just really strange things, even as they harm or kill everyone around you.

The last stage is them hunting and killing you, the person who buried them. In fact, there was a rule for this. “You bury your own.” It’s kindof like well... if you want this done, if you want this person or animal to come back and are basically willing to spit in the face of the laws of nature to make it happen, then you have to take responsibility for the associated consequences. And it becomes really cruel and heartbreaking because they will try to lure you to them with false kindness and love.

So... at the point at which they’re trying to kill you, you’re probably on to them by now and wanting to re-kill them to get them to stop killing your family and friends. But they’re a loved one too, and they know it, and they’ll use it. So if it’s a cat, it’ll mew softly or purr at your leg before jumping at your throat. If it’s a spouse, they’ll try to hug you or kiss you as they’re raising a knife to your back. if it’s a child, they’ll cry for mommy or daddy as they conceal a scalpel or some other weapon to harm you with as soon as you pick them up. They might ask you, “Why are you doing this to me?” while looking super sad, and the second you start to break down and regret things, they’ll move in for the kill. So they really use your love for them as a weakness to get to you, which is a very sad concept.

The premise is a lot like, for those of you who love the horror genre, the second story of Trilogy of Terror II (1996). A woman whose son drowned in the ocean near their home performs an occult ritual to bring him back. The boy does come back, and he seems confused, disoriented, cold, but otherwise fine. Very quickly, however, he becomes mouthy, demanding, disobedient, destructive... and eventually he ends up trying to kill his mom. The punch line of the story is that the boy didn’t drown accidentally, but rather he jumped off the cliffs and into the water to get away from his controlling and abusive mother. The boy’s soul didn’t want to come back, so something else came back instead. Something evil. Well Pet Sematary is the same kind of deal. It’s almost like Celtic stories of changelings, how it looks exactly like the person you know, but doesn’t act like them at all.

The upshot is that anything buried at the Pet Sematary would come back in the body you buried (which had it’s own downsides if the body was badly destroyed during the person’s death, and the person/animal would smell really bad, because they are in fact still dead) but the soul of the person you loved wouldn’t be inside. Instead, there was something else, soulless, evil, demonic, whatever you wanted to infer it was. And it was always just... utterly remorseless, entirely without empathy, and would always just tear apart the life of the person who buried the body before actually killing them too. I think there was a lesson here, or maybe a few lessons, something to the effect of, death is permanent and there’s not coming back from it. But also... there are consequences for imagining yourself above the laws of nature. And also... shame on you for disturbing the rest of a person who may not want to come back. Whether they wanted to die or prefer to remain dead now that they are, it’s seen as total selfish hubris on the part of the person burying their dead loved one because it’s about easing your pain instead of letting your loved one rest in peace.

Okay so now that I’ve blabbed on and on about that... the best case scenario for Wanda is if she’s fairly mentally stable, maybe just grieving but has not lost touch with reality yet, and that she is swayed by the stories she reads/hears. Wanda does believe in demons, she is superstitious, and she is very fearful of things like damning souls for eternity. It’s why she is so disturbed by what she feels when Pietro dies and interprets it partially from what she actually feels but partially out of fear and grief as him ending up in some sort of hell or place where his soul is being tortured in some way. So she does believe in such things and Pietro and Vision both are two people she loved so fiercely that if she is in her right mind, she would not play around with anything that might damn them, punish them, torture them, or twist their natures at all.

With Pietro and his love of running and athletics and with Vision and his unique body, Wanda would not be attracted to the idea of bringing them back in bodies that are falling apart, rotting, or otherwise continuing to die even though they are animated. That’s... perverted to her. It’s a perversion of nature and of their bodies which she values because they were important to them, so she would never want to bring them back in any condition that would upset them or be anything less than the ideal they would want to live in.

But I think the real kicker that would really drive home for her that this is a bad idea and something she wouldn’t mess with is if someone explained to her that it wouldn’t be the soul of the person she actually loves being brought back. It’d be their body, but something dark inside them. That would really both scare her and turn her off to the whole idea.

Also, something I just thought of... is that if Wanda actually went to the Pet Sematary - and this is my own headcanons to some extent - she might be able to read the land? Wanda reads minds, yes, but she is also attuned to certain energies and very empathetic. She might either sense the evil of the land, the “sourness,” as it were... or she might maybe pick up on residual emotions from people who had been victimized by the land. That would also be a huge deterrent to her actually going through with anything.

NOW... heh... WORST case scenario. So let’s say this is a post-Endgame Wanda who did not adjust well and is now grieving Vision along with Pietro and her parents and Natasha and Tony and anybody else she’s lost. Maybe she tries to use her own powers to bring Vision back and it doesn’t work. She’s getting exhausted, run down, frustrated, more grief-stricken, and now she’s losing touch with reality. She’s seeing things. She’s sleep-deprived. She’s not eating well. And all of that is making her so desperate to just have somebody come back to her. That version of Wanda might actually go through with it. Although at that point, she’d have to do Vision because there wouldn’t be enough of a body left from Pietro to try it with him. I don’t see Wanda doing it with Pietro after Ultron, I just don’t see her being that mentally unstable yet at that point in her life to make such an unwise decision. But after Endgame? Yeah. Maybe. But for now we’ll assume she buries Vision there.

So... this is actually gonna get real sad, real fast, heh, because there’s no happy ending here at all. One outcome is that Vision goes on a rampage and starts killing people and other Avengers have to find some way to kill him, in which case Wanda would seriously lose her shit to see Vision killed a third time. I think if she’s mentally unstable enough to bury him in the sour land after all those warnings, then she might actually be able to look past whatever evil he was doing and just be utterly delusional about it and insist that he’s fine. So... seeing him killed again would really unhinge her and she might start trying to kill people... at which point... the remaining Avengers would have to either kill or subdue her.

Another outcome is that Vision stays around Wanda for a most part or at least doesn’t draw too much attention to himself and goes right for her, of course with the intent to kill her. But I think at this point Wanda would be so happy to see him in any form that her reaction would be similar to that of Louis Creed when he buried his wife Rachel. For those who haven’t seen the movie (the 1989 version, anyway, I haven’t seen the 2019 one yet), Louis by this time had lost the family cat, his toddler son, his neighbor, and then his wife. Well... the toddler son killed the wife, heh, because he was buried first. But yeah. By the time his wife is killed and he’s forced to re-kill his toddler son, Louis is pretty freakin’ unhinged mentally, heh. He’s just broken by his pain and when Rachel comes back dripping with goo and just her face is falling apart and it’s just nasty, haha... he doesn’t even see it. He only sees his wife, and he’s happy, and he hugs her and kisses her, and she stabs him in the back, heh. It’s gross but it’s also really just heartbreaking to me because he’s so broken by that point. I think a similar situation would happen with Wanda, where she would just be so far gone mentally that she would just be happy to see Vision and would go to him, not knowing or caring that he is pretty much just going to kill her. And that.... gosh, that thought just breaks my heart to pieces. 

Thank you so much for sending this in, this was a really fun hypothetical, fictional exercise for my brain, haha. Like... I really had a lot of fun writing this and imagining all the possibilities. If there’s anything I didn’t cover or you think of other related questions, feel free to send them in, because this was a really interesting rabbit hole to go down! =)

[rangergirl3]

Good morning Tumblr! Or afternoon. *checks watch*

Oh wow, I slept in late. Yay Saturdays! :D

Now that I got a good night’s sleep, I’m going to post here about some of the stuff going on in my life, and if you’d like to read it, great! If not, no worries, it’s below the ‘read more’ line. I didn’t want to take over your Tumblr feeds. :-)

So remember all these shitty parents you’ve seen in media?

1) Denethor (Lord of the Rings)

2) Mother Gothel (Tangled)

3) Orion and Walburga Black (Harry Potter) - okay, so technically we didn’t see either Orion or Walburga, but I do think a screaming portrait counts ;-)

Now imagine they each have a God complex and literally cannot fathom anything being wrong with their parenting style (which included both consistent and varied forms of emotional, physical, psychological, and mental abuse and/or neglect.) Toss in some staggering narcissistic life choices and viewpoints, add in an astonishing depthless lack of empathy, and you have my parents. It was/is a match made in...somewhere other than Heaven. Or at least that’s my opinion. (I know that I’m biased, but then, I’m their kid.)

I lived in 12 houses in about 5 different states before I turned 15 years old. I ended up just writing down our home phone number on a card I kept with me instead of memorizing it because, in my mind, it was easier than trying to keep up with all of the changes going on. I was in and out of schools constantly because of the moves, and because my parents would sporadically want to ‘try homeschooling’. Counted sequentially I attended 8 schools by the time I finished high-school. If my parents had been stable individuals, all this constant transition might not have been such of an upheaval. But instead, they are...themselves. But here’s the main thing:

Before I turned 8 years old, I’d been sexually attacked by two different grown men who were, I think, friends of my parents. I was almost killed both times it happened, and no one noticed what was going on, so each of the jackasses got away with pedophilia, torture, and attempted murder. Basically I survived because I’m stubborn and...I was lucky. Very lucky. (I also played dead the second time and that seemed to work). 

After each of the attacks, neither of my parents noticed any change in my behavior, or really noticed much of anything going on with me. They wanted their kids to be well-behaved, quiet unless spoken to, and...basically had impossible standards for any kid to realistically meet.

I still don’t know who the attackers were (mostly because we moved so much) but when I finally realized what had happened last year and told my parents, they chose not to believe me.

Yep. Seems like my parents are convinced that they ‘would have noticed’ at the time ‘if something was wrong.’ I mean, they didn’t, but then again, they’ve been self-absorbed for years. Oh, and they went on to say that ‘it seems like you (Rangergirl) are making a threat that unless we agree with your version of reality, you won’t speak to us. That makes us very sad, because it’s just not fair to us.’

I’ll be honest - in any conversation where a ‘version of reality’ comes up...you’ve pretty much hit a wall. Especially when it’s the parents refusing to believe their adult daughter because it means they would have to face a reality where they were shitty parents who failed to see what was going on right in front of them.

What really burns me up inside is that they said I have my own ‘version of reality’. No, I don’t, because I don’t have Matrix powers. If I did, I can assure you, Mom and Dad, that this wouldn’t be the scenario I’d create. Instead, I would have made you better parents. 

Anyway. To be honest, I wasn’t surprised at their answer. Devastated, yes. But not surprised. I’d hoped for a different answer, but...yeah. Not surprised. 

See, growing up, I thought it was normal to get hit or screamed at when I ‘did something wrong’ - this included but was not limited to: accidentally breaking dishes while washing up after dinner, eating more than three brownies at a friend’s house, and having poor penmanship on the thank-you cards we’d send to the grandparents after Christmas.

Yes, Mom, because everyone’s judging you and unless your children are perfect in every way, you’ll be refused entrance into Heaven. (That was her convoluted mindset at one point - something about that Bible phrase ‘by their fruits you shall know them’ justifying her mentality that ‘if her kids were bad then she was a bad mother.’) 

I mean, yes, yes she was a bad mother, but not because I broke dishes or ate too many brownies. It was because my mother chose to act in the way she did. She enabled my father’s narcissistic behavior, and when she had a clear choice laid out in front of her, she chose to stroke his ego because that’s what she’s always done.  Ah, breathe it in. Stress, neglect, and an emotional landscape that looks like midnight on the dark side of the moon. It smells like childhood. 

*I am trying not to bitter about the situation, but...it’s been a long year. I promise you that I am doing okay. I have a lot of wonderful people in my life who do care and are helping me, but this is just a lot to process. Anxiety, depression, and complex PTSD are a lot to juggle, but I am going to make it through this.*

I’m pissed at my parents, but at this point, I’m also resigned. I know I can’t change who they choose to be, but I still wish they could see that what they’re doing is wrong.

Some people have told me that my parents ‘do care’ and that they’re both just ‘very clumsy in trying to show it.’

But that’s not the case.

It’s just not.

Because if it was, they would have acted differently. They would have chosen to take time out of their lives to talk this stuff over with me, to take a leap of faith because even though it’s hard to accept something so ugly happened in the past, it’s vital to face the truth so that healing can begin.

But instead, my mother and father just...keep protesting their innocence of any wrongdoing whatsoever. 

“We weren’t abusive - how can you say that?!”

- well, see, I move my tongue and my lips at the same time and then sounds come out - but in all seriousness, there was a lot of messed up stuff going on and I don’t understand why you can’t acknowledge that -

“Do you even know what abuse is?”

 - yes, yes I do, it’s hitting and screaming at your kids whenever they piss you off and then telling them not to say anything to anyone because every family ‘has its problems’ - and neglect is when you fail to notice your first grade daughter is terrified of grown men - 

“Don’t you remember the good times?”

- well, I do remember enjoying the times you weren’t hitting or yelling at me, but since I was convinced I’d do something to mess up and then you would yell at me, no, I woudn’t say those were good times, they were more like ‘not actively bad times’ -

“We said we were sorry!”

- no, you said you were sorry for ‘how it made me feel’ which isn’t really an apology, so the cycle just continued and now I’m not going to just stand here and let you act like jackasses because this is fucking insane

“Can’t you just forgive us?”

- Look, I have forgiven you. Many times. But, you both think, in your twisted way, that forgiveness = forgetting, and you. are. WRONG. 

Forgiveness is not forgetting. That only continues the cycle of abuse without actually addressing it, which is like letting a compound fracture just stay the way it is. Eventually, it leads to disaster.

To my parents, the phrase ‘Forgiving is Forgetting’ is comfortable, safe, and familiar. It’s how they see the world, and it’s how they’ve lived their lives, because this way, they don’t actually have to change. They don’t actually have to do anything differently. They don’t have to take a hard look in the mirror and accept that their actions and choices hurt a lot people, very badly, and that they have done a lot of harm.

They’d rather just glance at the mirror and see a flawless image, because honestly, they are weak, and prideful, and in the end, they love themselves (and each other’s ego) more than the truth.

Which sucks, because it leaves me out in the cold yet again, and even though I’m used to it, I’m not going to let them continue this vicious cycle and pretend that everything is fine.

I’m angry. I’m sad. But I’m not going to let my parents’ mistakes define me.

See, to me, forgiveness is learning from mistakes, accepting responsibility for your actions, and striving to do better, even when it’s difficult and painful.

I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt the people I care about, and sometimes, I don’t like to look in the mirror. But I do, and even though it’s painful and difficult, it’s worth doing, because if I don’t, I will turn out like my parents - self-absorbed, avoiding responsibility for my actions, and blind to who and what really matters in life.

My parents put ideals above people. 

I put people above ideals.

Will I agree with everyone on everything?

Nope. But that’s okay. I can still interact with people, respectfully and kindly, without ‘needing to convert them to my viewpoint’ - because that’s how my parents look at the world. They think they’re supposed to ‘be better’ than everyone else and ‘show them the right way to do things’, and that means they’ve thrown away their common sense and empathy, and that is a stupid choice.

So what’s the point this super long post is trying to make? (Also if you’re still reading this, I am sending you a hug and a virtual high five because...yes you’re a superstar <3)

Basically the point is this: I refuse to be like my parents. They are shallow, self-obsessed, and blind to what really matters. Last year, two of my siblings were in a car accident. (They survived against all odds.) Instead of putting their kids first, my parents went on a pre-scheduled trip to Italy. It wasn’t even their first international trip. They just didn’t want to lose the money on the tickets. Last week, another one of my siblings got hit by a car and had to go to the hospital. (He’s going to be okay, but he was and still is in a lot of pain.) This time, my father went to see him ‘right away’, but left the very next day because he ‘had to make sure he had enough vacation days’ for the rest of the year. He left while my brother was still in the hospital going through tests. He left a note to say goodbye, and that was it.

Yes. My parents are...put simply, insane, and so I am choosing to be nothing like them. I am choosing, every single fucking day, to be something more. 

A lot of the time, I feel that if I’d been a ‘different’ kid, or a ‘better’ child, this whole mess might have turned out differently. But, then again, it probably would not have turned out differently. My parents were not, and are not, satisfied with anything less than what they see as perfection.

I know no one is perfect, but growing up, I tried, so damn hard, to be what they wanted me to be so that I could at least feel worthwhile for short periods of time. My mind had repressed the memories of the attacks, but I was still in a lot of pain that I never felt comfortable talking about with anyone (and especially not my parents).

When I was about 9 years old, I seriously considered suicide, but I decided not to, mostly because I didn’t want my younger siblings to feel like it was their fault. Another consideration was that I knew my parents would be pissed at the mess I left, and I figured that if I wasn’t already dead, I’d get into really deep trouble.

Maybe they would have cared about losing me, but I’m still not sure if that would have been the case. I think my parents would instead grieve the loss of their perfect image. The loss of me, their daughter, would take a backseat to what they considered their real loss - their public image as competent and loving parents. (Which is what’s most important to them, as they’ve demonstrated many times).

It’s what they’re doing now. They claim to be ‘devastated’ at my cutting off contact, but I don’t think they’ll even travel a few states over to sit down and have a therapy session if I invite them. (Something about ‘not knowing the therapist’ - aka ‘we don’t have control over the situation’.) I’m still going to try and invite them to do it, but honestly I’m not optimistic about their response.

It hurts that they don’t see me as important, or worth their time and trouble.But in the end, I’m going to have to let them go regardless of whether it hurts or not.

One of the more painful things I’m realizing in therapy is that I didn’t really have parents growing up. Instead, I lived in a house with two emotionally stunted and dysfunctional adults who either ignored me or treated me badly, and who demanded perfection from me so that they could feel better about themselves. I couldn’t be perfect, so they blamed me for not upholding their impossible standards, and the cycle just went on because neither of my parents wanted to put in the time or effort to fix what was broken.

Right now, I’d put money on the bet that they’re saying that I’m ‘making a big deal out of nothing’ and I’m sure they both think that I’ll eventually ‘come back to my senses and everything will be fine again’.

But I’m not making a mountain out of a molehill, and I’m not going to ‘come back to my senses.’

I honestly don’t think this situation will change, because for that to happen, my parents would have to swallow their pride, and that’s the one thing they will not do. Instead, they’ll proclaim to anyone who’ll listen that this situation is so painful, but just like they’ve done before, they won’t actually try to fix it.

Over this last year, their actions, words, and general demeanor is that of...basically two people looking at a spreadsheet and deciding that I’m not worth the cost to their egos. Overall, I think each of my parents consider me to be an acceptable loss because I’m...just me. I’m not important enough to them to risk upsetting how they both view the world. 

I could be wrong about my parents’ mindset. But I don’t think I am, and...that hurts a lot, because when I was growing up I tried so damn hard to prove to them that I worth something.

I know that kids shouldn’t have to prove that to their parents. 

But I guess that when your parents are narcissists, they only want to see themselves in you, and (when) you don’t show them a good enough reflection, they don’t want you around because your imitation of them doesn’t do them justice. 

Ultimately, I’m not worth a hard look in the mirror. I’m not worth that cost to their ego.

I know that I’m going to be healthier and happier for refuting that toxic mindset, but I really wish the situation was different.

I wish my parents had seen that something was wrong, or chosen to believe me, or even wanted to fix what was broken. But instead, I have to separate from them for my own health, and it is so damn painful, because I didn’t want my parents to be perfect.

I just wanted them to see me as worth their time and effort, even when it was difficult and even when it came at a real cost to them.

But, like I said, I don’t think they’re willing to part with their perfect self-images.

Which hurts, but at least now I know that it wasn’t my fault.

Isn’t. 

It isn’t my fault.

I’ve gotta start using the present tense here. :-)

[couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name]

PLEASE TELL THE CHILDREN THE STORY OF MS. STUBELS

Grace fuck, why would you invoke her name like that???

Okay, fine, gather round children, buckle up because we’re going on a bumpy ride back to everyone’s collective least favorite place: 7th grade.

Some background: I went to a very small Catholic school. One class per grade (we were the largest with 19 kids), everyone knew each other whether they wanted to or not. Despite basically every teacher and faculty members insistence that we were The Best And Most Special Class In The School and that everyone loved having us, the longstanding 7th grade teacher Mrs. O’Hara decided to retire in the summer of 2008, meaning the school had to find us a new teacher for the upcoming year. This would be like, the first new teacher in the school in a while, and as she was getting the ‘best class’, it was viewed as a Big Deal. Somewhere in like July or August we got a letter announcing Mrs. Stubel, and it came with a list of books to pick for the summer reading, and that was basically all the information we had.

So…the first day of class. She seems nice enough. Very…ditsy, I guess? It was very easy for her to get herself off topic while talking. She constantly paced around the room, never staying in one spot for longer than a second, complaining she has restless leg syndrome. Which like, I’m sure she did, but she was in the middle of introducing herself and then went on a 20 minute tangent about restless leg syndrome without anyone prompting her. It was almost like you could see her scattered thoughts flying around her head.

So anyone, she eventually gives somewhat of an introduction- she had only taught in public schools before, and kept worrying she ‘didn’t know’ how to teach in a Catholic school despite the entire class insisting literally nothing was different, you just teach the curriculum, twice a week we have religion class with Sister Mary King, that’s literally it (she still talked over us in worry), she told us about her kids, she told us about her obsession with Emily Dickinson, stuff like that.

And then she hands us this worksheet.

She’s like, “Oh, these are just some basic questions for you to answer! Just so I can get to know you guys better!” like in lieu of an icebreaker game, which is fine, but…the questions. The questions were all “What is your most haunting fear?”, “What is your deepest regret?”, “Have you ever experienced the pain of loss?”, “What was your worst injury?”, “What was your worst nightmare?”, all questions like that, and then on the back she wanted us to draw a gravestone and write out what we wanted our epitaph to be.

We were twelve year olds, mind you.

Oh my God and one girl missed the first day because of her grandmother’s funeral, so when she came the next day and saw what the teacher was insisting she do for homework, she almost had a panic attack? And the lady still made her do it? Literally who wants to think about death anymore at a time like that omfg.

Okay, so then we get to the summer reading book reports, right? Now, she had given a list of maybe, 20 books that you could pick from, read it, and then present an oral report on it. You had to have notecards and you had to be able to answer questions from the class at the end. All in all, I’ve had worse projects.

So, on this list, she apparently put Madeleine L’Engle’s entire book series on the list…only she did not make it known that this was a series and not multiple stand alone books, so when reports started up it caused mass-panic of kids trying to put together plot points and make connections on what the hell they had read.

I was the only kid in the class who had chosen to read “A Wrinkle In Time”, and that has since lead to a series of events that…really actually scares me, I’m still incredibly freaked out, I’m not going to get into it right now because it’ll take away from the current story, but just know that I’m not above wondering if it only happened because I read the book for Stubel.

Anyway, so like, I got through the report okay. The class asking questions about it was fine, but the teacher kept asking questions that didn’t make sense, like, at all. My friend Angie has always had super neat handwriting and Mrs. Stubel got like, obsessed with her notecards and asked if she could borrow them for something. When we got our grades back a few weeks later, Angie had points taken off for not having notecards.

And then her teaching just…didn’t happen. She’d never stay on a topic, she’d always get herself distracted! We were not learning anything. And like, this wasn’t a class of advanced smart kids that loved to learn. By all accounts we should’ve been thrilled. But it got out of hand. It got to points where we had to start teaching lessons to ourselves, asking teacher from other grades for help, always coming home in tears, complaining constantly to our parents and the principal because this woman wasn’t teaching us anything. There were two kids who asked her multiple times for extra help, and she told them each time to ‘talk to me after school’, but then she’d leave immediately after school so they wouldn’t be able to talk to her. They finally brought up the issue in the middle of class and she had a breakdown, yelling about how nobody ever thinks that maybe the teacher has a lot of work to do, and maybe she’s entitled to taking off early, but when we tried to argue she shouldn’t schedule meetings and then break them off in the name of relaxation, she stormed out of the room and tried to get the principal to give us detention. (Which, like, our school didn’t even do, and she was the only one in the wrong during this situation) We are still in September at this point, and already at least ten kids have parents considering transferring them to another school. (And remember, there was only 19 of us, and most of the class had been together since preschool, so that was a big deal).

Then, she starts coming in with all the weird bruises. All the Moms™ immediately started gossiping that her husband had to be beating her, and that’s why she was so screwy in the head. But the way she talked about her husband made it seem like he *might* be dead, and we actually did witness her fall and smack her head into a doorknob once, so no one really knew what to believe. (Also, I’m not trying to imply that abuse would make someone crazy or ‘damaged’ or anything, this is just what was being said. I think they were trying to turn her into a more sympathetic character, because if you feel sorry for her you don’t have to hate her for frustrating your kids so much, and Hate Is A Bad Emotion.)

Also…this woman and Emily Dickinson.

She talked about Emily Dickinson every chance she could get. None of us knew who Emily Dickinson really was before she got there and you could see in her mind it was a capitol offense. She found out the curriculum didn’t have room to cover her (because like, we had a text book), and was way too upset about it. She started reading her poems whenever she found the time (usually somewhere in history class), and always gave us very detailed accounts about her dressing up as Emily and reading her poetry at the library.

Now, two things to note here:

The library did not hire her to do this. She would literally just get in the mood, put on an Emily Dickinson costume that she made by herself, drive to different libraries, and just read poetry out loud to everyone there until someone eventually asked her to leave.

The way she described these events…her tone, the look on her face, her posture…you could just tell that she was getting some sort of sexual gratification out of this? Like dressing up as Emily Dickinson in public and reading her sad poems is really what got this lady’s jollies rocking? Got her all hot and bothered? Which is…a lot, but why would you tell a bunch of seventh graders about it holy shit. What about that sounds like a good idea! What about that turns you back on!

So anyway, we learned a lot about Emily Dickinson against our will.

One of the Davids™ was reading a book for pleasure- which shouldn’t have been a shocker, a lot of kids always had books on them, but Stubel got really interested and asked if she could borrow it from him. He was like ‘sure, after I finish it?’ but she took it that day. He asked her for it back for like five weeks straight.

And…the strudels.

Okay, so the school was trying some dorky thing to promote ~togetherness~ or some virtue or something, I don’t remember the specifics of why, but each class had to make a huge themed poster and hang it on the wall outside the classroom. Which was like, whatever, not the most thrilling project but at least it allowed us to be productive vs just sitting there as the teacher runs about the room rambling about her family vacation from four years ago. Mrs. Stubel decided we needed a quirky nickname and after like three days of deliberation we were christened “Stubel’s Special Strudels”!

(points for alliteration or whatever, but no one actually voted for that and what exactly do strudels have to do with Catholicism? It became a big running joke amongst the kids)

Also, in case you were wondering, she didn’t explain the assignment correctly to us- so every other class had like these beautiful, artistic, well-themed and put together posters, while ours was just…literally a bunch of shit thrown together on paper. Nothing fit with each other, it was literally embarrassing to look at.

But then…she wouldn’t drop the strudel thing. Like she kept bringing it up. She got really into strudels and would just tell us random shit about them. Finally, someone jokes that we should get strudels one day for a party (like instead of a pizza party), and she’s Freaking Out and On Board. She really wants to buy us strudels and have a breakfast party now. She talked about it for like two days straight.

So like… you know in school when you would have a pizza party, usually the teacher would buy it? That’s how they always happened in my experience (not counting the last day of 10th grade when some kid had pizza delivered to the school for lunch but it didn’t get there until math class lol). But especially in grade school? Like if it wasn’t a PTA made party that’s super organized, the school would buy the food, right? Right?

Yeah, so she was like, if this is happening you guys need to give me the money. Just give me the money and then I’ll pick them up on my way to work!! And after some arguing some kids are on board. Strudels should only cost a couple dollars right?

And she’s like, oh no, I’m gonna get them from this high end bakery near my house so it’ll be special, but they’re not cheap and it’ll be a big order! I’m gonna need like fifteen dollars from each of you!

And at this point I’m just like…lady. Come on. 

But she keeps insisting. She’s not gonna go until every student in class pays up.

And I’m like…I’m poor. I don’t even like strudel.  And some of the less-naïve kids are siding with me.

And then she pulls that “you guys are just spoiling all the fun for your classmates” shit, like the naïve kids who already paid up, so it gets to the point where we just gotta cave and give her the money.

(I ended up stealing it out of my Crazy Bitch Aunt’s wallet so it’s whatever, I guess.)

And then of course, shockingly enough, every morning she was met with “where are the strudels?” and every morning she went wide eyed, slapped her forehead and yelled in embarrassed horror “I totally forgot! Tomorrow, guys, I promise!”

Honestly, with how scatterbrained and confused she always was…like to this day I can’t tell you with 100% certainty whether she hustled us or was just actually forgetting about the damn pastries, I choose to lean towards the hustled us side because that’s just the type of people I’m used to, but if I found out it was innocent forgetfulness I wouldn’t exactly be surprised.

She couldn’t handle more than one person talking at a time. Like, we’d have break periods, or group work, or something and all the talking made her go wide-eyed and batty. She’d look overworked and anxious and would be darting around the room trying to do work or something but she couldn’t focus and she’d yell at anyone who tried to talk to her directly. I remember one time she was using this boys desk for something so he asked “where am I supposed to sit?” and she snapped “Sit on the ceiling for all I care!”. And this kid was the Class Clown™ , so he immediately grabbed a chair in one hand and started climbing the bookcase to try and reach the ceiling. She’s standing right next to this and doesn’t even notice. He got all four chair legs planted on the ceiling and was trying to somehow maneuver his way into the chair (I really don’t know what the plan was exactly- he was really tall and it was a small building, so I think he probably had the idea that if he can get his body upside down and in the chair, and stretch out his arms like a hand-stand to hold onto bookcase, he could arguably sit on the ceiling.) but he slipped. Crashed into my desk and the two desks next to me, knocked over the book case, broke the chair in half and hit the desks with enough force to knock them down lower. It was hilarious. Everyone was loosing their shit cracking up (he was fine) and it still took Stubel like five minutes to notice his lying out across the desks right in front of her eyes. She was pissed but how did she miss any of it in the first place? She was barely being helpful in whatever it was she was trying to do.

This was the year the Phillies were going to the World Series, and all the grades were having a Phillies Rally in the cafeteria so a news crew was coming to the school and each class was supposed to come up with fun little cheers for them to broadcast. Multiple cheer ideas were presented to her and she vetoed all of them, someone even suggested just singing the damn eagles theme song with replaced words and calling it a day but she vetoed that too, she was very adamant that she could come up with a cheer all by herself and it’ll be the best one (whoever had the best cheer was winning like an ice cream day or something idk). And then like…literally five minutes before the rally she just hands us signs with the letters and was like ‘we’re just gonna spell out Phillies it will be cute won’t it my strudels???’. We were the weakest class there, predictably. I think we lost to the kindergarteners. There might still be a video online of me yelling “ i “ passionately at the top of my lungs. It was online bc our cheer was so bland the news crew cut it out of the broadcast.

I literally can’t say enough about how she never taught us anything. She’d be going on some tangent about how she doesn’t understand the science behind skiing, and I’d be like “Okay yes but please can you just tell me where Romania is on a map???” And she’d start fights whenever someone actually wanted to learn. It was so easy to get her angry but so hard for her to stay on topic. Kids started teaching the class themselves! Like seriously, she’d be rambling and one of us would just go up to the podium, open the teacher’s guide textbook and just start reading out loud and talking over her. By the time she noticed we’d be halfway through a lesson. And we understood it better than when she tried! You know something’s wrong when pre-teens are more qualified for a job than an adult who supposedly went to school for this.

We were in the church having run-throughs for our upcoming Confirmation and she almost set the church on fire…fifteen different times. In less than half an hour. How hard is it to hold a candle?

Okay, and here’s when stuff starts kicking up. It was October 28th, a Tuesday, and it was our last day of school that week because they were having parent-teacher conferences the rest of the week. So we were just hanging out, watching movies in class and reading (lord knows we weren’t learning), and Stubel calls me over to her desk.

So like, she had given everyone little bags with candy for Halloween, but I get up there and she hands me an extra one. And she’s like “Molly I know your birthday is tomorrow and I bought you a present but I left it on my coffee table this morning by accident! So just have the candy for now!”

And I’m like….”Ma’am I’m like, the sixth birthday this year. You didn’t give anyone else presents?”

And she goes “Oh, I know but this is a special secret surprise. I just know you’re gonna love it! Do you wanna stop by my house later this week to pick it up or should I just give it to you Monday after school?”

And like…In writing this sounds like a non-threatening exchange, and like, it was, but I felt so uncomfortable holy shit. I’m looking over my shoulder and shooting my friends SOS signals. Something about this felt so weird in my gut omfg. I told her thanks and I’d just see her Monday.

So we flash forward to Wednesday- my 13th birthday, the day the Phillies won the world series, and also the day my mother innocently strolled into the school for her meeting only to be met with screaming, the sound of heavy destruction, and the school secretary Mrs. Daily running at her in a panic, waving her arms and yelling “YOUR MEETING IS CANCELLED YOUR MEETING IS CANCELLED GET IN MY OFFICE NOW!”

So my poor mother, who thought she could handle this whole meeting in a few minutes and barely be an hour late for work, is now barricaded in the front office with the school secretary, as the noises from down the hall get louder and louder. The woman explains that they had gotten so many complaints about Mrs. Stubel that this morning, when she got to the school, the principal Sister Patricia called her in and said “Listen, we need you to be professional and still have the parent conferences, but we have to let you go. We just don’t think you fit in well here, and the kids need to come first and feel comfortable in their school.” and like, I’m paraphrasing because I wasn’t there, but we all know she was very polite and professional about it.

Mrs. Stubel, however…was not.

She flipped her chair and stormed out of the office, and locks herself in the seventh grade classroom. She started wrecking the shit out of that place, screaming obscenities and the top of her lungs, they had to call the cops on her! She was locked in there for almost an hour! And let me just give you a nice little list of everything she did in that classroom:

Smashed three windows.

Threw everything off her desk and carved swear words all over it.

Got cleaning fluid that she knew would damage the chalk boards, smeared it all over.

Cracked the chalk boards by repeatedly smashing chairs against them.

Wrote swear words all over the walls and on desks

Went into students desks, ripped up their books.

Stole my glasses. (which were in my desk bc I only used them in class at the time)

Threw some desks around.

Carved swear words into the boards. (there was so much carving I’m assuming she just had a knife on her person, which has to lead to the question, did she have a knife on her while she was in class with us?)

Physically ripped the hooks to hang backpacks on out of the wall.

Knocked the closet door off it’s hinges.

Ripped up all the books in the bookcases and threw their pages all around the room.

Wrote lewd phrases inside student’s desks.

Broke multiple chairs.

Used her podium as a battering ram against the wall that’s in front of where the backpacks go. (the wall won but Damage Was Inflicted)

Set a fire in the trash can.

When the principal and other teachers started trying to get in, she tossed her rolling chair at the door to scare them off.

She was screaming curse words at the top of her lungs the entire time, and cursing the school and the kids and the principal and the church in general, and the school building was small, so all the parents and the smaller children that had to come to the meetings (who were locked in their respective classrooms in fear) heard everything.

So much more? But it’s 4:30 in this morning and this list is already long.

So my mom is in the front office and deadass the

entire police force

shows up, running down the hallway to the classroom yelling at her to stop, and it takes a while for them to get her out holy shit. They knocked down the door and she tried to escape out of one of the broken windows! But they got her and dragged her out.

So of course, in such a small school with very involved parents this shit spread like wildfire. The entire town knew within the day. The poor principal called the newly retired old-seventh grade teacher and was like “So we…need some help” and the lady was like “I already heard I’ll be there Monday” omfg. I remember I got a text from one of my classmates saying “if your birthday wish was for us to be set free from the beast I love you” omfg.

So, we eventually go back to school on Monday and everyone’s buzzing. The principal has us go to the cafeteria and she ‘delicately’ explains the situation, and that the old teacher is coming out of retirement for us, the school has a restraining order against Mrs. Stubel now and that she’s sorry we had to deal with this mess. Our classroom had to go under some heavy reconstruction before we could be let back in there, so for like two weeks we alternated between the cafeteria and the preschooler’s classroom, we had no books or anything, just provided loose-leaf paper and pens. It was like, surreal, but everyone was just so happy to be rid of her and to be in the presence of a competent teacher omfg. We eventually were able to get back into our usual classroom.

It took a while for things to go completely back to normal, though. After the big spectacle she made, for weeks after she was fired we were all very scared of the possibility of Mrs. Stubel returning to the school with a gun in hand. It was always a topic we whispered about at lunch with wide eyes and shivers. Like…genuine nightmare scenario.

About two weeks after she was fired, a boy in the back of the classroom gasped loudly during SSR, and when we all looked at him, he whispered in anger “She never gave us our freakin’ strudels!”

About three months after she was fired, we were lined up at the door to go to Library when a few of us looked through the windows and saw something darting through the trees. It was fast and we couldn’t make anything out, so we let it drop. When the class and teacher returned half and hour later, the book she had borrowed months before from one of the boys was sitting on his desk. It was just laying there, the room was silent, nothing had been disturbed…but I have never seen a book look so threatening. People were freaking out. Someone kept insisting that she turned the book into a bomb. No one figure out how she got in the school, and no one could figure out how she got it on the right desk, as we had switched the seating arrangement since she had last been there.  

A full six months after she had left, it was nearing the end of the school year and our class was dicking around during our last computer class. Someone found a website (that we weren’t allowed to be on) that pulls up any police records attached to whoever’s name you enter, so someone decided to search Mrs. Stubel as a joke. We ended up finding out she had like six DUI’s.

Aaaaand that’s the story of the horrendous teacher I had for two months in 7th grade. One of my favorite party stories but tbh she still haunts me™ .

[queen-of-deans-booty]

The Art of Juggling

Characters: Castiel x Reader (kind of), Sam, Dean

Word Count: 1,484

Warnings: Nothing but fluff

Request: Goodmorning jordan! i would like to request a fic where reader is a juggler (not the ones that wear colorful clothes an red noses, but more like big brown baggy pants, search goa pants for reference) and Castiel is fascinated by her style and abilities and he starts asking a lot of questions and it's very fluffy

Author’s Note: If you want to be tagged, leave an ask or message and I’ll add you! Same goes for my Series Rewrite! If you want to request a fic, please send them in! I love writing what you guys want!

Feedback is always appreciated

Tags at the bottom

You were far from a hunter. You hated fighting, shooting guns, blood, and all that gore. But you did love to read so that is what you did with the Winchesters. They took you in when you had no one else to turn to.

You were an orphan from the beginning of your life. You always bounced around from Foster home to Foster home. You never got adopted but that didn’t come as a surprise to you. You were a bit of a bad kid and as a punishment, your foster dad did some unspeakable things to you that you didn't want to discuss.

But then things started happening in your foster home. The lights flickered on and off, you would hear voices, see people, even hear doors open and close. The last Foster home you were in, you happened to be the oldest so naturally, everything got blamed on you.

For months, you tried to convince your parents that the broken windows, the smashes plates, and the god awful sulfur smell wasn’t you but they never believed you. Then three unbelievably attractive men came to your doorstep, claiming to fix your little problem.

You jumped at the chance to have anyone fix whatever was happening in your home. Even though you were almost 18, you hated the abuse and you hated how you were living. With all the abuse you received, you had to find an outlet to release your energy. One day, you found that.

You found it in juggling. You saw it once on a TV when you were little and it looked so fascinating so you wanted to try it out. Of course, the other kids made fun of you but that never stopped you. You figured out to hide what you loved so much.

Luckily, the other children and your foster parents never found the secret room you used to practice. But lately, you’ve been doing that a lot less because Sam and Dean need you. They’ve been going on a lot more cases lately with their Angel friend, Castiel.

Now, Castiel is a whole different story. Yes, Sam and Dean are attractive and yes, you’ve drooled at them more times than you would like but Castiel. He was a prize that came from above. When you met him, you finally had a purpose in life. You finally had something to live for.

No, he doesn’t know how you feel and that’s perfectly okay. He was one of your best friends and you would take that compared to not having him at all.

Sam, Dean, and Cas had just gotten back from a hunt and they let Cas stay at the Bunker and chill for a few days before he had to return to Heaven. You hoped that they wouldn’t find a case for a couple of days because you missed juggling. You missed practicing the one thing you absolutely loved.

“Sam, Dean? I’m going to the field outside. If you need me, that’s where I’ll be.” You smiled, all dressed up to practice. You couldn’t wear jeans and a flannel to do this. You wore goa pants which were super comfortable. They gave you a lot more freedom than jeans.

“You still juggling?” Sam asked, looking up from the normal book he was reading. Dean was sitting beside him, eating whatever he found in the refrigerator. You really needed to go to the store soon.

“You know I am. I’ve been doing it my whole life, practically.” You grinned, carrying the box that had all your things you would need.

“Have fun sweetheart.” Dean said without looking up. You nodded and left the kitchen, walking outside to the field behind the bunker. You would practice inside but there were two trees that were perfectly placed for you to tie your rope.

You tied each end to the trees and grinned, testing its strength. It was kind of like tight walking but instead of being hundreds of feet off the ground, you were only a foot. You didn’t like heights at all so this was perfect for you.

You grabbed the four balls you used and stepped on the rope, struggling to find your balance. When you knew you wouldn’t fall, you walked towards the center of the rope and started to practice. You threw the balls in the air with ease, catching them before doing it all over again.

You had the biggest smile on your face when you did this. You didn’t want to join the circus or anything but not a lot of people do this anymore. It felt nice to keep this activity alive. You got lost in thought, just enjoying the gentle breeze when a voice startled you.

“That is amazing.” You jumped, the balls falling to the ground. You lost your balanced and couldn’t catch yourself in time. You braced for the impact of the ground but it never came. Two strong arms caught you and you looked up to see concern swirl in deep blue eyes.

“Cas…” You breathed out.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He helped you stand up straight and you blushed, going to collect your balls.

“No, it’s okay. I didn’t expect you to be there.” You chuckled lightly.

“It’s amazing, what you can do.” Cas complimented you.

“Oh, thank you,” You smiled and shrugged. “It’s not that hard, really.” You got back on the rope and walked to the center, looking at Cas while you continued throwing and catching the balls.

“You must have incredible balance to stand on something that’s almost non-existent.” Castiel said, looking at how your feet was placed on the rope.

“It’s not that hard. You just have to place your feet right. You want to try?” He looked at you with wide, blue eyes and nodded reluctantly. You caught all the balls and stepped down, placing the balls in the box. You took Cas’ hand and led him to one of the trees so he could use that as leverage.

“Are you sure this is safe? This rope seems fragile.” He said, worried about every little detail.

“Yes, Cas, it’s perfectly safe. Now, this isn’t a rope, it’s called a slackline. Also, you want to place your feet so they’re slanted. It gives you more leverage when you walk.” You instructed, holding his hand and walking with him much like a parent and a child would do.

Cas made it a couple of steps in before he wobbled and stepped off.

“Good, for a beginner.” You smiled and walked over to your box, taking out something you thought Cas would find interesting. You were happy to teach him about this stuff. Sam and Dean didn’t think it was interesting but you knew Cas would take an appreciation to it if you loved it.

“You make it look easy.” He said, watching you.

“Want to see something cool?” With a nod, you showed him the bolas you recently bought for yourself. You didn’t have as much practice with these than you did with the slackline but you thought you were good with where you were.

You held each bola in each hand and started swinging them around, making sure you didn’t hit yourself or Cas. They made a swishing sound in the air as you glided them all around your body. You watched Cas’ reaction and saw his blue eyes light up at the show.

When your arms go tired, you slowed the bolas and put them in the box when you were done.

“That is amazing. You’re really talented.” He smiled.

“No, Cas, I wouldn’t call myself that. A lot of people can do this.” You blushed, shrugging.

“But not a lot of people can do it like you can. You’re special.” He smiled at you. You stared at him and bit your lip, hiding the smile that wanted to show.

“Thank you, Cas.” You looked down and grinned, pulling out a glass ball.

“What’s that for?” Castiel asked, walking closer to you.

“I’ll show you.” You held out your hand with the ball paced on your palm. You knew exactly how to work this ball to make it seem like it wasn’t moving at all when in fact, it was. You started to move your hand in certain ways, the ball moving with you. But to Cas, the ball looked as if it was staying in one place the entire time.

“How are you doing that?” Cas watched with curious eyes.

“Magic.” You whispered, giggling when he looked at you.

“Can you teach me?” Your smile got bigger at this. He liked you very much and loved to see you smile. He loved the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the things you loved or when you showed him what you loved doing. He never wanted that smile to go away.

“Sure.” You smiled, blushing lightly.

Masterlist // Buy me a Coffee? // Series Rewrite Masterlist

Forever tags:

@deans-short-girl @maddieburcham1 @ginamsmith @mogaruke @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @whit85-blog @inlovewithbja

Castiel tags: 

@helllonearth @duubaduu @fightmeandmy100fandoms

Other tags:

@jensen-jarpad @notnaturalanahi @deathtonormalcy56 @27bmm

[samlopez42]

Happy Mental Health Month! (this one is personal)

A few years back, I had a bad day. My heart was beating faster than normal, I was not in a good mood, feeling sad and angry, my hands were shaking, and I was kind of dizzy. These things happen. Everyone has a bad day every now and then. But this day was different. Whenever I have a day like this, I can usually figure out what put me in this mood. But this day was different. I don't know what triggered all this. I could point to someone who was being rude, not getting enough sleep, or a fight with someone. But on this day, none of those things happened. I was just feeling weird.

I wasn't sure what to think, so I did what most people do when they are feeling weird: I googled my symptoms.

Just so you know, I am not the kind of person who spends his time on WebMD trying to figure out if I have some rare form of cancer. If I look up a symptom, I see what I most likely might be, and see my doctor just to confirm it's hemorrhoids, and not colon cancer. I don't go worst-case scenario when I'm sick, and tend to stay pretty level headed.

Since I was shaking and had a higher heart-rate, I thought this might be some sort of panic attack. So I googled "signs of anxiety." Before the site I clicked gave the "12 Signs of Anxiety," it said "If you experience any of the following symptoms on a regular basis, you may want to talk with your doctor." With that noted, I jumped in.

Excessive worry On some days, who doesn't?

Sleep problems No more then anyone else.

Irrational fears I don't like spiders? But I don't run away from them and think they are out to get me.

Muscle tension Nope.

Chronic indigestion Only when I don't eat right.

Stage fright Oh yeah. But I have been doing it for so long, overcoming it turns into a high.

Self-consciousness Yeah, but no more than normal.

Panic If I ever do, I'm pretty good at keeping it under control.

Flashbacks I'd say this one is right.

Perfectionism Hah! Not hardly.

Compulsive behaviors Sometimes, but not really

Self-doubt I'm a musician. It comes with the territory.

Then I saw a link for the next article saying "12 Signs of Depression," and I thought, I already dove in, so why not swim a little longer?

Fatigue Like always.

Sleeping too much or too little I'll either sleep for 10 hours, or stay up all night and only sleep for

Stomachache or backache Backache to the point of always keeping Ibuprofen on hand.

Irritability Yeah, but I keep it to myself...for the most part.

Difficulty concentrating Friends have told me in the past that I have to have ADHD, it's not that bad. However, school was rough, and I'd often start studying, and then just stray off somewhere else.

Anger or hostility Oh yeah. But only around people I've been around a lot. So Michelle would know this to be true.

Stress Yeah. Put too much on myself sometimes.

Anxiety Well I was shaking and my heart was jumping.

Substance abuse No. I've always known my limits with alcohol.

Sexual dysfunction That is kind of personal, but no.

Indecision I always take too long making any decision. When it comes to picking a place to eat, I'm the stereotypical girlfriend/wife. "Where do you wanna eat?"

Suicidal thoughts No. Not really. While driving I'll sometimes wonder what it would be like to drive off a cliff, but don't really want to because, well, I'd die, and I don't want to die.

After reading this list, not only could I relate to it, but it almost read like a laundry list of my life.

I remembered time when I was younger, just taking out my anger and frustration on a video game, yelling at the aliens I was shooting. "Die! Take that! Take that stupid! You stupid idiot!" Just yelling at the top of my lungs. My oldest brother walks in from outside saying "Sam! Stop yelling so much! It sounds like you're beating someone up, and the neighbors will think something is wrong."

I stopped what I was doing, and just wondered why I had such a crazy outburst.

Another time when I didn't have enough money for a trip, and my parents said they would buy my car back from me so I can use that money and still go on the tour. This should have been a good thing, but for me it was worth screaming and crying in front of my parents shop. My dad tells me to calm down because it sounds like they're beating me up. I realize it does, and start reeling it in, and regaining some sort of composure, pull myself off the ground.

And another time, while walking through the streets of Chicago with tour mates, I had an overwhelming feeling of sadness come over me. I put in the headphones on my iPod, and shuffled everything because I couldn't figure out what to listen to. I was having a great day in here with friends that I had spent years getting to know, and weeks in a van learning to love, walking around after having Deep Dish Pizza at Gino's East, and I felt terrible. Looking back at that, I can see darkness robbing me of that moment.

I texted Michelle the link asking her if this sounded like me.

She didn't reply right away.

Eventually I asked again, but on the phone, and she admitted it did, and it kind of freaked her out a bit.

I realized I needed to talk to my doctor. I told Michelle the next time I see the doctor, because I was going pretty much every other month, that I will bring this up.

So I avoided going to the doctor for a year.

Eventually I had to go in order to get a prescription refilled, and with my heartbeat racing, hands shaking, I asked him about depression, and how I might have it. He said that would explain why my blood pressure was higher this visit.

He handed me a form with the familiar questions above, but this one was a little different. Instead of asking if I ever felt a certain way, it asked how often I felt that way (on a scale from 0-4, 0 being not at all, and 4 being every day), and under "Thought's of Suicide" it added "or thoughts of self-harm." Like I said above, I don't really have thoughts of killing myself. But hurting myself?

Every.

Damn.

Day.

(Talking with Michelle about it afterwards, I found out it's not normal to every day get so frustrated with life/work/school that you have the urge to smash your head up against a wall to see what breaks first...)

My score was high, which meant that I was undoubtedly depressed.

We started off with a smaller dose of an antidepressant. The way it works, because I looked into it, you start off taking a smaller dosage, and then it doubles after a few weeks, and then doubles again until you have the right amount. And you won't know the effects for at least two weeks.

I'll admit, I was scared. I couldn't get it out of my head. I was afraid of what might happen. Does being on these meds mean I'm admitting I'm crazy? Will these pills change who I am? Will I start to become numb? Will I stop feeling like me? What if the pills work the opposite way and I actually become suicidal? Am I crazy?

I was supposed to have practice that night with Alex, and I told him I couldn't make it, but that I'd stop by. I bought a beer, and told him and his wife Samantha that I was about to start some antidepressants, and I my mind was so occupied with that, I don't think I'd be able to concentrate on music. Both Sam and Alex were completely understanding, and I couldn't ask for better friends to talk to about it with.

I went home that night and started my first dose of 37.5mg Effexor.

Those two weeks sucked. Not because everything started changing though. It was because nothing was happening.

Like I said earlier, it takes at least two weeks before you start to feel anything, and I was growing impatient.

I remember going out with Michelle and being completely frustrated that she couldn't figure out where she wanted to eat. We were in front of The Maya Cinemas watching all the people waiting in line to see Batman v Superman: Dawn Of Justice on it's opening night, and I was mad because I needed to go out driving with Uber and Lyft to make some money, and we were just sitting around, and Michelle couldn't make up her mind about dinner, and I was slowly getting pissed off. I couldn't understand how Michelle didn't understand that I needed to be out driving in order to make money, and sometimes that was during nights when she wanted to go out. And I didn't know if I was being unreasonable, or if Michelle was really just being selfish. It made me feel very alone, even though Michelle was right there.

This was a fairly normal thing for me. Michelle and I would say I was "in a funk." Sometimes I had reasons why, and sometimes I just was. But when it happened, Michelle would usually not talk to me because anything she said or did could trigger an emotional fit, with either me crying, her crying, or both of us trying to figure out how we got here.

Also note, when I got to this point, prayer and faith didn't help much. Because when you're that far gone, it's not hard to start believing while you're praying, God is "remembering the Sabbath," and your words are falling on deaf ears. Or worse, I'm getting what I deserve, or that everything isn't going right because of me. My sin being the main cause for the suffering of my family and friends isn't foreign to me, and would often keep me up at night as a kid. Thinking I did something wrong being why my sister is sick, or why my brother broke up with his girlfriend, or my parents business slowing down would make sense to my teenage mind.

That night, I was in a deep funk. I couldn't tell you if I was more angry, sad, lonely, depressed, betrayed, or annoyed, but it was a terrible cocktail of emotions that I was more then sure was not my fault. This was ten days into taking pills, and it was the last time I remember this feeling that strong.

Two weeks after I started the meds, I had a followup with my doctor, and he asked if I noticed anything different.

At that time, the only thing I could surely point to that was better was how much easier it was to get up in the morning. I wasn't laying in bed until I only had five minutes to leave for work and still need to shower (I'll just wash my hair and put on deodorant and cologne, and blame it on traffic or a train).

He said this was signs of improvement, and showed that the medication was working, and how we should double to dosage up to 75mg, and eventually to 150mg.

A month later, went back for another followup and filled out the same questionnaire, but noticed the numbers were lower. He asked me if I noticed anything different. I said I guess so. Getting up is easier, but I can't really tell if I'm emotionally any better. "I guess I feel better, but I'm not sure how to tell." He told me I should ask my wife and see if she's noticed anything different.

I brought it up to Michelle, thinking maybe she didn't notice anything new, but she shocked me instead.

"You don't get mad at me anymore over stupid things."

I stopped to take inventory over what that meant.

I would often unload on Michelle over something she'd done, often saying how she didn't seem to care because of something she did. I would have my feelings hurt, and she would be upset because she doesn't know why I should be mad, like that "Lonely Night at Maya" mentioned above.

A great example Michelle reminded me of was one time when she clean the bathroom, including "my side" of the counter. She organized the mess a bit but left it for me to rearrange how I'd want it. And I was lost it. I started crying because I told her I'd take care of it (a month ago) and she didn't listen to me. She crossed a line (literally and metaphorically) and I was pissed. Why doesn't she trust me? Why can't she just listen to me?

But really, all she did was clean up the bathroom a little, and not make my side look like a disaster.

And that pretty much stopped.

From that moment on, I knew it was working.

If I feel some wave of emotion, or feel myself slipping into "a funk", I can acknowledge it, and process my way through it. My depression is no longer something that controls and robs me, but instead it's on a leash, and able to be controlled. Sometimes it can get out of hand (I can usually tell when I have a hard time getting out of bed), but I feel like it's manageable. Like I tell when a darkness is coming, and when it's my depression trying to take over. I know I was afraid of the drugs making me feel like someone else, but really, they make me feel more like myself.

Yeah I'll still have bad days, but they don't control me anymore.

So I'm not sharing this story to try and gain sympathy, or even tell people how great I am.

The main reason I'm sharing this is I'm tired of people not wanting to talk about mental health issues. People talk about depression, and it scares everyone. No one wants to talk openly about how crippling their anxiety is, because they don't want people to think something is wrong with them.

I know my fear is that people will somehow start thinking that since I'm depressed they should watch over me all the time in case I become suicidal. "Maybe Sam shouldn't be in the kitchen with the sharp knives...", "Don't leave Sam alone with in the pool..." and so forth. But don't worry about me. I'm in a good place right now.

But this is something we as a society need to talk about. I'll share one story real quick that hit me personally.

I had a coworker, who I'll call L, a few years back that wasn't doing a good job. L was new, and younger than most people in our line of work, and it wasn't working for her. However, she was a sweetheart. She was into hunting, and I asked her if she'd ever be able to bring some Bambi Burgers or Bambi Jerky (if you haven't had it, you don't know what you are missing). L said she would sometime, but she was fired before she got the chance to. We became friends on Facebook, so I kept in touch with her.

Months go by, and she shares this post on her wall...

I saw the post, but I didn't do anything about it. People share these things all the time, and I don't really care much for them. It's just another form of the chain mail we would get in our email inboxes and LiveJournal posts, and I very rarely would give them a second glance.

The next day, while checking Facebook, I saw many of her friends commenting on her wall. Post after post after post talking to her. But it didn't say it was her birthday. I read one of them, then another, then another, and they all said the same thing:

"Why did you have to kill yourself?"

She posted this note, and then killed herself. No one saw it coming.

Things like this don't need to happen.

The stigma that comes with mental illness needs to stop.

I'm tired of the only time people are willing to talk about mental health issues being after a mass shooting or suicide. I hate it because then when people only bring it up after someone snapped and killed themselves or others, those of us that have something wrong don't want to say anything because we get associated with it. If you think that's not true, check out the talking heads on news outlets next time it happens and get back to me. Every time something goes wrong, it's because "we need to talk about mental health issues," but no one wants to be the first to say "I think something is wrong with me," because they're afraid they'll be put on some watch list or have family members think they'll go on a shooting rampage, when really they just want help without the attention.

When we start associating mental health issues with tragedies, it only increases the stigma attached to it, which means people don't talk about it, stuff goes untreated, and we end up with more people, like L, killing themselves.

So I'm starting now.

I'm not hiding my depression anymore.

This is who I am.

I have depression.

Depression does not have me.

I have good days.

I have bad days.

But I'm better.

And I will get better.

[wickedlovelymad]

Rambling

So I am currently stuck here in “my” room. I am living with at my boyfriend’s parents place with his father (narcissist), mother (enabler), brother (lazy piece of shit who won’t do anything, taking after his father), my boyfriend (wonderful human being who takes after his mother, but with a back bone), and occasionally his two nieces. Now I am not normally one to post like this but I need to vent. 

For some backstory: 

My boyfriend’s father is a Forever-Trumper. As in Trump can do no wrong. The Fox News logo is actually burned into the LCD screen, kind of Trump supporter. He was born in the late 1960′s, never passed the 8th grade, screams at his wife, treats everyone and everything like shit. He drinks Jim Bean like it’s water and has never once in his life given a shit about anyone other than himself. In the past 24 years of my boyfriend’s life, his father has been late on the rent to the point of eviction ...every month. Since I have been here, my boyfriend and I have had to pay the rent (1200 every two months) twice. I have been here since September and I can’t do it any longer. We move out on the 18th, which may be the only thing keeping me going. I have begun spending more and more time at work just to get away from this asshole.

My boyfriend’s mother is part saint, I swear on every deity out there. She puts up with all of her husband’s bullshit. It’s mostly because she has been dealing with abuse her entire life and cannot believe she deserves better. Here’s the thing, she’s disabled, like my boyfriend. She has fibromyalgia, arthritis is all and every joint. She had her knee fully replaced in May, during which time my boyfriend and I took care of here and drove two towns over to do so, because her piece of shit husband refuses to do anything that could remotely be considered domestic. However, she is also the kindest and sweetest person in the world. She also actively listens to her husband and does whatever he says. No back bone what-so-ever.

My boyfriend’s brother is as described above. He has managed to inherit his mother’s spinelessness and his father’s absolute narcissism. Good news though, he is generally quiet and while he loves to sit on his ass and play video games while making his mother clean up all his messes. He refuses to clean up after himself and generally has no drive to do anything of consequence. This wouldn’t be a problem if he didn’t have two little girls. 

However, my boyfriend’s nieces are 4 and 5. Stories of their infant-hood include the 4-year-old eating her own shit because no one took care of her. The 5-year-old getting yeast infections so bad she could possibly be infertile now. When I came into the picture (Feb ‘18), the girls were sleeping on a dirty mattress on the flea infested floor (oh, and by the way, the five-year is allergic to fleas). They did not have clothes that fit. I mean a five year-old in 3T clothing. Their hair was past their waists, and was knotted and matted. They did not bathe regularly and had not had a bath in over a week. They confused letters and numbers and could not count past 3. Their father’s version of watching them is to dump them on their disabled grandmother and disabled uncle so he can play video games. Their mother’s version of taking care of them includes dropping off the face of the planet for months at a time. 

At the time I was a nanny and I have also survived severe neglect and abuse myself, so naturally, I was horrified. My boyfriend and I managed to save up and buy them a set of bunk beds, new clothes, and tablets that will read to them when no one else will. When the five-year-old started kindergarten, it was my boyfriend and I sitting down with her and helping her. I begged her father to do something about their hair. The girls were constantly complaining about how much pain they were in. After 3 1/2 months of this, I finally gave up and took the girls out and got their hair cut. The girls loved their new haircuts (which were still pretty long, just under their shoulder blades). However, in the meantime their mother showed back up into the picture. The mother who has never contributed anything to their welfare aside from birthing them. This woman smokes pot in front of them and openly tells the girls that she doesn’t want anything to do with them, unless they’re in front of a camera in which case she becomes super-mom. 

So to recap, I have taken over bathing the girls regularly since I moved in, as no one else would (or couldn’t my boyfriend’s and his mother’s case). I also have to be the one to wake the 5-year-old up for school and get her ready as her father won’t do it. I also buy and make food for the girls. My boyfriend takes care of the 4-year-old while his brother and his father are at work. When their mother came back, the girls did live with her for a bit. However, as their mother was unable to walk either child the one-block to the preschool and elementary school (and also did not want to deal with them), the girls were sent to live with their father (again). Their father does begrudgingly take the 5-year-old to school, however she is almost always late. Keep in mind that after 4 tardies, it is counted as an absence. Since August, the 5-year-old has missed almost a month of school (27 days). 

Then I got the girls hair cut. Their mother (who has nothing to do with them) found out. She came over and punched me, then her new boyfriend punched and they tried to fight me. I say tried because I didn’t fight back. They left, Boyfriend’s mother called the police and had them both charged with assault. Only her boyfriend went to jail (outstanding warrants for domestic abuse). She decided to keep the girls with her as I am ‘weird around the girls’ and she decided I might be a pedophile. Ergo, she is keeping the girls away from the only people who give a shit about them for more than just publicity. What really pisses me off is being called a pedophile. I would NEVER in my entire life hurt a child. I couldn’t do it if I even wanted to. This is and isn’t about me. This is about the pain these girls are in constantly. I remember being suicidal when I was 4. I remember wanting to die because my mother and father treated me the same. 

The mother still has the girls, since school started the girls have missed... every day. 

My boyfriend and I have poured in close to $6000 since being here. We move in just over a week and I don’t know if I can make it. Because on top of all this, within the past year I have graduated college with my Bachelor’s. I am now estranged from my father due to his personal issues. My previously-estranged mother is now back in my life (after 7 years and multiple years of therapy for both of us). I moved out of where I have lived for the past 2 years with the two best roommates anyone could ask for. I moved in with someone who I thought was a friend but is in reality a back-stabbing bitch who expected me to pay her entire rent, utilities, and groceries for her. I then moved in with my father who is extremely neurotic. That didn’t go well. Basically he has untreated (and diagnosed) PTSD, Bipolar, and Depression. His version of parenting includes no emotions and pretending that he is fine and everyone else is crazy. As a kid he had me convinced I was going to be just like my mother, abusive and all. He also had me convinced I was schizophrenic (I’m not), bipolar (I’m not), have borderline personality disorder (I don’t) and that no one would ever truly love me because of how awful I was.

So, emotionally, mentally I am done. I can’t wait to be gone. 

[rebeccahpedersen]

Tall Tales From The Trenches On Feelgood Friday!

TorontoRealtyBlog

Last Friday, when I offered another edition of “Photos of the Week,” a couple of readers mentioned that rather than sharing negative reviews of listings, photos, and seller/agent behaviour, I should provide some feel-good examples of listings done right.

So in the spirit of positivity, let me offer you a story for “Feelgood Friday.”

Perhaps I don’t often share enough of the good stories, and despite this chaotic market, there are many.

Last week, I sold a condo listing amid 13 offers, and the ending sent chills up my spine…

You’ve heard this from me before, but I honestly don’t enjoy working on the selling side on “offer night” during multiple offers.

Most listing agents love it.

I mean, what’s not to love?

Power?  Status?  Envy?

That’s not me, I’m sorry.

Call me dramatic, but when I receive 13 offers on a listing, I can’t help but think about the twelve buyers, and buyer agents, who go home disappointed.

Once the “winning” bid has been accepted, I personally call all the agents with unsuccessful offers to tell them that I appreciate their offer, and their efforts, and that I hope to see them again out there in the real estate trenches.

In today’s market, when you have 13 offers on a property, the person-to-person connection often goes out the window.  More to the point, the buyer-to-seller connection goes with it.

Some of my clients couldn’t possibly care less who buys their house or condo, and yet to some, it’s tremendously important.

The first property sale I ever witnessed was my childhood home, which I mentioned in my Pick5 video today, on Parkhurst Boulevard in Leaside.

It was the spring of 1992, and I was 12-years-old.

I remember my father telling me, as I was upset that we had sold the house and were moving that a “young couple” were going to buy the house, and “start a family.”

In my mind, this was our house.  I belonged to us, and no matter what happened, and who moved in, it would always be our house.

Once we had moved out of our home, and into our new one on Bessborough Drive, we went back to the vacant house on Parkhurst, God knows why.  I think my brother, sister, and myself wanted to say some sort of “goodbye” before the deal closed, and another family moved in.

I remember laying on the floor of my bedroom so vividly, I can almost smell the 80’s carpet fibres, which always seemed a little dirty, and a little greasy.  My mom was trying to round up her three kids to get going, and she walked by the doorway to my tiny room, saw me laying on the floor with my arms outstretched as though I were hugging my room, and said aloud, “Oh my God, I knew this was a mistake.”

When we moved to Bessborough, I still thought of Parkhurst as “my house.”

Our family jogging route took us from Bessborough Drive along the outskirts of Leaside – Bayview, Southvale, Laird, and then back up Parkhurst to Bayview again.  We jogged by our old home hundreds of times.

We moved to Parkhurst from a house around the corner on Airdrie Road shortly after I was born in 1980, and lived there until 1992 – a total of twelve years.

I remember in 2005, chatting with my sister, when she said, “Can you believe the family who moved into our old house on Parkhurst has now been there longer than us?”

It was crazy-talk to me.

Longer than us?  Really?  How could that be?

“Time flies,” and all that?  Twelve years?

I remember when I was coaching Bantam baseball from 2007 to 2013, at some point one of the kids mentioned a party at the house (why do parents leave they teenagers alone???), and my head popped up.  I gave them the address, and they said, “Yeah, you know it?”

Time flies, indeed.  It seemed that the non-existent child from the “young couple” who were “going to start a family” as my Dad told me back in 1992, was now a 17-year-old, throwing parties with the kids I coached.

Well, guess what?  That family is still there.

They’ve been there now for a whopping twenty-six years, by my count.

And I think it’s fair to say, that of all the people that have ever owned that particular property, the 26-year tenure really makes it their house.

I think if you took a quick poll, and perhaps we should do that, you’d find that the ratio of people who care, and don’t care, about who buys their home, is about 50/50.

When I received 13 offers on my condo listing last week, my sellers said they really wanted to know who was buying the property from them.

They’re a really nice couple, and I could tell from the first time I entered their condo, that they take an immense amount of pride in their home.  They also like to entertain, and left behind in that condo, as is the case with everybody who moves, are a slew of good memories, great times with friends and family, and a few years of their lives.

When we settled on the “winning” bid of the thirteen offers, I called the buyer agent to let her know.  She was a little surprised, as anybody would be in the midst of thirteen offers, and she said, “My client will not believe this!”

She told me again, “You will not believe how much this means to my client, just, wow.”

I’ve heard it before; emotions run high in these situations, and the reactions are often hyperbolic.

I emailed the accepted offer, and asked the agent where she was, and where I could get the certified bank draft for the deposit.

And then things started to get really interesting.

“She’s at King & Sherbourne,” the agent said.  “I’m in the west end; I could go meet her, then meet you, wherever you are.”

I told her that I actually live two blocks from King & Sherbourne, and provided she trusted me interacting with her buyer-client, I was happy to save her the trip at 9pm in the evening, and go meet the buyer myself.

She took me up on the offer, and was quite grateful.

“Let me give you the address,” she told me, and I said, “I already know.”

Creepy-sounding, but it wasn’t.  “230 King Street East?” I asked.

“Yes, wow, how did you know?”

“I lived there for five years,” I told her.  “When you said ‘King & Sherbourne,’ I had a feeling.”

Ironically, in hindsight, I realize it could have been 39 Sherbourne Street, aka “King Plus Condo,” which is directly across from King’s Court at 230 King Street.

But I just had a feeling it was my old stomping grounds, and I got in my car, and headed down.

I got to the condo, and walked in through the beautiful lobby (it’s an old bank where they’ve preserved the interior as it was in the 1900’s, and even have ‘before’ photos posted on the walls), then found a seat on the padded benches in a separate waiting area off the mailroom.

It was on that very bench, on the same side, in the very same spot, where I waited for a friend of mine to meet me, along with my mother, back in 2005 when I was looking at purchasing a condo in the building.  And here I was, years later, waiting for somebody else, who was looking to buy a condo.

Not exactly the same situation; this lady was looking to buy someplace else, but the coincidence wasn’t lost on me.

I met the woman, as she peeked around the corner and asked, “David?”

She was carrying with her a dog that, I swear – I actually did a double-take as I thought it was my dog.

The resemblance was uncanny.

“That’s my dog’s face,” I told her.  “The nose, the eyes, the little teeth – this is my dog!”

It was a half Maltese, half Yorkie, just like my dog.  Yet another coincidence.

She handed me the deposit cheque, and we chatted for a while.

She told me that the dog was a rescue, which was ironic, given I had literally just had a conversation with my wife about adopting a rescue dog.  Not any time soon, of course.  We have a dog, and a 17-month-old baby.  Another dog is not in the cards.  But my wife volunteers for a non-profit called “Save our Scruff,” which helps find owners for rescued and abused dogs, and she said if we ever get another dog, it’ll be a rescue.

As we chatted, I asked the new-buyer what the importance of her offer price was.

I realized as soon as the words came out of my mouth that it’s a far more personal question than it seems.

A buyer might offer $800,610, because they got married on June 10th.

I’ve seen all kinds of numbers, with all kinds of meanings.  Birthdays, anniversaries, lucky numbers in various cultures, favourite numbers, sports jersey numbers, number of children – anything you can think of.

Of course in this case, the lady said, “My Dad.”  And then added, “My Mum.”

“My dad died on that date,” she told me.  And as the lump in my throat started to grow, she said, “And my Mum on the other date.”

Oh boy.  Well, add “death date” to the list of potential numbers and meanings above.  I guess I didn’t think of that.

“I actually lost both my parents in a very short time,” she added.  “In the same month.”

Right.  I was so glad to bring that back up for her…

But you know what?  She wasn’t sad.  She was actually happy!

“My parents always wanted to help me buy a place,” she told me.  “And tonight, they did.”

Boy, was I ever caught off guard.

I have to be honest, maybe I’m not a deep enough person, but I never really thought of it that way.

We had 13 offers, and as is always the case, the bidding was close.

The dates of her parents’ passing were used in her offer price, and those numbers helped her win the property.

In essence, her parents did “help her buy a place.” as she put it.

It was heart-warming, and the coincidences were not lost on me.

But there was even more ahead.

She told me how she had been a tenant in the same unit for eight years, and how recently her landlord asked her to sign a new lease, at a much higher price than what was permitted by law.  When she respectfully declined, he sent her a Form N12 by email, with no subject line, and no text.  Just the form.

The form specified that a family member would be moving into the unit, specifically his son.  She added that she had known him for eight years as his tenant, and she was pretty sure he didn’t have a son…

Rather than dwell on her situation, she decided now would be the time to take the plunge into the housing market, and she started to look at condos.

I know a lot of buyers say this, so it sounds cliché, but she said, “As soon as I walked into the condo, I felt like I was home.”

“They had my stuff,” she said.  “Half the stuff I have, they have!”

They also had a dog, as did she, and she had always wanted a terrace for the pup.  This condo, by the way, happened to have a 300 square foot terrace.

The coincidences, similarities, and happenstance was just too much.  I stood there in the lobby of my old building, and smiled.

And then came the clincher.

She told me, “I just absolutely love that terrace!  I’ve always wanted one,” she said.  “I actually live above a huge terrace in my current unit.”

It made me think.

“Do you live above the units on the second floor – the ones with the 440 square foot terraces?” I asked.

“I do!” she said.

I knew these rather well, of course.  There are six units with 440 square foot terraces, as I used to own one.

“I used to live in one,” I said.  “Which unit are you in?” I asked her.

“Unit xx2,” she told me.

Go figure.

“Small world,” I said.  I used to live four floors below you.  Directly below you.  I’m was in Unit xy2.

We both laughed.

What are the odds?

She actually lived there, a few floors above me, for two years while I was there.

We shook hands, I went out to my car, and I went home feeling good.

This can often be a miserable business, and I’m sorry to say, but an overwhelming majority of interactions that you have with people, no matter what role they play, are negative.

So how good did I feel, meeting such a pleasant lady, with such a great story about bidding on and winning this condo, with all these incredible coincidences and personal connections?

That’s a rhetorical question.  And suffice it to say, you don’t have to guess how happy my sellers were to hear the following day what a great person they sold their beloved condo to.

Perhaps I’m being overly-sentimental, or maybe you caught me on an off day.

But most “tales from the trenches” don’t end well, so I’m glad I could provide you one on an otherwise feelgood-Friday…

The post Tall Tales From The Trenches On Feelgood Friday! appeared first on Toronto Real Estate Property Sales & Investments | Toronto Realty Blog by David Fleming.

Originated from https://ift.tt/2IOLaHw