#one thing i do love though is when im walking around doing yardwork and all six of them follow me around 😭

[why-rock-look-tasty-if-no-eat]

Oh gods, maybe? I'd have to wait for the girlies to lay enough eggs to try though. I could definitely make a lot deviled eggs and I like omurice and omelets so I think I'll try going that route? Does french toast count? Cake?

@rabbit-factory getting more data because it really is an amazing question to ask

This conversation happened at 6am btw

Answer in the tags ↓

[crimeronan]

ik youre not a therapist and i dont want like therapy or anything but im 17 and ive known i was bipolar for 3 years now and i dont know how im supposed to live the rest of my life like this. im so fucking tired. how do you stay alive

you sent this a couple days ago & i’m posting at a weird time so i’m not sure if you’ll see it but.  

i’ve been looking at this message trying to decide how to respond

because i don’t know your situation, your symptoms, how you’re feeling, whether you’ve had positive or negative experiences with medication, psychiatrists, therapists, hospitals, all that related shit

the bipolar life advice i give to people is vastly different depending on the individual. it’s not a one size fits all thing.  and there’s never even a guarantee that my advice will be the right choice

so since i don’t know about your situation or experiences or what you want, i’m not gonna tell you what to do.  i’m gonna focus on the “how do you stay alive” question and try to pen down some personal feelings. and if they help then great, and if they don’t then... this is the most honest i can be

(you can always ask another question to get a better answer. my inbox is a coin slot and i am a vending machine of varied-degrees-of-helpfulness replies offered at varied-inconvenient-too-long-intervals)

-

how do i stay alive

it’s a 2-parter, actually.  i pondered how to condense my thoughts/feelings, and it came down to these two things

1. love 2. spite

-

1. love

the spite is easier to write about than the love.  love is hard to reach when i feel like shit.

spite is where i go when i want to die.  love is where i go when i want to want to live.

maybe i don’t want to be alive.  but maybe i wish i did.  spite doesn’t help me much there.  spite keeps me afloat, but it doesn’t make the floating pleasurable.  there’s more to life than outlasting everything that ever hurt me.  i need a reason to continue when there’s no enemy to fight

so. love

i almost wrote about the spite alone because that’s rawer, realer, more visceral.  that’s the shit that CONNECTS when everything feels hopeless.  but it would be a lie of omission.  spite is only one of the major food groups, you’ll waste away from malnutrition if you eat it for every meal. or at least, i will.

“so you’ve got a bunch of people you love,” you say, “and you stick around for them.  cry on them.  support each other.  like each other.  fine.”  you’ve heard this story before

nah.

i mean - yes.  i have people i love.  i live with two partners, i’ve got a third girlfriend, i’ve got a long-distance platonic life partner.  i have a support net, i have a family i’ve forged, i have confidence that i’m not alone.  i have, in a bare-bones checklist sort of way, fulfilled my physiological human need for connection

but i could live without every single one of them.  i’m not dependent upon any of them for my survival.  i’m not dependent upon them for love, given or received.  (this isn’t a callous cruelty, it won’t hurt them if/when they read this.  i’ve told them all this, they know.  they’re glad of it.)

so.  what the fuck does “love” mean, then?

the short explanation is that it’s my love of life, of things in the world.  it’s all the little connections i’ve made.  every time i love something, a hook tethers to the universe.  hook enough tethers, and i no longer feel the need to float away.  no dissolution of self today, sir

the rest of this section is some of the things i love. partially it’s to show how i connect to little things and ascribe magic to the mundane.  partially it’s because i like thinking about things i love, i like typing them out, and i like that i could keep going for thousands and thousands of words.

i am laying in bed at 7:30 AM with the lights off and the shades drawn.  blue  light comes through the slats because it’s the better time of year, the one where i finally get vitamin D, the one where the birds chirp at 4AM, the one where the sky isn’t impenetrably black til 10PM.

there’s a weighted blanket tucked around my legs.  my partner rafi bought it for us to share because it’s soothing and heavy and comforting and helps with my physical pain.  right now it’s soft on my skin and if i get too emotional as i write, i can pull it over me like a cloak until i’m settled.

the apartment’s walls are blank because we’ve spent eight months intending to put art up and keep forgetting.  but there’s a newly-unearthed dining area in the kitchen because i finally shifted around the unpacked boxes that were dominating the space.  it’s new and it surprises me every time i walk out there.  it’s open and inviting and bright and it’s a sign that we’re making this place home.

we’ll put a cheap IKEA table by the window and we’ll probably never eat family dinners there - why would we sit in hard chairs and make stiff conversation when we could all cuddle on the couch - but my partner dev will create a place to do their art and the surface will be constantly littered with drying watercolor experiments.

we’ll hang our art one of these days, too, when our collective adhd offers a miraculous combo of remembering + having time + having motivation + having inspiration.  rafi has the most art because they’ve been collecting it for years.  i have to start smaller.  i’m not used to keeping physical objects.  dev has a few pieces thrifted or bought at local artist events or painted themselves

so we’ll put art up in the living room, my single “you are magic” flower print alongside a naked monster lady that dev fell in love with when we browsed art at a yuletide event months ago, alongside rafi’s monster girls and comic characters and book characters and literature art and quotes and abstract pieces and whatever else they have hiding in boxes.

my head protests that naked monster ladies do not belong in the living room, although the picture isn’t overtly sexual.  but then i remember that they do, actually, because it’s our space and we can do whatever we want with it as long as the lease isn’t broken.  there isn’t anyone in the local social circles who’d be perturbed by the decor, as far as i know.  i don’t have to hide anything from my parents because i live 3600 miles from them, and even though i miss my mom, the distance is good for me

there are two exquisite chairs on the porch.  they fold and recline from thrones to nearly-horizontal beds.  there are pillows and cupholders and trays and specific spaces for both a book and a phone.  i can sit there while the morning sun rises and read or play word games or browse tumblr, cup of coffee beside me, trees shielding my eyes from stabby sunbeams

there are remnants of the last tenant’s garden in one corner of the yard.  we’ve done fuckall for yardwork but plants struggle through anyway.  some seem to have sprouted by accident.  mushroom clusters populate the edges of the fence.  the apartment squirrel (there are probably several, but i like to think it’s a single energetic creature) runs back and forth along the fence & i always lose my train of thought & then laugh my ASS off at the “SQUIRREL! XD” adhd moment.  birds kick up leaf litter and play on the ground looking for insects to eat, they wiggle their tail feathers and flap their wings and sometimes they disappear and then return with friends

a little more than eleven months ago, i packed all of dev’s and my shit into a uhaul and drove and drove and drove to get to this city i’d never been in before to live with a partner i’d never cohabitated with.  we were homeless for more than a month, we weathered some financial disasters, we met some great people and some shitty ones

on the drive i fell in love with the sky.  i didn’t know how big it can get - actually, that’s a lie.  i’d FORGOTTEN how big it can get.  i’ve loved the sky thirty miles out to sea, no land in sight in any direction, just blue water and blue space above.  i’ve loved the vastness and the yawning beneath me and the knowledge that everything is BIGGER than i can fathom.  the depth of the sea doesn’t frighten me, it’s home. i don’t want to die, but if i had to, the ocean makes a soothing grave

in north dakota i discovered that i’ve been partially blind my whole life, which is a different tale that showed me i’ll never stop learning myself.  in montana we struggled up thousands of feet of mountains with the car huffing and puffing at the trailer’s weight, and when we finally coasted downward, it felt like sudden freefall.  we ended up in the pitch darkness of night on sheer winding interstates with midnight construction projects forcing detours.  the mountains felt hungry, they had teeth.  mountain cliffs are much scarier to me than the ocean depths

i bought a red bull and poured a little out the driver’s side door as an offering to hermes, because i’m not particularly religious but i’ll take help where i can get it.  slammed that back in a few gulps and shook to bright-eyed alertness and ended up behind a slow-driving red pickup truck that guided us over about a hundred miles of mountain terrain

i thought, that’s just some construction worker driving between sites.  the roads are empty at this time of night, but it’s an interstate.  of course we’d end up behind someone.  this isn’t divine intervention.  this isn’t the benevolence of a god

i thought, but it can be a little magic.  if i want it to be.  

and it was.  it stays with me.

god help me but i’ve been writing this stream of consciousness for more than 30 minutes and i’ve said nothing.  i haven’t talked about the city, the parks, the people, the conversations, the books, the tv shows, the movies, the communities, the library, the animals, writing, reading, singing, acting, swimming, analyzing, creating, supporting, building.  and i can keep going.  i can come up with hundreds and hundreds of things i love and i can write paragraphs about all of them

so i’ll stop here.  you get the picture.  love is the life i’ve made for myself, the surroundings i’ve built, the quiet moments i can capture, the inspiration i pin, the magic i commit to memory.

i had to work so damn hard for every single bit of this.

i’ll be fucking damned if i let it go because my brain tried to trick me into thinking death is better.

-

2. spite

there are people who want me to die.

i don’t mean that i have a giant entourage of personalized enemies who curse my name and plan my individual demise.  although there have been plenty of people who have not liked me much.  probably some of them would enjoy my death.  i don’t give a shit about that

there are people who want me dead because i am a dot on a grid they dislike.  a faceless anonymous enemy who meets too many bad criteria with numbers and percentages and shrinking majorities and shifting public opinion

because i’m gay.  because i’m bipolar.  because i’m autistic.  because i’m a dropout.  because i grew up poor.  because my spine curves and my shoulders ache.  because i squandered my potential, because i didn’t have enough potential, because i didn’t love god enough, because i love the wrong gods, because i don’t worship, because i worship wrong, because i didn’t seek a husband, because i never wanted one, because i talk too much, because i can’t be controlled, because i chose to leave the fold when i realized it was suffocating me, because i’m ugly, because i’m gorgeous, because my body belongs to me

pick your poison.

this bothered me growing up, a lot. i knew i did not deserve to die. but if enough people tell you that you should, a little part of you will wonder if they’re right.  that little part might become bigger the closer they get and the louder they shout and the longer they wear you down

we know the rough shape of this story, i don’t need to tell it.  mine was messy and not triumphant and i survived more by chance than premeditation.

i’m older now.  by and large i’m still young as shit - i’m 24 - but GOD i am LEAGUES away from 15, 16, 17. i know who i am. i know what i want. i know how to get it. and when i don’t know that, i find out. i tell the truth.  i ask for what i want.  i use my time how i want.  i do what i want.

there are days that i can’t access the “love” side of the equation.  no finding poetry in birdsong or sugared coffee for me, thank you, i feel like shit and the world is awful and everything is too big and fast and cruel and everything wants me to die and it wants everything i love to die, too.  everyone i love.  it’s all garbage. the good doesn’t touch me

trauma is difficult to describe.  the difficulty is compounded by the fact that my trauma is influenced by my various neurodivergences, bipolar included.  i never know if i’m feeling what other people do.  i don’t know if i’m voicing unpalatable feelings others are afraid to express - or if i’m just othering myself, admitting i’m not as human as everyone else.

there is something malevolent and monstrous inside me.  i don’t touch it all the time.  but i don’t pretend it isn’t there.  it sits in my chest and molders or radiates or oozes.  it presses at my throat.  it curdles in my stomach.  it hurts what it touches, whether that’s me or someone i love or someone i hate.  it sets things aflame with no regard for the precious or the fragile.  it tears down walls and razes shelters and begs for apocalyptic rain.

i can give this thing names, clinical descriptors.  i know what it is on a diagnostic chart, in a ponderous article, in an academic debate, in a fiction novel, in a war movie, in a memoir.  there are a thousand ways to describe this thing.  the descriptors aren’t important.  what is important is this - i have learned that most people do not walk side-by-side with a tornado-hurricane-hellfire-weaponized-open-nuclear-reactor.  this is not a “normal” expression of human emotion, this is not me trying to ascribe power to “bad bipolar feelings.”  this thing lives in me and i know why it’s there and it is not designed to be held/silenced/muzzled/controlled by my body.

it does not help to pretend this thing does not exist.  it does not help to try to reason it away or ignore it or tell it to stop.  it wants what it wants, it does what it does.  possibly if i was better at therapy or stubbornness then i wouldn’t resign myself to that

but it is fucking EXHAUSTING to try to fight something that’s part of me.  to try to reshape it, rename it, pare it down, make it consumable for the masses.  it’s a war i have never won and it’s a war that i will lose if i keep fighting it.  i cannot fight with myself.  i cannot beat my monster into submission.  if we’re gonna battle like that, head to head, me trying to cut it down, me trying to be the hero, it rearing back like a fire-breathing dragon,

then it’s stronger.  it’s always stronger.

so i surrender.

but that’s not where i stop.

can’t fight it.  can’t kill it.  can’t muzzle it.  can’t reshape it, can’t disarm it, can’t contain it.  

alright.  

so what now.

if the surrender was a full giving-up, this is where i’d passively accept that i’m doomed to hurt and destroy everything precious to me.  can’t fix it.  will lose everything, will never experience or deserve happiness, will make the world worse simply by existing.

that sure does sound like impending-doom rhetoric.  hop skip and a jump from some dire-ass conclusions.  

so fuck that, i say. 

here’s a better question.

if it has to get out, then what happens if i control where it goes?

here’s the thing.

the monster doesn’t care what it kills or destroys or hurts.  

“have a conscience, care about things, remember love, stop yourself, don’t do this don’t do this don’t do this.” 

 losing battle.  lost war.

 it’s not the monster’s fault.  the monster doesn’t have complex motivations or hates or fears.  it exists to protect me through scorched earth.  a remnant of a chemical imbalance, maladaptive coping mechanism, bipolar crazy, traumatized injury.  it doesn’t know that its job is obsolete.

i can’t change the monster.

but my mind is a separate thing.  my mind knows what matters, what my priorities are, what i find precious, what i want to protect.  my mind remembers all the things the monster doesn’t.  

my mind has learned things the monster can’t.

when i fight it head-on, the malevolence is stronger than me.  but as i am, walking with it, sitting in my bed writing this while examining the void and the consciousness, describing it, quantifying it,

that’s when i’m stronger.

and with my mind as the stronger force, i can decide where the monster goes.  what it touches.  what it destroys.  what it burns.  where the ashes land.

i do not want to be a destructive person.  i want to be someone who builds, repairs, changes.  i want to make the world better for kids like me.  i want to stop pouring more gasoline onto a fire that’s been burning since long before i was born.  i want to believe - i do believe - that positive change is better than negative.  i do my best to plant good things and enact that positive change instead of becoming a beacon of wrath.

but there are a lot of kids surrounded by people who want them to die, and not all of them have a protective monster.

so it’s good.

when i’m depressed, my mind loses its battles.  my cognizance slips.  i forget why i care.  i forget what i want.  i forget how happiness feels, how to find pleasure in quiet moments.  

i don’t get depressed as often as i used to since my meds are adjusted correctly now.  but it still happens.  it will keep happening for the rest of my life.

my mind weakens and curls up and stops fighting, and the monster is always there.

it’s a very powerful thing when it wants to be.

it wants to survive.

the thing is, it knows there are people that want me/us/whatever dead.  it’s been fighting them forever.  die like they want?  my mind says, sure, what does it matter.

the monster says, nah.  our work isn’t done.  and fuck them, anyway.

so we get up.

-

so that’s how i stay alive.

i typed this for 90 minutes and after editing i’d spent two hours on this post.  i don’t know if anyone will read it all.  i don’t know if it’ll mean anything.  i don’t know if these thoughts even make sense, much less if i’ve conveyed the feelings i have.

i love being alive.  and when i don’t, i love being a monster.  it’s good.  all of it is good.  i’ve reconciled my uglier pieces.  it’s not one or the other, love or spite.  it’s symbiosis.  i need both, i love both.

no guarantees that this is helpful, but based purely on my own life experience, these are my tips for survival:

you’ll have to find your own roots.  i can’t give them to you.  

but it’s possible to dig them in and spread them far enough that one uprooted peg doesn’t shift your whole equilibrium.  

and when you’re tired, rest, and let yourself be tired, and find the reason why you’re staying in the world. 

 i’m positive there’s at least one.

figure out why you’re losing your battles and then change the game.

if you can’t win one setup, don’t try to beat the system.  adjust your strategy.

you’ll be surprised by what you can love when you stop fighting the disparate pieces of you, and instead figure out how to use them.

[the-panda-writes]

Southern Charm: Chapter 5

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Southern!Reader

Summary: You’ve been at Avengers Tower little over Six months, the air becoming chilly due to winter approaching. You want to go forward in your relationship with Bucky, but you are worried about how he feels about you. Bucky feels the same, wanting to ask you to be his girl and go steady with him.

Warnings: Nothing here!

A/N: Just reposting!

Ao3 / Southern Charm Masterlist

After your first date, you and Bucky can’t seem to keep your eyes off each other! You are in the state of bliss because he is such a cutie, you can’t keep him out of your mind.

He isn’t helping in the matter either; sneaking touches that light your skin on fire, him putting his arm around you when you guys sit together on the couch and whispering sweet nothings in your ear, making you go red in the face.

Some of the girls you work with, along with Natasha and Wanda, continuously tease you to no end because you caught the eye of the ex-HYDRA assassin. Your family were no different.

~Flashback~

You were Skyping your family to tell them about your experience so far in the tower and in the Big Apple, telling about the Avengers as well; they were excited when you told them you met the leader of the Howling Commandos.

“What’s he like?” Your little brother, Harley, asks in excitement.

“He’s everything the textbooks say he is and more. It’s a pleasure ta get ta know ‘im personally.” You say to him with a small smile.

“Is Barnes there too?” your father asks in curiosity. You nod, your face becoming flushed at the thought of him. “What’s he like?”

“He’s…. diffr’nt. He often shows what he was like in the forties, but ah think all the time they spent, using him and torturing him, it changes him.” You explain to him, your brain wondering off into space. “He’s a real sweetheart. It’s hard to tell if he was a man in pain.”

“Seems yer quite smitten with ‘im, hun.” Your mother points out suggestively.

“OOOOoooOOOOhhhh!!!” Your brothers tease through the screen. You just try to hush them, trying to hide your blush the best way you can.

“Boys, cut it out.” Your father said sternly, making your brothers stop. No doubt to tease you later, but stopped for right now.

“Thanks, daddy.”

“Don’t mention it pumpkin.” Your father says after telling your brothers to go do some yardwork. “So, about Barnes: has he taken you out on a date yet?”

“DAD!!” You yell in embarrassment, hiding your face in your hands.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ then?”

“I guess… He saw me dance.” You confess, scratching your arms nervously.

“Was he impressed?” Your mother asked in curiosity.

“He said he was, but I’m not sure if I believe it.” You admit sadly.

“You listen here, sweetheart. Any man would be crazy to not be with you.” You mother said sternly, but with encouragement.

“Yer just sayin’ that cause yer mah mother.” You say to her sadly.

“It counts more because I’m your mother. I know you, you are the best person around and such a sweet girl to boot.” Your mother says with a loving smile.

“Thanks mom..” you say to her with a happy smile.

~End Flashback~

With that thought in your head, you just went on to doing what you do best.

Today was one of your days off, which didn’t happen too often. You didn’t want to go anywhere, so you just lounged around in your great-great grandfather’s sweater with your hair up in a messy bun, sleeping shorts, socks and your nerd glasses.

Music was playing from a radio perched up on the counter in the kitchen; it was playing some classics from the later 70s, early 80s songs and Old Time Rock and Roll by Bob Seger started playing.

You decided to just slide out in the clothes you were wearing like Tom Cruise did in Risky Business. Though you weren’t wearing a button up, but the feeling was the same.

Once you slid out, you began to lip sync to the song using your hairbrush as a mic, completely oblivious that Bucky, Natasha, Wanda and Sam were in the living room.

You didn’t care, you loved the classics and just did it.

You just continuing to lip sync, everyone just enjoying the show you were putting, you even added a few twirls and more modern dance moves. When the guitar solos played, you pretended to play air guitar.

The others were just laughing and giggling at your antics; they enjoyed things like this, even though most of them didn’t have the courage to do this in front of the team.

By the time the song ended, you were a bit out of breath and the guys just applauded.

“Nice dance moves, Y/N!” Sam yelled with a big smile.

“Thank you, thank you! I’ll be here all week!” You laughed, standing next to Bucky for support.

“I haven’t had a good laugh in a while, so thanks girl!” Nat said with a smile.

“Yer welcome!” You said, going in for a hug, Natasha accepting gratefully.

“You shoulda seen her when we went out to dinner. She can really cut a rug.” Bucky said with a bit of his forties slang and Brooklyn accent.

“Ya’know. We should all go out dancin’ sometime! I can show you a few moves to some line dances.” You say, arching one of your eyebrows suggestively.

“Nah. I have two left feet.” Sam said, trying to brush it off.

“Same here, doll.” Bucky said, scratching the back of his neck.

When he said that, his mind went to different places, wanting to try different moves on you. Wanda picked up on this and she smiled suggestively.

“I think James would love zhat you could teach him a few things, since he was a dancer. Back in ze day I mean.” Wanda said as she walked away.

“Maybe he could show you a few of his moves. To ya’know, teach each other.” Natasha said, catching on to what Wanda was suggesting.

Sam just walked, Natasha dragging him away.

Bucky was just standing there, his face redder than the Henley he was wearing. He often wishes he didn’t know them.

“It’s fine, shuga’. They’re just messin’ ‘round an’ all.” You say to him, giving him a hug for comfort. “But. If yer up for it, just give me ah holler.” you tell him suggestively.

You go off back into your room, but you turn around and give him a quick peck on his cheek and scurring back to your room.

Bucky just stood there, dumbfounded. He placed a hand on his cheek, on the same spot where you kissed him.

It gave him the motivation to ask you out again, and hopefully, ask you to be his best girl.

~~~

The next day, you got back to work. Next month was October, so you were helping plan the Halloween costume party in the tower. You were taking a bit of a break when one of your co-workers approached you.

You really didn’t like him all that much; even though he was a blonde, strong jawed and broad shouldered, he was a bit rude and self-centered. You figured that if you ignore him, he would leave you alone.

It didn’t work out quite as you expected though. He still pestered you to go out with him, but he always made you feel uncomfortable. You hated to feel his eyes on you, which was often. You couldn’t really see him, but you knew it was him.

All he really wanted was to knock a new wedge into his bedpost; plus, you were a southern girl, so he thought you would be pretty easy.

He kept making moves at your and you were feeling uncomfortable by the minute.

Bucky saw this and he acted before his brain caught up.

He walked up to the both of you, excusing himself, then pressing his lips to yours.