#self hatred manifests as so many destructive habits and you need to get off your high horse.

[featherbraincd-aa-blog]

               ❛    ---------------   why   did   you   do   that?!  ❜                ❛    ---------------   though’   it’d   be   funny,   ain’t   it?  ❜

 his   mind   dutifully   switches   off   as   claire   begins   to   yell.     despite   her   head   trauma,   she’s   retained   her   altruistic   personality.     no   accident   could   force   that   from   her,   just   as   no   amount   of   distraction   could   force   apathy   from   him.     he   doesn’t   care;     he   doesn’t   care   about   his   work;     he   doesn’t   care   about   his   hobbies;     he   doesn’t   care   about   the   people   that   constantly   insist   on   hovering   around   him   like   flies   surrounding   a   corpse;     and   he   doesn’t   care   about   the   gaping   wound   on   his   hand   either.     really,   he’d   known   all   along   that   grabbing   a   knife   so   sharp   by   the   blade   would   cause   his   skin   to   give   way,   that   serrated   teeth   would   sink   into   soft   flesh--     it   just   hadn’t   been   enough   of   a   deterrent   to   not   do   it.

 she’s   forced   his   fingers   out,   worried   eyes   surveying   the   gash   before   going   back   to   his   face.     there’s   nothing   that   she’s   looking   for   there,   just   an   empty   mask   that   provides   no   answers,   no   reason.

               ❛    ---------------   this’s   a   bad   cut,   crow.     you   fucking   idiot!!    i   told   you   not   to!!   ❜

 guiding   him   to   sit   down   prompts   nothing.     he’s   doing   as   directed,   surprisingly   docile,   and   she   knows   immediately   that   such   behaviour   is   cause   for   concern.     she’s   trying   to   talk   to   him   now,   nudging   his   shoulder   with   a   warm   palm,   but   he   doesn’t   feel   it.     he’s   left   his   vessel   altogether.

             「   i’m   floating   away,   free   from   care.     i   feel   better.     i   feel   so   much   better.   」

 a   mention   of   phoning   somebody   catches   his   attention.     the   doctor,   or   his   therapist   perhaps,   though   his   brain   doesn’t   acquire   the   name   to   feel   threatened   in   the   first   place.     it   does   trigger   something   violent,   though--     a   violent   lie.     muddy   hands   force   light   back   into   his   eyes,   clouded   thoughts   parting   for   a   brief   strike   of   lightning--     alertness--   as   he   grins.

                        ❛    ---------------   phah.     did   i   get   y’good?     wha’   a   wuss.  ❜

 after   staring   for   a   moment   in   disbelief,   the   woman’s   worry   is   replaced   with   indignant   mirth.     the   harsh   shove   to   his   chest,   the   muted     ❛   you   motherfucker   ❜     ...     it   all   feels   normal.     he’s   normal   again.     it’s   this,   rather   than   her   candid   frustration   with   him,   that   prompts   him   to   laugh.

               ❛    ---------------   why   did   ya   jump   from   such   a   high   place?!     ya’re   gonna                   break   your   legs   at   some   point!!   ❜

             「   if   i   break   my   legs,   will   305   expect   me   to   go   anywhere   any   more?   」

 even   he   can   admit   that   the   landing   had   hurt.     no   amount   of   training   is   going   to   have   steel   replacing   bone   any   time   soon,   and   as   he   stands   straight   again   he   reluctantly   accepts   the   possibility   of   a   sprain,     or   a   torn   muscle.     something   in   his   ankle   feels   wrong.     still,   he   forces   himself   to   bridge   the   gap   between   him   and   danny.

               ❛    ---------------   it   was   not   high,   manny.     could’a   jumped   from   there   with                   my   legs   split   like   a   whore’s.  ❜

 that   doesn’t   mean   you   should!!     you   could   have   really   gotten   hurt!!     what   am   i   supposed   to   do   if   you   wind   up   more   injured   than   you   intended?     he’s   used   to   all   of   these   questions   at   this   point--   he   just   doesn’t   care   about   them.     why   should   he   be   concerned   about   other   people’s   concern?     no   amount   of   telling   them   it’s   misplaced   is   going   to   make  them   stop,   so   the   next   logical   step   is   to   avoid   thinking   about   it   too   much.     how   is   it   his   fault   if   they   care   too   much   in   the   stead   of   someone   who   doesn’t   care   at   all?

 the   feeling   of   floating   is   returning.     his   body   feels   pleasantly   vacant,   like   an   empty   sack,   and   it’s   with   no   regret   that   he   revels   in   the   peculiar   sensation--     even   though   his   ankle   is   killing   him.     jumping   from   there,   he’d   known   it   would.

 when   he   returns   to   earth,   crow   makes   sure   to   do   so   with   a   facetious   grin.

               ❛    ---------------   wanna   watch   me   do   it   again?   ❜                ❛    ---------------   crow!!   ❜

               ❛    ---------------   why   won’t   y’ever   say   anythin’?   ❜

 the   static   in   his   ear   is   making   his   head   spin.     in   one,   the   crackling   silence   of   a   parent   who   feels   no   obligation   to   speak   to   her   undesirable   offspring,   and   in   the   other   the   thrumming   silence   of   nomi’s   house.     he’s   out,   in   paris,   chasing   something   or   other   about   his   career   as   an   author,   and   crow   is   glued   to   his   seat   in   the   kitchen,   alone,   meaning   nothing   to   society.

 his   fingers   tighten   around   the   mobile.     despite   his   better   judgement,   he   can   feel   his   eyes   growing   hot,   teeth   gritting,   caging   an   onslaught   of   insanity   as   he   listens   more   intently.     this   time,   he   thinks,   as   he   always   does,   this   time   it’ll   be   different.

               ❛    ---------------   if   y’never   wanted   ta   speak   ta   me,   why   wouldn’t   y’block                my   number?     why   wouldn’t   y’move   away   where   i   can’t   find   y’after   all                these   years,   with   the   family   y’do   love?     why   would   y’even   pick   up                   the   phone?   ❜

 even   without   his   knowledge,   his   breathing   is   picking   up,   becoming   more   erratic   as   he   speaks.

               ❛    ---------------   mama,   why   don’t   y’love   me?   ❜

 voice   cracks   without   him   even   meaning   for   it   to.     he   hides   so   much   every   day...     how   depressed   he   feels;     how   empty   he   is   inside;     how   desperate   he   is   for   things   to   change   in   a   way   where   he   can   feel   their   benefit.     instead   he’s   caged   inside   some   never-ending   loop   of   him   saying   meaningless   things   to   meaningless   people,   searching   for   some   version   of   love   that   he   can   never   quite   accept.     he’s   alone   in   this   world...     everybody   he   wanted   to   love   him   has   long-since   abandoned   him.

 when   his   palm   meets   his   cheek   in   the   form   of   a   meek,   defeated   slap,   it   already   feels   damp.     a   feeble   sniffle   is   barely   an   indication   of   the   outraged   sob   that   follows.     he’s   crying,   but   not   in   a   cathartic   manner;     instead   in   a   fashion   so   primal   and   red   that   he   resembles   something   non-human.     without   a   second   thought,   the   man   stands   up   and   shoves   the   table   so   hard   it   topples   over,   the   chair   he’d   been   sitting   on   flung   back.    immediately,   he   begins   to   break   things.     kitchen   utensils.     any   crockery   he   can   get   his   hands   on   in   his   blind   fury.     the   refuse   bin   goes   down   with   an   angry   kick,   and   in   the   pile   of   garbage   does   he   see   a   loose   feather.     thoughts   now   a   whirlwind,   it’s   no   surprise   that   such   a   sight   prompts   the   next   of   many   insensible   ideas.     hands   tear   open   his   shirt,   fingers   locking   around   soft   plumage   and   pulling.     his   brain   immediately   begins   to   scream   in   protest--   stop   that,   god   STOP   IT,   IT   HURTS--   but   the   further   he   pushes,   the   more   numb   he   becomes.     eventually,   he   leaves   his   body,   fingers   clamped   around   fistfuls   of   feathers   slowly   letting   go   of   them.     despite   it   not   being   visible,   crow   knows   the   skin   beneath   is   raw   and   pink,   like   tender   meat   under   a   butcher’s   knife.     ugly.     made   to   be   killed.

 when   he   comes   back,   eyes   scan   the   mess   he’s   made.     even   now,   his   phone   lays   on,   screen   shattered   but   still   displaying   the   call,   seconds   still   ticking   away.     even   in   witnessing   the   destruction   she’s   caused   her   son,   the   mother   doesn’t   feel   inclined   to   give   him   a   response.    

 stumbling   over   the   chair   he’d   knocked   over,   crow   clumsily   collects   the   device   and   brings   it   close   to   his   ear.     nothing...     and   now   that   he’s   had   his   breakdown,   he   feels   content   to   leave   the   conversation   there,   a   vacant     ❛   i   still   love   you,   mama.   ❜     uttered   before   he   hangs   up,   taking   in   the   mess   he’s   made.     even   knowing   he’d   done   it,   he   doesn’t   feel   as   if   he   had.     nomi   isn’t   back   for   another   two   days...     there’s   plenty   of   time   to   clean   up   and   get   his   act   together   again.     for   now   though,   he   sinks   to   the   ground,   languidly   cross-legged   and   staring   blankly   into   space,   surrounded   by   loose   feathers.     his   skin   hurts.     it   hurts   more   than   cutting   it   did.     that   satisfies   him.

 an   hour   passes   before   he   feels   in   control   enough   to   stand   up   again.     retrieving   his   phone   once   more,   he   realises   he’d   missed   three   calls   from   nomi.    he   hadn’t   even   heard   it   ringing.     with   still   shaky   fingers,   he   fumbles   with   the   device   until   he’s   tapped   out   a   message   that   he’s   okay   with.     in   his   usual   blarse,   self-important   fashion:

                                        call   at   a   better   time.     i  was   in   the   shower   x

[princessmadafu]

37 bleedin’ pages!

I have condensed them for you and left out most of the bits that the nasty evil British Press have already covered. Feel free to skip any boring bits.

Dax Shepard: Welcome, welcome, welcome to Armchair Expert's Experts on Expert. I'm Dan Shepard. I'm joined by Monica Mouse.

Monica Padman: Hi.

[...]

There follows some heavy marketing of towels and stuff...

DS: Now please enjoy Prince Harry. We are supported by Brookelinen. My favourite hotel quality sheets to get into and writhe around in the nude. [...] They're impeccable. They're decadent, they're soft, they're absorbent. Brookelinen was started to create beautiful high quality home essentials that don't cost an arm and a leg. They're so confident in their product, they come with a 365 day warranty. So give yourself that comfort refresh you deserve and get it for less. Go to Brookelinen.com and use promo code 'expert' to get $20 off with a minimum purchase of $100. That's Brookelinen.com and enter promo code 'expert' for $20 off with a minimum purchase of $100. That's Brookelinen.com, promo code 'expert'.

Pretty ironic really, as Harry wades into fake news and how advertising algorithms are ruining us...

DS:...It's like the algorithms on the internet. You can't compete with that, a human.

PH: You can't if you have the awareness of what it's doing to you. And the fact that it's learning, which is scary. And advertising has been going on for hundreds of years, but done really responsibly. The difference here is targeted ads. If ads have always worked for companies, you can put on the TV, you can walk away, you can come back, your involvement is switching on switching off or changing the channel. Whereas now with algorithms is there, it's just feeding your habits. And it's also reading through your emails and everything else. So it's getting to know you, like, it gets to know the decisions you're gonna make before you make them, then it creates this echo chamber of no pushback, of no context of nothing. It's just perpetuating and feeding the bias and the habits that you already have inside of you, which is terrible.[...]

Harry needs to learn about AdBlock and Ghostery and VPNs and Tor and DuckDuckGo and Smartpage and all the other clever little ways the computer-literate have of ridding their lives of unwanted advertising. I haven't seen an ad in years. The only person feeding my habits is me. It’s called personal responsibility. Maybe Harry still needs a Nanny but most grown-ups don’t. Oh wait, I forgot, the “Meghan&Harry Show” fans are all kids.

PH: [...] It's a computer. It's like, who wrote the algorithms? You guys did? Probably all male and all white.

Oooh, let's be sexist and racist, Harry! Did you ever hear of these women or are they too scary?

https://biztechmagazine.com/article/2012/05/mothers-technology-10-women-who-invented-and-innovated-tech

Then they discuss Naked Vegas (this guy Dax has a thing about nudity) and Harry in Afghanistan. And discuss a calendar of naked men that DS and MP put together - their favourite male bodies. What a good job it's only gloating over naked male bodies and not naked female bodies. It's apparently acceptable, for some reason. Harry doesn't know who the guys are.

DS: Monica makes this for me every year and it's a calendar of all my favourite bodies of friends.

MP: And they're all men.

DS: They're all men.

MP: And they're all gorgeous bodies.

[...]

And is Harry nervous talking about mental health? He shouldn't be, he's been banging on about it for years.

PH: Yeah. Was I nervous? No. Not so much nervous. But I guess on this particular subject around mental health. Yeah. For me, it's always a, unfortunately, today's world is quite a sensitive subject, not just for the people who are sharing. But ultimately, the subject matter itself has to be handled with care. [...] It ends up getting weaponized by certain people.

Weaponised by certain people? Like him and Markle, for instance. Neither of 'em has any talent so they weaponise their mental health. Big big mental health bombs loaded with word salad to lob at their own families and cause huge distress. Not nice, Harry.

PH: That's how I've always felt when it comes to projection. I mean, hatred is a form of projection, right? [...] We're not born to hate people. So it manifests itself over a period of time. And of course, it can come from unresolved pain, or being hurt continually, as a young kid or through adult life. But ultimately, there's a source to it. There's a reason why you want to hate somebody else.

Like his dad, his brother...

PH: And actually have some compassion for them. Which is really hard when you're on the receiving end of this, like, just vile, toxic abuse. But the reality is, is you say, flip it. [...] Every single one of us wherever we are, wherever we come from, there will always try and find some way to be able to mask the actual feeling and be able to try and make us feel different to how we are actually feeling, perhaps having a feeling. Right, because so many people are just numb to it. That was a huge part of the beginning of my life, which was like, I rejected. I said, there's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine.

And now he's moved on to promoting his new mental health stuff with Oprah, The Me You Can't See...

PH: So if you are making that conscious decision to say: You know what, it's not self serving, but I want to share my story. I'm being asked to share my story to hopefully help someone or loads of other people. I'm probably going to get trolled. I'm probably going to get attacked by the same people that were doing anyway. If I'm willing to make that decision, surely that comes from a place of courage rather than weakness?

Or possibly naivety. Harry is only wanted for his money-making title and royal status; he has no mental health qualifications, he's not a mental health professional, he's not an expert, all he brings to the table is the glamour of being a prince of the BRF. Which he quite clearly hates. Markle is lining her pockets from their self-indulgent mental health whinge fest and he's too dim to see it. There follows the bit about the spectrum of upbringing that the press is covering nicely so I can skip the next few pages - the bits where Harry says he doesn't see that talking about his own issues is complaining, and “it's the job, right”, how he never wanted the job of being royal, and his therapy and how “massively self-critical” he is (yet still can't see that he's not being honest with himself), ooh and sharing his hatred of the British press - that's a good bit, let's skip to page 18:

PH I think the biggest issue for me was that being born into it, you inherit the risk, you inherit the risk that comes with it, you inherit every element of it without choice. And because of the way that the UK media are, they feel an ownership over you. Literally like a full on ownership. And then they give the impression to some of their, well, most of the readers, that that is the case. But I think it's a really dangerous place to be if you don't have a choice, but then, of course, then people quite rightly will turn around and go. So what if you didn't have a choice? It was privilege? [...] Page Six of the New York Post, they took pictures of my son being picked up from school on his first day [...] But I guess my point is the way that I look at it, especially now living here one hour outside LA. Like it's a feeding frenzy here. We spent the first three and a half months living at Tyler Perry's house. You let us stay. And the helicopter helicopters, the drones the paparazzi cutting the fence like it was madness. And people out there -Their response was, Well, what do you expect if you live in LA? It's like, Okay, well, first of all, we didn't mean to live in LA. This is like a staging area before we try and find a house. And secondly, how sad that if you live in LA and you're well known figure, you just have to accept it. The first security we had, I said, Well, where's the safest place? Inside. Just because I'm a well known person, you can't go outside anymore. [...] it's really, really sad. And of course, their argument is - the paparazzi and everybody else - is like all if you're in the public space, then it's absolutely fine for us to do it. So what is our human right as an individual and as a family, you're saying that if the moment we step foot out of our house, that it's open season and free game? What? Because of public interest?. There's no public interest in you taking your kids for a walk down the beach. Nothing...

And on and on it goes... He should've stayed in the UK then. The Cambridges are managing very nicely, thank you. They take their kids for walks on the beach, and we'd never seen them until they released their anniversary video the other week. Harry's clearly envious of William; Harry's mad wife is vitriolically envious of Catherine. Oh and I’m pretty sure it’s the mad wife who keeps phoning her go-to paps when she needs to be in the news again.

PH: [...] I believe we live in an age now where you've got certain elements of the media redefining to us what privacy means. There's a massive conflict of interest. And then you've got social media platforms, trying to redefine what free speech means. Why - I wonder why you're doing that. And again - so this has been happening for 15 years now. And we're living in this world where we've almost like all the laws have been completely flipped by the very people that need them flipped so they can make more money and they can capitalise off our pain, grief, and this sort of general self destructive mode that's happening at the moment [...]

He doesn't get how hypocritical this is, does he? The Markles are the ones capitalising on their grief, pain and the rest of it. And no-one would be interested in them without the royal bits because they have nothing else to offer. Failed actress and used-to-be-a-soldier wrapped up in festering bitterness.

Blah, blah... went shopping in a supermarket... saw lots of chewing gum... blah, blah... Archie on the back of his bicycle... girls want to be princesses... You don't need to be a princess, you can create the life that will be better than any princess or it's something along those lines... she said she expected [the press] to be fair... Pages and pages of how he hates the British press...

PH: [...] And especially when you can't defend yourself so yes, I think when you marry into it, especially when it's one Princess Diana's sons there is a certain amount of 'okay what I'm actually letting myself in for?' But very few people actually know - apart from the Brits - how toxic that element of the of the UK press is.[...]

We're up to page 24 now, if you're still with me. Oh here it is, Harry's unconscious bias... What’s the betting the mad wife has scripted this bit for him?

PH: [...] So going back to the whole sort of travelling around the Commonwealth, I thought I knew, right, having been able to travel that much and meet so many and such a diverse group of people. I thought I understood life. Especially bearing in mind most of the countries I was going to were, most of the communities are going to were people of colour. But then I was really shocked once I started doing therapy. And that bubble was burst. And I started doing my own work, really - a lot of work - and started to uncover and understand more about unconscious bias. And I was like, wow, I thought since I screwed up when I was younger, and then did the work. I thought I then knew. But I didn't. And I still don't fully know. It's like a constant working progress. And every single one of us has it. [...] Everyone has biases, of all sorts. But I think it's a really important point, especially now, after everything's happened in the last year and a half, like the world is changing, the younger generation are driving it. And you've got to like a multi-racial, cultural sort of movement happening, which has never happened before. But unconscious bias is the way that I understand it, is, again, it's not something that's wrong with you. Right? And you don't have to be defensive about it. That's the thing. No one's blaming you. But the moment that you acknowledge that you do have unconscious bias, what are you going to do about it? Because if you choose to do nothing you're continuing to fuel the problem, which means that you're then heading towards racism. Whereas unconscious bias is actually something that is inherent, unfortunately, in every single one of us. But that it is possible to educate yourself to be more aware of the problems and therefore be part of the solution rather than part of the problem.

Markle's got him well-trained on this one, hasn't she. I wonder if he's read anything critical of the unconscious bias movement, or just repeating what he's been told to. Oh and then he goes off about being in the army...

PH: I loved it. I love wearing the same uniform as everybody else. I love being treated the same. I love the expectation of if you want to get that job, or you want that promotion, or you want to finish this race, it's all on you. There's no special treatment, you're not going to get any help. If anything, you're probably going to get treated the opposite because everyone thinks that you've had an easy life. And everyone's always helped you get to where you are.

But...but...but, Harry wasn't treated the same, there was special treatment, he was helped to get to where he was. He scraped a couple of poor quality A Levels and got admitted to Sandhurst because he's a prince. Good old Wikipedia says:

In June 2003, Harry completed his education at Eton with two A-Levels,[22] achieving a grade B in art and D in geography, having decided to drop history of art after AS level.[23] He has been described as "a top tier athlete", having played competitive polo and rugby union.[24] One of Harry's former teachers, Sarah Forsyth, has asserted that Harry was a "weak student" and that staff at Eton conspired to help him cheat on examinations.[25][26] Both Eton and Harry denied the claims.[25][27] While a tribunal made no ruling on the cheating claim, it "accepted the prince had received help in preparing his A-level 'expressive' project, which he needed to pass to secure his place at Sandhurst."[25][28]

PH: And then suddenly, like - while I was at school, I hated exams. And I promised myself I'd never do exams again. Then I joined the army of which is full of exams. I still promised myself I'm never gonna do it and then I end up flying Apache [...]

Gods, it's getting boring. Even the interviewers are zoning out. Still ten pages to go. Wish I hadn't started this, I could be out weeding. Weather's nice, not too windy... Do I deserve a quick G&T yet?

PH: Or worse, was they turn around and say, right, because last week, you're out the front. This week, you got to carry his bergan, I'm like - what, 30 extra pounds? Nooo. But it was, it was the most normalising experience or job that I could have ever hoped for. And then going to Afghanistan twice [...] And someone said to me very recently, from the moment that you're born into today's world, life is trauma, so the sooner that we actually acknowledge that but but [...]

A-a-a-a-and he's back on the mental health thing, PTSD or PTSI,

PH: Post Traumatic Stress Injury is like: Well, that makes sense, because I just saw my mate get blown out. But the other piece of this is, what we need to remember is, the lot of the recruiting that we do in the UK, comes from certain cities and certain homes, where there's childhood trauma. So what we collectively have already got inside of us, the trigger of seeing something happen in Iraq, Afghanistan can be the trigger. So everyone goes: Oh, it's because they were on operations, and because they saw their makeup blown up. It's like, no. [...] So that's what I've been working on for years, for the last five years, which is like, and it started in therapy of like, I don't want to lose this thing, because I think it's, I feel so connected to my mum. [...]

They move on to parenting, which the press is rubbing its hands over... Harry blaming everyone but himself and his saintly mother - Charles, HMTQ, PP... "They f*ck you up, your mum and dad". But not the mum bit. He can't push his mum off her pedestal.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48419/this-be-the-verse if you don't know Larkin's poetry. How much more? Nearly there. Monica loves The Crown and doesn't realise it's fictitious.

DS: [...]Well, Harry, I've really really liked talking to you. You're very charming. You're very intelligent. You're handsome, and I can't wait to see your torso.

MP: Thank you so much for coming.

DS: So I just want to remind everyone that May 21 on Apple Plus, you should check out Oprah and Prince Harry's 'The Me You Can't See'. I have to imagine it's similar to her book, which I just read, which is absolutely incredible 'What happened to you?' So everyone should check out 'The me you can't see' on Apple plus May 21.

And still Harry won't shut up... Shut up, shut up. Cut his mic. You don't have to read this last bit, they've already wound up the interview...He still won’t shut up.

PH: Yeah, we're moving from the physical to the emotional, right, physically. At the beginning of this pandemic, people were panicking. And there was that fight or flight like, ahh what do we do like lockdown, survival? Yeah. And now that the vaccines have been sort of, we're getting to the point where more and more people are being vaccinated, we're now in the emotional phase of what I read in the New York Times article was called languishing, which is really interesting. It's like the is the middle child between flourishing and depression. You just feel flat, and it's not depressed. It's definitely not flourishing. You lack the energy and the will, the motivation, all that kind of stuff. Because you're kind of sitting there going - Well, what happens next? And I think it's really important that we talk about languishing. And it was coined by someone I can't remember who but I think it was the journalist who wrote the story was Adam Grant. No, he didn't come up with it. Someone else came up with him, he wrote this, the most amazing article about languishing and the fact that how important it is to be able to talk about it because - look when it comes to mental health, we need to realise and accept that every single one of us have mental health. There's varying degrees, as we said, you've got the mental illness, and then you've got the sort of the awareness and the work that you can put in, like, Where do you want to be that we shouldn't just sit there and go: Oh, mental illness is once we are literally on the floor crawling around in the foetal position needing help. But for me, I don't think I need therapy anymore. But I wanted. And when I say therapy, I mean, actual therapy, sitting down having a discussion with someone. But I also mean like, nature, like going for walks, like throwing the ball for my dog down the beach and stuff like that. There are certain things around the world that are free, some you have to pay for, but ultimately go searching for the things that make you feel good about yourself. Like that's the key to life, get rid of the bad stuff, get rid of the hate, and just focus on the good. And your whole life turns around from that. I hate this idea. And I was one of them. I fell for it. Right? I didn't acknowledge that clearly what happened to me when I was 12 years old, losing my mom and all the other pieces that happened, the traumatic experiences that happened to me since then, I didn't acknowledge them, when perhaps - maybe I need to deal with this because if I don't, how the hell am I going to be a decent father to my son and my daughter? Like that awareness, I didn't have then. But again, we've got what - 40 experts as part of this series, and the Surgeon General, Dr. Nadine Burke Harris, she's absolutely fantastic. And she was talking about this concept of mental health being sort of public health, right. Because the services are so limited. There's not enough money. The problem is actually immense. How can we all help each other rather than this: 'Oh, once I'm broken, or once I'm suffering, I have to go here.' And there's not enough rooms or spaces for the amount of people or the for the need, when actually you can get ahead of it, and work on the prevention by sharing and being more vulnerable with each other, and being able to process this grief or this loss, or this trauma that every single one of us have experienced and will experience. So anyone who's sitting there going: 'I don't have a problem, and I never will have a problem.' Well, you probably are already contributing to the problem, because you probably got your blinkers on, you probably created your own echo chambers. So I think it's a that, that's certainly what I've experienced for my own process, my own journey, my family and my friends and everybody else is. Anyone who thinks, oh, we're fine. You're the one who's like, willing to talk about it. It's like, yeah, I'm willing to talk about it and talking about it. And the financial element as well. We're pouring money into on the downsteam, when it's like, Can we just focus upstream? Yeah, we focus on one thing, like to me listen to Oprah was what was one of the reasons that this whole thing started was two of the biggest issues that we're facing in today's world, I think, is the climate crisis, and mental health. And they're both intrinsically linked. Basically if we neglect our collective wellbeing, then we're screwed. Basically, because we can't look after ourselves. We can't look after each other. We can't look after each other, we can't look after this home that we all inhabit. So it's all part of the same thing.

DS: Prince Harry, I don't say this lightly. I love you. Thanks for coming. This was great.

M: Thank you so much.

PH: Thank you very much.

Wish I'd done my weeding.

[vs-redemption]

Bad Day (Dabi x GN!Reader)

This wasn’t a request, but it’s been something in my mind that I’ve wanted to write for a few days. I’ve had some family drama the past couple weeks and whenever I’m sad I think about Dabi lol I’m not sure why. Anyway, there’s a whole second part of this that I was planning to write, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get to it so I’ll post this by itself for now!

ANYWAY! My requests are still open so feel free to check out the rules and my masterlist.

⚠️ There are some suggestive themes (nothing crazy)

⚠️ There are mentions of alcohol consumption

It had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Actually, why sugar coat it? Things had not been great for a while. Today had just been one the times when everything finally came to a boil. With your mind filled with anger, you make your way to the only place you can think to go. You crash through the doors of the tiny bar where the League of Villains stayed in secret, not bothering to hide your rage as you stomp over to the counter and plop down onto one of the old wooden stools. Kurogiri walks over calmly to ask if he can make you a drink.

“Yes, please.” The politeness sounded forced, but at least you’d somehow remembered your manners even through the whirlwind of emotions rampaging through you. You stare at the man’s misty form as he walked away, trying to make out a pattern to the way the purple tendrils twisted and curled as he moved. There was something off about the guy, but you could never quite figure it out. Maybe it was because he seemed more like a babysitter than an actual villain. Or maybe it was because he was the only one who rarely left the bar. Contemplating the possibilities wasn’t enough to distract you and you began to unconsciously pick at the skin on the inside of your pointer finger with your thumbnail. It was a habit that always seemed to manifest when you were on the verge of a breakdown.

You look around the bar once and find that it’s empty aside from you and the villain bartender. You weren’t sure if you were grateful for that or not. You’d been a member of the league for a while now, but you weren’t particularly close to any of them. It wasn’t as if you had a deep hatred for heroes or a passionate desire to destroy the world like the others. The one thing you did have in common was that you were a misfit that didn’t seem to belong anywhere else thanks to a quirk that had slowly driven everyone around you away. You’d agreed to help out the league with their dastardly plans in exchange for a place to just exist in peace.

“Can we put on some music or something?” You ask Kurogiri once your first drink is gone. Without saying a word, he walks over to a small radio on the shelf behind the bar and turns it on. You continue to pick at the skin on your finger as the melody of a stupid love song begins filling up the empty bar. It didn’t do anything to calm the fury in your heart. Your mind wanders to the messages you’d received from your family earlier that day. They were suddenly asking you for favors after almost a year of ignoring your attempts to reach out to them time and again. They’d distanced themselves from you just like everyone else had. You’d lost track of how many friendships you’d lost due to people’s inability to accept you the way you were. They only got in touch when they needed something from you.

You were halfway done with your second drink when the door swings open again and someone else walks into the bar, bringing in the smell of burnt flesh with them. Dabi comes into the room at a much more leisurely pace than you had and silently plants himself in the seat furthest from you. Kurogiri was already preparing the man’s usual drink.

“Why are we listening to this shit?” Dabi asks flatly while throwing an annoyed glance over to the old radio. The signal wasn’t too strong so the song kept fading into static every few minutes. Kurogiri walks over and turns the dial until finding another clear station that happened to be playing classical piano. “Awesome… thanks.” The sarcasm in his voice was palpable. You quickly down the rest of your second drink.

Dabi had always been intimidating to you. He had deep purple burn scars covering half his face, most of his arms, and a bit of what you’d seen of his chest, plus he was a dangerous murderer. None of those things were what really got to you though. You knew that everyone in the league had killed at some point, but at least most of them had been somewhat friendly to you. Even if Toga was a bit much for your taste, she’d still jumped at the chance to make a new friend when you had showed up. Twice was always good for a laugh too. You’d even had some interesting conversations with Spinner and Mr. Compress. Dabi though, he always kept to himself. And there was always something so distant and cold about his intense blue stare that made him difficult to even approach, let alone talk to.

“Would you like another one?” Kurogirl picks up your empty glass.

“Yeah.” You glance back over at Dabi, feeling a sudden urge to move. You weren’t doing nearly enough to deal with the negative emotions still running wild inside you, and they were twisting and contorting like Kurogiri’s mist, trying to force you into finding a more effective way to express them. You look around the bar once, wondering how mad Shigaraki would be if you tore through the place until you’d destroyed enough to tire yourself out. That was probably out of the question. You hop off your barstool and walk over to Dabi. Maybe he wasn’t that bad. You climb up onto the seat right next to him.

“Hey.”

He turns his head to meet your gaze with a bored expression. Being this close to him felt dangerous, yet exciting. The smell of burned skin was stronger up close, and you had no idea if it was from overusing his self-destructive fire quirk, or from the people he’d undoubtedly turned into victims that day. Kurogiri walks over and puts your new drink in front of you. You take a sip and find it cold and refreshing.

“Did you need something?” Dabi asks. It was a question but it sounded very dismissive. You decide to ignore your urge to run away.

“I’m bored,” You shrug. Dabi only raises his eyebrows slightly before turning away from you.

“Not my problem.” He says.

“Come on,” You weren’t backing down. “We could go scare little kids by popping out of dark alleys or something.” Dabi swings his head back around to face you with a scowl, only to find you grinning playfully back. Kurogiri’s drinks had made you brave.

“That’s your idea of fun, huh?” Dabi asks.

“It’s an idea,” you confess. “I’m open to suggestions if you have a better one.” The villain just continues to stare at you with his eyes alight with irritation and just a hint of confusion. You’d never spoken to him before except short polite greetings, so the behavior you were exhibiting now was probably throwing him off just a bit.

“Fine,” you sigh while waving your hand toward the radio which was still playing the same slow piano music, “do you fancy a dance?”

“No.” He actually sounded kind of pissed now.

“Wanna fight then?” You quickly change tactics and the look of surprise on his face was extremely satisfying. It was the first time you’d seen him express any sort of emotion aside from irritation or apathy. “Not to the death or anything,” you give him another cheesy smile. “Just a friendly little match.”

“No.” He turns away again which causes you to panic because you didn’t want him ignoring you. Without thinking, you reach out to grab his arm. Dabi goes stiff and his eyes slide back to meet yours. You’d really caught him off guard this time. You look down at your hand, thinking that you should probably let him go but not actually wanting to. The burned skin under your fingers felt different than you expected. It felt leathery, but wasn’t as coarse as it looked. You rub your thumb back and forth over his forearm a couple times, marveling at the warmth it radiated due to his quirk.

You finally glance back at his face to find all his features dead aside from his blue eyes which simmered with mysterious emotions. You got the impression that if you said or did the wrong thing, he might just drag you outside and turn you into a pile of ash. That didn’t actually sound so bad. Maybe it was all right to keep pushing your luck. Your eyes drop from his eyes to his mouth. His whole lower lip and jaw were scarred with the same deep purple burns. The staples holding his damaged flesh together ran from the corners of his mouth, along his cheeks, and up towards his ears. You lean in towards him and peek back up at his eyes. The life you’d seen in them just a moment ago had been locked away, and now his stare was flat and guarded.

“So, we’re doing this now?” He asks in a low voice. Even though you’d never intended for things to go this way, you were glad that you finally had his attention.

“Is that a problem?” You smile back, batting your eyelashes once flirtatiously. His expression doesn’t change much.

“Guess not,” He shrugs before grabbing his drink off the bar with his free hand and chugging it down.

You continue to exam his face for a moment, letting your eyes wander over the burn marks under his eyes and the small piercings on the side of his nose. You were close enough to smell the liquor on his breath now and you drag your hand up his arm to grab his shoulder and pull him closer. You glance over to check on Kurogiri, but he was no longer in the room. You wonder how the misty man must think of you now that he’d witnessed your shameless attempts to use Dabi as a way to avoid your feelings.

“Are we doing this or what?” Dabi’s voice pulls your attention back and you catch a glimpse of uncertainty in the depths of his blue eyes. The reality of what you’re doing hits you suddenly like a ton of bricks. You grimace at your own actions and pull away from Dabi as fast as possible. You cover your face with your hands and let out a groan.

“Ugh!” You shake your head before looking at the man in front of you to see anger written in his glowering eyes and scowling lips. “Jeez, I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have done that.” The fury on Dabi’s face intensifies, making you feel even worse. Without saying another word, he hops off the barstool and storms out. The crushing weight of your guilt settles in your chest and you put your head down on the bar. What was wrong with you? Even if you hadn’t really interacted with Dabi much before, he was still a member of the group that had taken you in and accepted you. If he or Kurogiri decided to tell Shigaraki about what you’d just done, you might end up back on your own or dead. Your very bad day had just gotten a whole lot worse.

[daesungindistress]

@fangirl-2007 replied to your post: jkevldje asked: “Call me crazy but I actually can’t imagine...”

That sounds like a very interesting fanfic prompt

Sorry this reply is so late! I started writing it the day you commented, but then it got put aside in favor of... other things.

So here are a few thoughts (um, more than a few, whoops). Warning for some seriously depressing content behind the cut:

MPD/DID (Multiple Personality Disorder / Dissociative Identity Disorder) typically manifests as a coping mechanism following a traumatic event or continued trauma. For the purposes of this fic idea, I imagine it would manifest in the aftermath of Daesung’s 2011 accident. He took it so hard, struggling under the weight of his guilt and self-loathing until it all became too much. Before he knew it, he’d dissociated to escape it (more on this later).

Though he doesn’t publicly disclose it (of course he doesn’t, only close friends and family know), this is Daesung’s main reason for refusing to create a public social media account for himself. He’d like to for the sake of his fans, sure. But he can’t risk that kind of vulnerability. He’d be throwing himself at the feet of netizens who are quick to cast stones and slow to forgive, trusting them to be merciful and kind. (He knows better than that. It had been one of life’s hard lessons... that the anonymity of the internet brings out the very worst in people, even years later. He won’t go looking for mercy where he knows he’ll find none.)

So what’s the problem? Hateful comments about the accident might bring one of his “alters” (alternate personalities) to the surface at the worst of times.

The rest of Big Bang have become pretty good at this by now-- at knowing who they’re dealing with. Most days it’s Daesung at the wheel. But some days they’re not so sure.

Two of his alters Daesung doesn’t mind much; they function as extensions of himself, their appearance little more than an inconvenience. The one they’ve dubbed Smiling Angel he trusts enough not to land him in any serious trouble. He and Daesung share enough similarities that the switch is subtle and easily overlooked. He’s cheerful and bright and, okay, sometimes a little more sugary than necessary but it’s not bad, all things considered. He comes and goes without incident, leaving in his wake smiles and laughter and warmth. And when he fades into the background once more, stepping aside to trade places with Daesung in a manner that’s surprisingly considerate, most are none the wiser.

Yabai Kang can be a handful. As such, his presence is harder to hide. Because he doesn’t try to hide it. Yabai Kang wants to be seen and appreciated. And yet, for all his claims of being dangerous, he’s harmless enough. His intentions are good-- definitely not pure, no, but good-- and the fans love him. He spices up Daesung’s image, that’s for sure.

So those two are... tolerable. Daesung accepts them as extensions of himself, choosing to view them as different sides of the same coin (not the best analogy because a coin only has two sides, but whatever). He’s learned to live with them, even though relying on others (his bandmates, his manager, etc) to fill in the blank spaces in his memory never really gets any easier.

But there’s one alter in particular he wants-- no, needs-- to avoid more than all the others.

Loser Daesung (they don’t call him that, of course; they don’t know what to call him) doesn’t come out often, but when he does the guys of BB panic a bit-- okay, they panic a lot-- and have to keep an extra close eye on him. Because he has these intense mood swings, fluctuating between deeply depressed and explosively angry. One moment he’s so deep in his head he can’t move, as if trapped in the cage of his mind. In the next the bars are gone and he’s springing at whoever’s nearby, attacking at the slightest provocation.

For the rest of BB, they aren’t sure which is more unnerving: when he’s still and silent as death, eyes open but unseeing, by all appearances an empty shell of a person. Or when he’s flying at one of them in a rage, out of control, out of his mind.

It took some time to understand that when he strikes at them he’s not trying to hurt them. He’s trying to get them to hurt him.

Of all the alters, Loser Daesung was the first to appear... and is arguably the worst. That it had been an accident didn’t matter; Daesung took full responsibility for what he’d done... until he couldn’t take it anymore. Suffocating under the weight of his self-hatred, he’d fled his suffering by separating from himself. Without realizing, he’d balled up his pain and pushed it into his new creation, removing himself from the worst of it.

Loser Daesung scratches at his neck a lot, and when the others ask him about it he says it’s because his scars itch. “What scars?” they ask, spooked. Because Daesung’s neck is attractive, his skin clear and unblemished; there are no scars. But Loser Daesung can’t forget how the rope bit into his neck as it took all his weight and whoops, maybe the scars aren’t on his skin after all; they’re in his head.

Because no matter how real the memory is to him, no attempt was ever actually made. No rope has ever touched his neck. The burden he unwittingly took from Daesung included thoughts of ending it all. In his mind it’s played out many times: dragged down too far, too fast, he’s only acting out what he already feels... strangled, unable to breathe. He carries these dark fantasies with him, keeping them locked away in a dark corner of his mind where the others, including Daesung himself, can’t reach them.

In a way, Daesung is grateful to this alternate for safeguarding something so damaging, even as he feels selfish for unloading it on him. Truth be told, it’s because of him that he’s been able to carry on as he has. Now if only he would stay down.

Imaginary or not, the “scars” still itch, Loser Daesung insists, so he carries on with the scratching, tearing with blunt nails at the skin of his neck until it’s red and inflamed and the others have to force his hands away. They try to keep him occupied in whatever way they can, because there may be more than one of “him” in there but they all share one body. Without supervision he just might self-destruct and take all the others with him. Including Daesung.

Distraction doesn’t always work. Sometimes Loser Daesung gives up completely; Daesung reawakens and finds his hands behind his back, bound, with one of the others nearby to keep an eye on him. Sometimes his legs too. He’s safe, they’ve made sure he’s comfortable enough, he just can’t... move.

He knows why. He keeps his eyes low, afraid to face whoever is attending to him this time. Nothing makes his heart sink more than to see them staring back at him with such concern. Or worse, if he’s been violent: fear, distrust. It’s a long time before he can work up the courage to speak.

As for the rest of BB, they’ve learned to love the alters-- well, most of them-- but none are so dear to them as Daesung. Not Smiling Angel with his million watt smile or Yabai Kang with his sex appeal and daring moves. And certainly not Loser Daesung, who needs some serious help (he’s never around long enough or often enough to attempt any kind of treatment; it tends to be more about managing him until his hold weakens enough that he sinks below again).

They really just want Daesung. Daesung, the boy who joined them more than a decade ago and has been with them every step of the way as the five of them have matured and grown into the nation’s biggest boy band. The Daesung they touched hearts with before the accident, before his “others” came in one by one and began slowly crowding him out.

Yes, they’ve learned to love those others... in more ways than one. There have been times they’ve fallen into bed with Daesung only to learn the next morning that Daesung doesn’t remember any of it. Or he remembers up to a certain point until one of his alters shoved him aside and took over (the culprit? Usually Yabai Kang).

Daesung is understandably frustrated while the others are a bit guilt-ridden. It’s not like it happens often. And sure, sometimes it’s just getting off together. Nothing he can’t stand to miss. It’s not all that different than hooking up after a night of drinking and finding gaps in his memory the next day.

But there’s more to it than the missing memories. It’s the helplessness of being a passenger in his own body. At least the decision to drink, dance, and get down with the others in BB is his. The decision to hand over the reins at random to these strangers residing inside his head? (Strangers? Is that what they are? Whatever happened to “extensions of himself”?)

It’s beyond his control, the switching, and there are times when his own powerlessness gets to him. Forget acceptance; hello, resentment. He doesn’t want to share his consciousness, or his body-- or hell, his life-- with these people. And what about his bandmates? He swallows the disappointment and humiliation and wonders, can’t they tell the difference? Or do they just not care?

The angst! I should probably stop there. lol

I may be taking waaaay too many liberties with this. Additional research would be required for the sake of realism. I’m all for claiming creative license but there’s a certain balance to maintain...

Anyway, I don’t make a habit of sharing notes or plans for things I truly intend to write. It’s partly because I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up when most likely nothing will come of it, and partly because I’m oddly self-conscious about letting people see the early stages of my process. Things change a lot along the way. Even after all I’ve written here, there are currently no plans for this to become finished fic. But I won’t close the door on it completely. How about I just... add it to the pile.

[cummunication]

When Food is Love and Love is Food

When I was 12 years old, I remember going to the school psychologist. I can’t quite remember how I ended up there, but I do remember sitting across from her while she told me I had an eating disorder. “Me? An eating disorder? I’m not skinny enough to have an eating disorder” I thought aloud, or to myself. I recall telling one of my cheer-leading friends during practice what I had learned. This was stupid on my part, since the girl practically told the entire team. When I was in middle school, we learned about eating disorders; primarily anorexia and bulimia. I can’t shake the thoughts I had during this time. I remember wishing I could be anorexic, or look anorexic, but not having enough “willpower” to follow through. I also recall wishing I could be bulimic, since bulimia seemed like something only bad asses could pull off, but thinking how gross and absurd it was, “I could never put my finger down my throat”. Little did I know, it would take less than two years before I became fully enveloped in bulimia. The first time I made myself vomit was ninth grade. My eating disorder was in full blast by the age of fifteen, the year my father passed away. There is a high correlation between eating disorder clients and sexual abuse. What do they have in common? They involve rage, numbing, seeking feelings of comfort and protection, while simultaneously, punishing oneself. My eating disorder has been off and on the last ten years. It engrosses your ability to think, work, learn and function. There were countless times I was in remission, and then before I knew it, I was self-soothing and relapsed, seemingly overnight. The first time I was sexually harassed was at the ripe old age of 9 by a family member. During this time, I also feared my uncle. My sister and cousins used to tease me about him wanting to molest me. It was highly uncomfortable then, when my parents would force me to show him affection while I felt so unsafe. Some people turn to gambling, porn or crime. Many trauma victims go on to develop a shopping or substance addiction. I have dabbled in many of these behaviors, but my main vice was always food. Sexual abuse, like eating disorders, has numerous effects on a person’s self-esteem and eating. Abuse severely violates a person’s boundaries. This leads to a disconnect from feelings and sensations. People who have been sexually abused may turn to destructive methods to cope. Focusing on food is one way to distract oneself from feelings of inner turmoil. Despite what people may think, it has little to do with the food. Emotional or binge eating is typically done in secret and a feeling of self-hatred proceeds. Compulsive eating serves as a distraction from the outside world. Compulsive overeating, gives me an excuse to isolate and be alone, as well as anesthetize my pain and suffering. It’s counter-intuitive, since what I’m really craving is a deep, loving connection, & to be understood by others. Whenever I am struggling with my eating disorder on the other hand, I have a reason to cut off others, thereby becoming depressed and worsening my condition. Many people remain in denial, or repress traumatic memories. Sometimes, a victim may not even believe anything is wrong at the time. These are all normal reactions. Unfortunately, many survivors are discouraged to share their stories and get stuck in a state of self loathing, blaming themselves for the attack or assault. Rape and abuse often accompany post-traumatic stress disorder. My PTSD helped to keep me silent about what was going on, perpetuating the problem. PTSD can manifest through illness, physical symptoms, night terrors and nightmares, depression, and hyper-vigilance. Sadly, people who struggle with post traumatic stress disorder are vulnerable to toxic relationships and self destructive patterns. This can include drugs, promiscuity, self harm, getting involved in dysfunctional relationships and suicidal ideation. The person yearns to feel better and heal, yet self sabotage takes over. A result is the survivor [unconsciously most of the time], will strive to make themselves extremely large or small. This is a way (they believe) to eliminate sexual attention, so they wont be subjected to danger. I am guilty of “de-sexualzing” myself by not practicing good hygiene, poor eating habits and so on. It’s a double edged sword. On one hand, I subconsciously wanted admiration and to find love that wasn’t unhealthy. On the other hand, receiving male attention would make me nervous and angry. Aiming to achieve a “perfect body” is also expected. In this way, the victim feels more in control and less vulnerable. Sexual assault is all about over powering and taking control away. In the midst of my eating disorder, I feel nothing but helpless and this is exactly how I felt while being sexually violated. I want to assure you though, if you are struggling with disordered eating or traumatic memories, you are not hopeless. It is possible to heal and overcome those negative feelings. The first step is committing to recovery and having hope that healing is possible. I would suggest meeting with a professional, or a trusted love one whom will not judge you, so you can openly express your emotions. Find a therapist who specializes in violence or trauma & friend you will feel safe with and is willing to listen with an emphatic ear. If you feel shame about being sexually abused, do not further shame yourself for not “getting over it.” There is nothing to be ashamed about if someone betrayed YOU. They should feel ashamed, not you. However, I’m aware it doesn’t work this way. I used to feel weak because of what happened to me, but now I am accepting that I am stronger in the long run due to my past. From time to time, I relapse and that is OK. Recovery is not a linear path, it’s a journey. I know that restricting food, binging and purging, are self punishment, but I do not need to stay in prolonged punishment. Try not to be mad at yourself if you still have feelings for your abuser. At the time, that attention, negative or positive, may have been one of the only ways you received affection. As humans, we all have the need to be loved; but it begins with love for the self. An eating disorder only prolongs your suffering. The best steps towards healing are forgiving yourself, confronting your shame, and experiencing the wide range of emotions you’ve suppressed. Sometimes, the only way out is through.