#so frankly it works because we both need the exercise and can both tolerate the cold

[abirddogmoment]

It's cold again but we bundled up for a walk despite ❄

[nature-and-music]

Comfort

Author’s note: The story takes place in the 1990s, involving Robert Plant and an unnamed reader. This is purely written as a form of fiction for my friend @earlscourt1975​ who was feeling blue a while back.  I wanted to write something to help you feel better.  I hope you like it.

Another long day of another drudgerous week had passed once more, signaling the beginning of Friday night and the upcoming weekend.  Around this time, most individuals head out on their own, with family, or with friends for some much needed relaxation.  Others prefer to stay indoors and lounge around to complete another chapter of their story, listen to music, or mellow out with the television on.  I was one who enjoyed both the former and the latter in any situation, but not tonight.  I already took the liberty of calling my friends before I left work, saying that I was coming down with something; doing my best to impersonate coughing and sneezing.  Frankly all I wanted to do was to find my bed, lie down, and sleep.  The weight on my shoulders felt heavy as I was approaching the flat; mindlessly taking each step up the stairs as I searched for my keys.  Once I was inside, I kicked off my shoes, dropped my supplies, and shuffled to my room.  I never bothered to place my tupperware in the sink or even toss the remaining bits of food into the trash can.  Nor did I make an effort to grab a snack or heat up a quick meal for dinner.  Everything seemed so grey and cold, I just didn’t want to deal with anything; people, places, events.  Nothing.

I groaned loudly when there was a knock at the door, probably just some mail or one of the little old ladies asking for some sugar or butter.  Just put a smile on and pretend to engage in joyful interaction; not tonight.  Why bother answering? To my surprise, I heard the sound of the lock turning; there was only one person who I gave a copy of my key to.  As I turned around, I saw a figure with golden wheat hair walk in; grasping onto plastic food bags.

“Robert? Good to see you, but what are you doing here?”

“Well, I haven’t heard from you in a while.  I thought maybe I could drop by and have dinner with you, if that’s alright?” Robert wondered with a smile; although his eyes said otherwise.

“Yeah it’s fine,” I answered back, pressing my face into the pillow again.

Robert sighed, “Here I’ll get it ready, you stay here.”

As he prepared our meal, I could hear the sound of plastic being gently tapped upon the trash can; then sink water running and a sponge scrubbing.  After the water drained away and the tupperware placed onto a drying rack, Robert returned with napkins and paper plates.  As I reached over to help he insisted, “No, it’s alright, I’m almost done.  Just, uh, let’s try to keep your sheets clean.  Or we could sit down on the floor, since that will make for an easier clean up.”

After slumping down onto the floor, he shoveled our food onto the plates, handed me the plastic utensils and paper napkins, along with a styrofoam cup.  It was my favorite meal and drink; he remembered, what a sweet gesture.  At first, we exchanged in some light conversation about work and how our families were doing.  We did our best to continue our chat, but very soon silence had crept back into the room.  Robert could sense that something was wrong, how to approach the topic, he was unsure of how to do it; but he tried.

“How are you doing?” Robert asked.

I kept my eyes on the plate, moving the meal around with the prongs of my fork, “I’m fine.”

Robert leaned in, “Only ‘fine’ you say?”

Exacerbated, I turned to him and replied, “Yes! I am fine, okay?”

Robert slinked back and continued to eat, looking back towards me now and then.  Something wasn’t right, he could tell the moment when he stepped in.  Perhaps it seemed a bit much for him to arrive without so much as a phone call, and with dinner no less.  However, he had been trying to reach me while he was on tour; his attempts being fruitless due to the differences in the time zones.  That and I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t been able to find time to speak with anyone over the phone at home.  As an alternative, he had been writing letters to me instead, but they were left unopened on the countertop.  

Even if I did make an effort to call or write back, what was there for me to say? Work is fine, busy as per usual.  The family is alright, healthy, and happy.  Friends seem to be doing well for themselves.  What else was there to talk about? That is, what could I say to others without having them worry about me? I was never one to discuss matters involving my own personal feelings; while I had some people to turn to in life, I wondered if they truly did understand what I was feeling.  Or if you could even muster up any kind of courage to tell them anything.

“Well, I think we should talk,” Robert stated.

“There’s nothing to talk about.  Everything is fine, really, it is.”

“Well if you won’t say anything, then listen to me, please,” he begged.  “I’ve been very worried about you lately.  I understand that we can’t find time to call, but the letters that I’ve been writing to you.  I sent them months ago and haven’t heard from you,” he proclaimed inching closer to me.

I got up and grabbed our plates, “Thank you for dinner, that was very nice of you.  I need to get some rest, I had a long week.”  So I ventured off to the kitchen and tossed our empty plates and utensils away, he followed closely behind me.  “Thank you for helping me with the dishes, Robert.  I think it’s time for y-”

“I’m not leaving you, I’ll stay here with you all night if I have to,” he insisted as he cornered me.

I brushed him aside and headed out, but not before he placed his hands on my shoulders, “Robert, please I- I-,” I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.

Robert turned my body around and held me close, keeping a firm and gentle grip on me as we sank to the kitchen floor.  My eyes stung from the salty tears that cascaded down my cheeks, my skin felt warm, and my heart was beating rapidly against my rib cage.  His hand rubbed circles into the center of my back, as he carefully rocked me.  Cradling and keeping me close to his body; having no intention of letting me go.  After some time, I felt myself coming down from my heightened state, breathing becoming normal, and muscles beginning to loosen; I wrapped my arms around him.  My fingers grabbed at his shirt, as I nuzzled my face into his chest. 

Robert pressed his nose against my shoulder, “Do you need to lie down?”

After a slow nod, he helped me to my feet and supported my body against his as we returned to my room.  Once he was finished assisting me onto the mattress, he sat down and wiped away the moistened trails from my face with his thumb, “Try to breathe, slowly, deep breaths.”

I paused, closed my eyes and followed the sound of his voice as he quietly repeated the words “Breathe in.  Breathe out.”  As we partook in this exercise, the uncomfortable sensations throughout my body were slowly starting to dissipate.  Feelings of calm, peace, and stability were returning; thoughts of self-doubt and stress were momentarily leaving, even if it was only temporary for tonight.

“Do you want anything?” he asked, brushing my arms.  “I will stay here with you, tonight and tomorrow, if you wish.”

Once I opened my eyes, I could see him.  Not just his physical presence, but something more.  This was difficult to describe, but having Robert, here at my side was like having a source of warmth and comfort.  He was like a being that was created from light; made of a droplet from the golden sun all rolled up into a single person.  I smiled at him, and he returned a smile to me as well.  I sat up and hugged him, “I’m sorry Robert.”

“For what?”

“For everything.  Never calling you or replying back to your letters.  Never dropping by the studio to say hello when you’re in town.  I- I’ve been having a really tough time lately.  I never try to talk about it because, well, I mean-”

He looked me in the eyes, rubbing my shoulders, “You’re not sure how to talk about it?”

My eyes widened, “Yes, yes.  Absolutely, I- I- I don’t know where to start.  And plus, everyone, we’re all so busy with everything in life.  I don’t want to be a burden to anyone, you know?”

“You’re no burden, you never were.  It’s hard to talk about how you’re feeling,” he noted.

I nodded, gulping down the lump in my throat, “Very.”

“Do you want to keep talking about it?”

“Tomorrow Robert, I promise,” I answered as I shifted down onto my side facing him.  “Right now I just want to fall asleep.”  I held onto his hand, gazing into his ocean blue eyes, “Could you hold me, please?”

He smiled again and lied down, keeping his arms gently around my form.  Soon my exhausted body and heavy eyelids had given into the spell of slumber, the very last thing that I could see was Robert’s kind smile and considerate eyes.  While I was unable to see him, I felt a soft pair lips planting a warm kiss to the top of my head.  Tomorrow, everything would, no, it will turn out alright.  Tomorrow, I would let Robert know what I’ve been harboring within myself for a long time.  If he was able tolerate my reluctance tonight, then he was willing to listen.

[shadow-assassin-blix]

A Picture is a Poem Without Words

Chapter 5

A/N: “Talk” “Spanish” ‘Thoughts’ Alludes to some sexy times. Lots of talks about feelings on multiple parties. Javier makes a phone appearance. Felix and Amado appear for a smidge. Blix begins to show some of her dark side.

Not gonna lie. Timeline of the show is about to get wonky, I will admit. I will give fair warning when that happens. Just rearranging certain events as it were. 

A few days later, and Blix was bored out of her mind. Her stitches itched. She wanted the cast off. She was tired of avoiding arguments with Diego. She honestly was two seconds away from setting the damn house on fire.

She had gone through her files 5 times, and talked with her team, who had finished up the crime scene at La Tertulia. Nothing had been stolen, just made to appear that way. It was all a trap to get them there and try to take them out. According to intel, König had figured out that the FBI was on his tail, but he didn’t know much more beyond that.

That had been two days ago. She was currently pacing the floors. Chepe often made jokes, about her being like a carnival game. One sicario was brave enough to try and throw a tennis ball at her. She had been irritated enough to throw a knife near his face, in retaliation. No one dared to do anything similar since.

She was waiting for Pacho to return from his meeting with Escobar. Something about there being an issue in LA. She usually tuned out when he heard him talk business to his associates.

While she was waiting, a doctor had apparently been called to come in and look over wounds. Her stitches were removed, as was her cast. She was told to gently exercise with it, so as to not cause the muscles to stiffen and cause her more pain.

Once he left, she had nothing to do again, but pass time. She didn’t want to read, she wasn’t hungry. If she looked at her files again, she was going to throw them in the trash.

She eventually decided to go for a swim to pass the time. She ignored some of the whispers she heard from his men as she walked by. She had many scars throughout her body; she was well aware of what they looked like.

She swam for about an hour, during which Pacho had eventually returned, irritated. His irritation did fade a bit once he looked out from the balcony attached to his office and saw Blix swimming.

Chepe stood next to him and commented, “She is quite beautiful, no?”

Pacho smirked and nodded, “She is.”

Blix finally got tired of swimming and stepped out. As she was drying off, Diego walked over to her.

“Hm. I can see the appeal. Somewhat. You are almost beautiful. The scars though, tsk,” He began, saying it lowly to her. “You know Pacho is just using you right? You know that you mean nothing to him? That once you are no longer needed, he will cut you out? Don’t get use to his attention. It won’t last.”

Blix doesn’t respond, like she usually did. She just wrapped the towel around herself and went inside.

She took a quick shower and got dressed. While everyone was distracted with Pacho’s return she moved her files and notes and took them to the garage.

She looked around for the most inconspicuous car he owned. Which wound up being a dark green corvette, a convertible. She walked over to the wall that held the keys and found the one labeled Corvette. She grabbed them and unlocked the driver side door, reaching over and setting her files down onto the passenger seat.

When she straightened up, she jumped as she sees Chepe standing next to her.

“Trying to make the great escape eh?” Chepe teased, leaning against the car.

“I just need some air. Away from here. I am tired of being stuck here,” She quietly admitted, with a sigh. “Does Pacho know I’m out here?”

“No. I saw you sneak this way by chance. If you want to go out, I can take you, if you would like?” He offered politely.

She looked down, annoyed, and honestly exasperated. She had a quick thought; she wasn’t sure if it would work.

“Okay. Do you mind running in to get me a drink then? I don’t wanna risk running into Diego again,” She quietly pleaded. “A soda please?”

“Sure. I can do that, Little Lady,” Chepe answered, calling her the nickname that some of the guys had begun to call her.

He walked away and once he gotten a little bit away from her, she jumped in the car and locked the door. She quickly started it as Chepe, made his way back over to try and get her out. He was too slow, and she drove off thankful that each car had its own garage opener.

She drove past the guards and made her way out onto the lonely road that lead back to Cali.

As Chepe stood there, chuckling, Pacho wandered in. “What’s going on?”

“Little bird flew the nest. She apparently needed to get away for a while,” Chepe replied before turning around to go back into the house. “Let her have a day to herself Pacho. Also. Might want to talk Diego. I believe he may have said something to her again.”

“She took my favorite. A little concern about that,” He mumbled to himself, a hand rubbing over his chin nervously.

Chepe laughed at that, as they both made their way back to Pacho’s office. An hour later they finished business, and Pacho requested for Diego to come see him.

A moment later Diego appeared before him.

“My love. Why must you constantly be at odds with her?” Pacho asked sitting at his desk.

“Why did you even bring her here? Why are you even bothering with her? She said it herself, the deal the brothers want, won’t matter until Escobar is out of the picture. Why keep her around?” Diego rapid fired his questions in response.

“I like her. Simple as that. I brought her here to take care of her while she healed. I keep her around, because I enjoy talking to her. I know my answers may upset you. But you also seem to think that I’m replacing you with her, and that’s not true,” He answered truthfully, looking him in the eyes.

“I still love you Diego. She’s not taking me away from you. In fact, I’m quite certain I’ve spent most of this week with you. In your arms. Not hers. So why do you continue to belittle her?” He continued as he stood before Diego and pulled him close.

Diego looked away, and felt a small amount of guilt as he reflected over the comments he said to her.

“I will… try to tolerate her more. I make no promises. But I will stop trying to goad her into an argument,” Diego conceded.

“Thank you. That’s all I want,” Pacho said pressing a kiss to Diego’s lips. “Now, I have to go find her, and make sure she’s okay. You owe her an apology by the way.”

Diego rolled his eyes slightly but nodded his head.

Back with Blix, she had finally arrived home, parking the corvette gently in front of her home. She grabbed her stuff out of the seat, and went inside, sighing in relief at the sight of her home.

She set her files down in her office alongside her sat phone. She checked on the food in her fridge, some of which had spoiled so she tossed it out. She decided then that she wanted to go to the store and get her own groceries.

She did just that, the store she liked was only two blocks down, so she walked to it. She grabbed a couple of different meats to make meals with, and then she got a lot of junk food. Once she was done getting what she needed between food and personal hygiene items, she checked out. Her trip took about 40 mins, but it made her feel a lot better already.

While she enjoyed being at Pacho’s home, she was often left to her own devices, and her movements were restricted around the house, depending on where he had his meetings.

She quite frankly grew bored, and while she tried to strike up conversation with the men around the house, they often avoided her. Whether it was because she was a federal agent or because Pacho ordered them to not speak with her, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she simply couldn’t do much.

She returned to her house and put away everything. She called up Jacque to see if she could come into work that night. He very enthusiastically told her yes. So, she got ready, dressing up in a black halter top mini dress, with a simple v-neck. It’s straps and bodice were lace-y, the skirt ending just above mid-thigh, and flowy. She slipped on her black strappy high heels.

She did some simple makeup, lip-gloss, and a bit of eyeshadow. She thought about walking to work, but then she stared at the lovely little corvette before her. She grabbed her purse, making sure her house keys were in it, along with some cash, her IDs and such before she snatched the car keys. ‘It’s such a pretty car. I mean it should be admired, should it not?’

She drove to work, smiling. When she got to work, she greeted Jacque and the waitresses. The official story for them was that she was in a car crash. So, they all came up to check on her, and made sure she was okay.

She told them she was fine, and ready to get back to normal. The night went on like it normally did, locals in the beginning, before switching to the younger crowd.

Her head at one point did begin to pound, and she had to take a seat while she worked, because she felt a bit lightheaded.

Jacque eventually sent off on her break, and as she made her way over to the familiar taco truck, she felt a bit exhausted. She didn’t have too much time to think on it as a small force ran into her, arms wrapping around her tightly.

“Miss Bee! You’re okay. We were so worried! I -We missed you!” Came the small voice of Paulo.

She hugged him back once she regained her bearings. “Hi honey. Yes. I’m okay. I missed you too.”

She stepped forward as Paulo talked her ear off, catching her up on the local and familial drama.

“Slow down for a moment honey. I gotta order,” Blix said, trying to get him to pause for a moment. “Hello Henri. How are you?”

“I’m good little fox. I’m happy to see you out and about. Are you sure you’re okay to be working already?” Henri asked concern, looking her over.

“I’m fine. I may see about heading out early. My head is aching. But uh.. I would like the steak burrito, please?” She assured before placing her order.

“Oh? Who upset you honey?” He asked as he began to make it.

“Why do you ask that? It’s just a burrito,” Blix protested.

“You don’t order the burrito, unless you are feeling upset. It’s a part of your quirks. Steak tacos on normal days, chicken quesadillas when you have strange cravings, cause you tend to dunk them in whatever sauce is available, and burritos when you’re really upset by something,” He listed out as he cooked.

She stared at him in surprise, blinking slowly. “I… I don’t know what to say that.”

“As I said, it’s just something I noticed over the past year. By the way this is on the house,” he noted as he began assembling the burrito.

A moment later, he hands her the burrito wrapped in some aluminum foil, and a couple of napkins. He then puts out a sign saying that he’s gone on break and comes outside.

He beckons her over to one of the picnic tables, and tells Paulo to go inside, that he can catch up later.

Blix made her way over to him, hopping up to sit on the tabletop, as she took a bite of her burrito.

“Alright, lil fox, what’s going on?” Henri began, gently nudging her with his shoulder.

“I seem to have the worst taste in men,” She began softly.

“This guy I’m… dating? Sleeping with? I don’t really know what exactly it is, he… he has… a partner, who… doesn’t care for me too much, is the nice way to put it,” She slowly explained trying to take care in her words.

“I knew he had this partner from the beginning, or rather I suspected it. That’s not my problem. The problem is… I have spent the past week, being goaded and taunted by this other person, because of my looks,” She stated with a sigh, staring down at her food dejectedly. “Often times, I can ignore what people say about me. But this past week, has really done a number on me.”

“Is the man you are seeing aware of the comments, and insults?” Henri asked after a moment.

“Yes. He knows…about some of it. I gave up after the third day of it, and his partner giving no shits about what he says,” She confessed. “The thing is, I spent years… years… trying to get over my scars. There was a large portion of my life where I would spend an hour every morning, putting on makeup to cover them up.”

“What made you stop doing that?” He asked curiously.

“My friend in Bogota. He… he was the first guy who looked at me, sans makeup, and didn’t flinch. He told me that I looked like a goddess. Athena in human form. It was the sincerest compliment I had ever gotten in years. I stopped caring after that,” She answered with a fond smile, thinking of Javier.

“Sounds like a good man. Why aren’t you with him then?” Henri wondered with a chuckle.

Blix laughed in response, before replying, “Because the man is terrified of commitment.”

“Ahh. Okay then,” He responded, nodding his head. “It sounds to me however, that you need to talk to your other suitor. If this relationship is to continue, all of you have to be on the same page. Being outed by his other significant other, is not fair to you.”

“I… I don’t know anymore, Henri. Feels like I shouldn’t even bother with it anymore. Not gonna lie, I kind of ran off on him today. Just… couldn’t deal with it anymore. Maybe I am just meant to be alone,” She shrugged, before taking a large bite to distract herself.

“Now, that sounds like giving up. I didn’t take you for a quitter,” He lightly admonished. “Take some time to yourself. The next time you see him, if your heart starts to race, or you feel butterflies in your stomach, then that’s worth pursuing. It means his mere presence makes you happy.”

She smiled softly at that and nodded her head. She continued eating, the two of them talking for a while longer, before the both of them had to return to work.

She worked for another hour before leaving early. Her head was pounding, and she felt exhausted. She sat in the driver’s side of the car, resting her eyes for a moment. The lightheadedness had return as well. She heard a tap on her door, and she rolled the window down and sees Diego standing there.

“Move over to the next seat. I’ll take you home. Pacho is waiting for you there,” Diego softly ordered.

She stared at him in suspicion first, before slowly crawling over the center console, and sitting in the passenger seat. He gets in and started the car, after making sure she was secured in her seat.

“I’m… sorry.” Diego suddenly stated after a minute.

“Wow. Did that taste like vinegar coming out of your mouth?” She asked bitterly.

“Yes. It did actually,” He answered shortly.

“Thanks. I guess. You know… that I’m not trying to take him from you, right? If… when… he decides he doesn’t want me anymore, I’ll go. I’m not… here to ruin what the 2 of you have,” She quietly commented, staring out the window.

“I know…,” He responded. “Though… I have a feeling that you are going to be around for long time. The last girl he was with, he never brought her to the house. Never got her flowers. He likes you, that much I can tell. Which was why… I got territorial. Which was unwarranted. I can’t say that we will be best friends, but I will try to be less of an ass.”

“Okay. That works. Was Pacho pissed that I took his car?” She asked wanting to change the subject.

“Pissed? Concerned is more like it. This is his favorite. His baby,” Diego snorted, as they pulled up to her house.

“Oops.” She said quietly, a small snicker slipping out.

As the car came to a stop, she stepped out to see Pacho, waiting for her on the steps. He looked up at her, as she stepped forward. As his eyes locked onto hers, she felt her heart race a bit. ‘Damnit, Henri.’

She gently stepped passed him to unlock her door and walked inside without saying anything to him.

She made her way to her kitchen to get a glass of water, and some pain medicine. She swallowed the meds quickly before chugging down some water. When she finished, she noticed Pacho standing before her.

“Diego told me…everything. We spoke earlier. Hopefully, now we can all live somewhat peacefully with one another,” Pacho began.

As much as she wanted to believe that, her doubts and insecurities threatened to raise their ugly heads. She leaned against the kitchen counter behind her, gazing at the kitchen tile. Pacho moved to stand before her, and gently cupped her face with his hands, silently asking her to look up.

She does so slowly, hesitantly, biting her lip nervously.

“What’s the matter, my sweet?” He asked concerned.

“Diego… he made some points though. There is no need for you to dote over me when I’ve already agreed to do what you want. Your deal is as good as done, once the brothers have typed it up. So, why bother with me?” She questioned, her tone serious.

“I dote over you because I wish to. How many times do I have to tell you, that I find you absolutely gorgeous? Extremely breathtaking? A goddess? I’m with you, because I like you,” He praised. “Maybe I am being somewhat selfish in that I also want to learn about your every secret. Your beautiful, and charming. Smart. Witty. You have a dark side to you, that intrigues me greatly. Why wouldn’t I want to be with you?”

He doesn’t allow her to answer as he pressed his lips to her. Her hands slowly wrapped around his back, as one of his slid down her side.

“This dress is sexy, but... I feel like it’ll look better on the floor,” He whispered against her lips.

His hand on her side, grabbed a handful of her dress, bunching it up as he began to pull at it.

They continued to kiss until they were gasping for breath and had to pull away.

“I want you to come with me to meet with the Gallardo. We’ll be going to Panama. It’ll just be me and a few others,” Pacho requested in a whisper.

“Why? What do you need me for?” She quietly asked, curious.

“I want you by my side. Simple as that,” Pacho answered. “What do you say?”

She started to answer when her phone rang. “Hold that thought.” She said pressing a kiss to his lips.

“Hello?” She spoke into the kitchen phone.

“Hey. It’s me,” Came Javier’s voice.

“Hi. What’s up? It’s like 1am,” She said with concern.

“We got Gacha. Earlier today. We… we killed him,” He announced with a sigh.

“What? Oh my god! That’s… that’s amazing!” She congratulated. “But uh… shouldn’t you be out celebrating? Drinking? Sex with a random woman?”

As she spoke, Pacho came up behind her, and pressed kisses to the back and side of her neck.

“Thought about it… but uh… didn’t quite feel like it, I guess. I mean. I have been drinking, just not at a bar,” He responded, somewhat hesitantly.

“Javi. What’s wrong? This is a win. One step closer to Escobar, yeah?” She contended, somewhat confused by his tone.

“I uhh. Do you… do you ever think about us?” Javi inquired.

She sighed at that question, while also attempting to get Pacho to stop with his ministrations that were slowly getting bolder. His hand had slipped under her skirt and were softly massaging her inner thigh.

“How much have you had to drink Javi?” She questioned.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Javier asked back, offended.

“You don’t talk about feelings. Unless you’ve had a few. Remember, that’s how you broke up with me? Got shitfaced and told me that you saw our relationship heading nowhere,” She replied somewhat bitterly.

“…. What if I said that I was lying? That I do see something with you?” Javi inquired after a moment.

“I’d say that I would rather have this conversation when you’re sober and in front of me. Listen. Go sleep honey. I’m proud of you. Call me when you’re sober,” She answered before slowly hanging up.

She gently leaned back into Pacho’s chest with a heavy sigh. “Is Diego still outside?”

“No. Sent him home with Navegante,” Pacho murmured as he slowly began to unzip the back of her dress.

She pulled away then and began walking toward the stairs. “Good. Come upstairs then.”

He followed behind her and as they stepped into her room, she kicked off her shoes. She stepped into her bathroom for a moment to wash off her makeup before anything else.

When she stepped back out into her room, Pacho was sitting on her bed, sans shoes and socks. She slowly slipped the dress off from around her shoulders, before doing a little wiggle as she pulled it down her hips.

She stood in front of him in just her underwear and straddled his hips a moment later. She stared at the shirt he wore, a shirt that was 3 different colors. Not exactly the best looking in her opinion.

“How much… do you like this shirt?” She coyly asked, pulling at the collar with an index finger.

“It’s… alright. Why?” He inquired squinting his eyes at her in suspicion.

She simply reached over to her bedside table, and after a momentary struggle of trying to find it blindly, she found her pocketknife. She flipped it opened and gently held it at the collar of his shirt. She bit her bottom lip softly as she held his shirt firmly in her left hand. She dragged the knife down, the blade slowly ripping the fabric.

Once there was a decent tear in the shirt, she set the knife back down on the table. She then began to pull at the tear, firmly, shredding the shirt down the middle.

The entire time that was going on, Pacho watched her curiously, and was only slightly concerned when she pulled out the knife.

“So, I take it, you didn’t like the shirt?” Pacho joked once she had finished shredding it and was shoving it off his shoulders.

“It’s… it was ugly honey. I’m sorry. But… you can pull off many looks, but this… This is a no,” She slowly responded pressing a small kiss along his collar.

He laughed loudly at her response and just nodded his head. “Understandable. Just know that I can and will get you back for it. Though I will agree. It wasn’t my best.”

She giggled and sighed before sadly stating, “I’m… super tired… I would love to continue this, but I may pass out on you.”

“It’s okay. We can do some catching up in Panama if you wish?” Pacho offered kissing her slowly.

“Yeah. I like the sound of that,” She agreed before getting up to go grab an old band t-shirt to put on and take off her bra.

She could hear Pacho undressing further as well, and once she was in the shirt and her underwear, she turned to see him in just his boxers. They slipped under the covers, and Pacho quietly told her about his day, laying on his side, his head propped up on his arm. When he mentioned the horse ranch she froze.

“Wait. You… you have a ranch… with… with horses???? And you… never told me?” She asked with wide eyes staring at him.

“Yes. Would you like me to take you there sometime this week?” Pacho asked surprised.

“Uh. Yes! I love horses! Grandparents had a horse ranch, and it was the best part of my summers as a kid,” She explained excitedly. “If I had known about the ranch, I wouldn’t have gotten bored. I’d been harassin’ you to take me every day.”

He smiled sadly at her, and he apologized softly, “I’m sorry you got bored. Not going to lie, I’m used to women who love sitting around and doing nothing.”

His hand softly stroked her side as he spoke. She smiled in response, reaching up to run her hand along his jaw.

“It’s not a big deal honey. I’ve been told I’m like a husky, need to be walked 15 times a day or I’ll lose my mind,” She lightly joked.

“Then I’ll make sure you have plenty to do,” Pacho assured as he pulled her closer to him.

She snuggled into his chest, and they slowly fell asleep together.

The next morning, was a blur as they got dressed and ate a quick breakfast. She definitely packed up all her snacks, because she refused to leave her junk food behind.

As they stepped outside, her neighbor, Mrs. Garcia, said hello. She waved at her distractedly as Pacho opened the car door for her.

As they drove out to his house, he mentioned that she could have a car to claim as her own to use. “Just not this one. This one is… special.”

They spent the day at his house and planned a time to go see the horse ranch the next day. It was going to be in the afternoon, once Gilberto and Miguel left after their meeting.

The day passed normally, there were no arguments between her and Diego. They even had pleasant conservations throughout the day.

The next morning was a bit chilly, and she threw on a large fleece cardigan over her shorts and tank. As she walked around, she ran into Navegante and politely asked if the brothers had arrived yet.

Navegante informed her, “Yes, they’ve been here for about an hour now.”

She nodded her head in understanding before making her way into the kitchen. She made herself a cup of tea with honey, before grabbing 3 more cups and filling them with black coffee. She threw sugar packets into one pocket of her cardigan and different flavors of creamer packs into the other.

She made her way upstairs, gradually, and into Pacho’s office. The three were standing around the table pouring over a map. She cleared her throat to alert their attention to her.

“Sorry to interrupt. Thought some fresh coffee might help?” She offered holding them up.

Pacho smiled somewhat tightly but said thank you. She sets the cups down, pulling out the packets of sugar and creamer as her hands became free.

She glanced down at the map, which was of Mexico, and found herself looking at it confused. Most of Mexico was marked off into sectors; the various different territories. Everywhere except one place.

“Guadalajara, yes?” She confirmed without much thought. “Why is the Baja not marked off?”

Miguel cleared his throat before answering, “Guerra. Opium dealer. He owns the Baja. Doesn’t like cocaine.”

“But Gallardo’s probably made him offer right?” She guessed looking at all 3 of them.

“Yes. He probably has why?” Pacho questioned.

“You said it yourself. Gallardo’s arrogant. Probably thinks that if he controls all of Mexico, he has you in a checkmate,” Blix began to explain. “Make Guerra a better offer. Or as Marlon Brando would say, ‘Make him an offer he can’t refuse.’ It’s what I would do.”

Gilberto smirked at her before grabbing his phone and handing it and a number on a post-it note.

“Then do it.” His tone was challenging, like he was daring her.

She took both from him slowly, took a deep breath, and called the number. ‘I’m being tested. Well. Let’s see how I do then.”

The phone rang for a moment before someone finally answered.

“Hello, may I speak to Mr. Guerra please?” She politely requested.

“Mr. Guerra isn’t available righ-“ the man began before Blix cut him off.

“Listen. As someone who is clearly an overpaid secretary, I’m calling bullshit. Please tell Guerra that a representative of the Cali Cartel wishes to speak to him. Now,” She informed him firmly.

A few minutes passed before another voice, older and gravellier, answered, “Guerra speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hello. My name is Blix. My… associates have heard rumors that Gallardo offered to bring you into the cocaine business, yes?” She began and before letting him answer continued. “We wish to make you a better offer?”

“Oh? Is that so? What could you possibly offer me?” Guerra inquired sounding somewhat agitated.

“I’m willing to bet that Gallardo only offered about 10% of the profits. We’d like to give you something a little more than chump change,” She offered as she leaned against the table, taking a sip of her tea.

“50%” Guerra stated.

“Guerra. I may have been born at night, but it certainly wasn’t last night. 50% is too high and you know it. Don’t insult my intelligence,” She lightly warned. “20%”

“Hm. 40%” He threw back.

“30%.” She responded hoping to trick him into going lower

“25%.” He threw out before he tried to take it back, stumbling over his words. “N-Wa-“

“Deal.” She confirmed before he could say anything. “One of my associates will be in contact with you to iron out the details, within the next day or so.”

“You are a good businesswoman, I must say. It’s not often I fumble over a deal,” Guerra complimented.

“For some reason, I just don’t believe that. You knew I wasn’t going to go much higher than 20, you just wanted to see if you could get me to agree to something higher,” She responded ignoring the compliment. “I would also like to inform you Mr. Guerra, that you should forget about your travel plans to Panama. Wouldn’t want to cause any… conflicts of interest.”

“Ah. An intelligent woman indeed. Good, you’ll need that while working with the cartel,” He stated. “Gallardo isnt going to be pleased by this.”

“Gallardo isn’t my concern. Do know this Mr. Guerra. Gallardo will probably at some point retaliate. He’s a prideful man. It’s in his nature. But what he does to you, will be nothing in comparison to what we will do if you try to betray us,” She cautioned.

“Are you… are you threatening me?” He accused.

“No. Warning. Because... Gallardo will take revenge, sure. But Cali? No. Revenge is petty. Beneath us,” She stated darkly. “Accidents however… Accidents can and do happen every day. Like… fires, gas leaks, that sort of thing can happen anywhere, like at your restaurant, your home/ranch, that shitty lil town you’ve proclaimed yourself as king, or your acres of opium. Would be such a shame… if anything happened to your livelihood.”

It was quiet, but she could hear him breathing, “Understood.”

“Good! As I said, earlier, someone will be in touch to finetune the details. Have a lovely day, Mr. Guerra,” She ended the call with a perky tone.

She handed the phone back to Gilberto and said, “That wasn’t too hard. Enjoy your coffees.”

She walked away with her tea, toward her room, to get dressed for the afternoon.

Pacho watched her leave with an impressed smirk plastered on his face, his eyes dark as he watched her leave.

“Did that… really just happen?” Miguel asked in disbelief.

“It did indeed. I told you. She has a darkness to her, and I love seeing it,” Pacho grinned, lighting a cigarette. “It was also her way of speeding up the meeting so we can go to the ranch.”

The brothers laughed and soon enough their meeting had ended. As soon as it was over, he walked down to Blix’s room. He leaned against the door-jam as he watched her get ready. She was slipping on a pair of cowboy boots when she noticed him standing there.

“Oh? Done so soon?” She greeted happily, walking over to him.

As she stepped up to him, he pulled her close and kissing her passionately.

“Wow. What uh… what was that for? Not that I’m complaining,” She wondered breathlessly, when they pulled apart a moment later.

“You are very sexy. Even moreso when threatening men. Couldn’t help myself,” He whispered to her.

She shook her head at him before excitedly asking, “So the ranch? Horses?”

He nodded, laughing at her as she bounced up and down in front of him, like a child.

They made their way down to his car, and off they went to the ranch. The ranch was only 20 minutes from his home and as they pulled up her excitement ramped up.

She was out the door before he could even turn the car off. She rushed up to the stalls and began excitedly talking to both the horses and the stable hands that were working.

Pacho slowly walked up behind her and listened to her coo to the horses as she ran her hands down their faces.

They spent several hours there, half of it spent with her in awe of each horse, and the other half was her riding around the stables on some of the horses.

Lunch was served late there, and as they ate, he commented, “If I had known the ranch would make you so happy, I would’ve brought you sooner. Don’t think I’ve seen you smile so much.”

“I smile? What do you mean?” She asked confused as she looked at him taking a sip of the daiquiri that he insisted on making her.

“I mean, that since the second we pulled up, you haven’t stopped smiling. You smiled even when Rowdy tried to eat your shirt. It’s quite beautiful to see you so happy,” He further explained with a fond smile.

She looked down, a light blush gracing her cheeks.

“You mentioned last night that your grandparents had a ranch? What happened there?” Pacho asked curiously.

“The short story? My grandparents died, and my mother didn’t want to deal with it,” She explained quietly as looked away.

“And the long story?” Pacho lightly probed, his hand reaching out to hold hers.

“My sisters and I… we loved it. It was the best 2 to 3 weeks of our summer. Spending our time at the ranch. Training horses. My grandfather had show and race horses. We would trade off each day on who we would work with on what.” She began thinking about to it fondly.

“When they died, my mother wanted nothing to do with it. Sold off the horses. Fired the workers. Cut down the apple orchard we had opened for the public to go apple picking. The barns have been hit hard with storms, and my mother didn’t care to fix them. If she could she would’ve sold the land as well,” She explained rather sadly.

“Why didn’t she?” Pacho inquired.

“Grandparents left it in their will that the ranch was to go to us. That when we were old enough, we could decide who would run it. That the land could only be sold by us if we all agreed to. So, my mother found a loophole around it. Can’t have much of a ranch if there’s nothing there,” She concluded with a half shrug.

“I’m sorry your mother stole that from you and your siblings,” Pacho consoled as he lifted her hand to press a kiss to it.

She didn’t respond beyond shrugging and letting out a small sigh.

“So. Tonight we leave for Panama yeah?” Blix changed the subject.

He nodded his head, and reported, “Yes. We leave on a late flight, check into our hotel, and then meet with Gallardo tomorrow at noon. In fact, we should probably head back, and pack up.”

They did just that, got home, packed, and she met a few other members, like Salcedo, and a couple of guards going with them.

The flight to Panama was swift, and soon they were in their hotel room, resting. Morning came around, and as they made their way to the hotel where Gallardo was at, Pacho made a quick explanation.

“When we get there, if you could please wait downstairs for 20 minutes. I doubt the meeting shall take very long, but I would prefer it if you did not get involved any more than you have. I’ll have a guard with you, just go shopping or something. I’ll come retrieve you,” He informed her as they pulled up to the hotel.

She raised an eyebrow and decided she wasn’t going to argue about this, right now. She got out and with her newly grown shadow in the form of a 30 something year old man named Thierry; she wandered the shops.

She came across a jewelry store and waltzed in, looking at everything bored. Something eventually caught her eye as she made her way over to the men’s jewelry.

As she looked at it, a small smile grew on her face. A store assistant came over and asked if he could help her.

“Yes. Can I see that necklace please?” She politely asked pointing at it.

He reached in and grabbed the necklace, displaying it in the palm of his hand.

She inspected it closely and hesitantly said, “Umm. That necklace has a small scratch on it… would there happen to be anything similar to it?”

A manager happened to be walking by and overheard the conversation. He inspected the necklace and spotted the imperfection before telling the employee to put it with the discount items somewhat annoyed.

“Come this way ma’am. I’m sure this one over here will please you greatly,” He schmoozed in a hoity manner, giving her a look.

He brought her over to another display case and pulled out a similar necklace. She nodded her head, stating ”Yeah. This one is much better. How much?”

“$647.32. In American dollars.” He answered in a mockingly sad tone.

She reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope that her tips from the brothers in it. She counted out 650 and told him to keep the change. He tightly smiled and boxed it up before handing it to her.

She rolled her eyes at his attitude and made her way back out to her guard.

“Just because your item got fucked up, doesn’t mean you need to get all snooty about it,” She muttered under her breath annoyed.

She continued exploring, getting slowly more and more annoyed with her babysitter, since he kept trying to steer her over to the elevators. She eventually made her way through a large crowd and lost him after a moment.

She noticed as she walked further on that there was an art auction going on in one of the conference rooms that was open to the public.

As she strolled that way, she ran into 2 men, one of whom she had seen pictures of.

“Mr. Gallardo. That was quick, I hope Pacho wasn’t too cruel with you,” She greeted as she blinked at him.

“No. Not at all miss?” He prompted.

“Blix. I hear you enjoy art; would you like to join me in viewing the auction?” She politely asked before turning to the other man with him. “Hello. You can join us as well Mr.?”

“Amado. I’ll just.. wait here. Thanks.” He declined with a nod of his head.

Felix and she made their way into the auction and began looking over the art. Blix stared at some items with intensity, and Felix who did look at the art, was more intrigued by the woman next to him.

“So, you are with the Cali? A bit odd for a federal agent, no?” Felix questioned, looking at her curiously.

“Hm. It’s… an interesting arrangement let’s just go with that. Besides. They are not my concern. Not my division as it were,” She replied meeting his eyes.

“Yes. I heard you were in art crimes,” Felix acknowledged as they made their way through a section of impressionist art.

“Yes. Art is quite fascinating. Horace once said that a picture was a poem without words,” Blix noted. “That picture in my opinion can mean anything. There’s always something that speaks to you. Whether it’s religious, political, or personal. Art is a reflection of you.”

They stopped near a canvas that had a weeping willow tree, the vines covered in ice.

“Take this for example. To you it’s simply a tree. To me… it reminds me of my childhood home. We had willows everywhere,” She said as an example. “Art, no matter the format, is an extension of you. Extension of your personality.”

He smiled at her and nodded, and before he could respond, they heard a throat clear behind them. As they turned to it, Pacho stood there, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Uh-oh. It appears I’m in trouble. It was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Gallardo,” She whispered conspiratorially holding her hand out to shake.

He took it and instead of shaking it, kissed the back of it. “The pleasure was mine. I do hope Mr. Herrera brings you out to our meetings more often.”

He walked away and met up with Amado, before disappearing.

Blix quietly followed Pacho who she could tell was fuming. His shoulders were tensed, and he was breathing roughly.

They made their way back to their hotel in silence. They even left that night instead of staying like they originally planned.

As they stepped over the threshold of his home, she finally broke the tension, “Are you going to stay mad at me forever? Or are you going to finally tell me what’s wrong?”

“I had the guard with you for a reason. He was there to protect you. Instead of doing what I asked you not only ignored it, but put yourself onto Gallardo’s radar, for no reason” He fumed, glaring at her.

“I am a federal agent. I can take care of myself. I do not need a guard or protection. I can protect myself quite well. Been doing so for a very long time,” She reminded him.

“As for Gallardo, I ran into him by accident. I didn’t seek him out. I figured he knew who I was, which he did, and I was just being polite. That’s it,” She reassured.

He took a deep breath, looking away. “I don’t like you putting yourself in unnecessary danger. If he had decided to retaliate against me, using you…”

She stepped up to him, placing her hands on his chest, and soothed, “But he didn’t. I’m still here. Annoyed that we didn’t stay in Panama, especially after I got you something, but still here.”

He placed his hands on her hips, and said, “Oh? You did? What?”

“Not giving it to you now. You were a brat. I’ll give it to ya when you’ve earned it,” She teased as she walked away.

Pacho raised an eyebrow at that comment and chased after her, grabbing her around the waist and throwing her over his shoulder.

“A brat eh? Takes one to know I think,” Pacho mocked, smacking her on the ass.

“Really? Did you seriously just?” She asked in disbelief, before smacking his butt in return. “Turnabout is fair play.”

He carried her upstairs, both of them laughing at each other, before he decided to make it up to her all night long.

A few days had passed, and she still had yet to give Pacho the necklace she got him. He was convinced it was a watch. It wasn’t until a package arrived for her at Pacho’s house that she decided to give him the gift. Especially when she realized that the gift was from Gallardo. It was the painting of the willow tree that they had looked at together.

The painting came with a note, “It was a pleasure speaking you, my lady. I hope we can talk more soon.”

Pacho was annoyed by its presence. So, she pulled out the velvet box that held his necklace in it, hoping it would soothe things over.

He was sitting in at his desk in his office when she walked in. She moved over to him and gently sat in his lap, presenting the box to him. He opened it slowly.

“A crocodile?” Pacho questioned confused.

“I don’t know jackshit about watches, so don’t ever expect one from me. But I do know that in most ancient cultures, the crocodile is one of the few animals that was revered. They’ve been worshipped longer than God. Deified for well over a millennium,” She began to explain as she took it out of the box.

“They represent duality. Tough enough to withstand bullets, but do not do well with criticism. They are precise with every move they make and see opportunities where others cannot. They are cunning, strong, brave, and dependable. That’s what I see when I look at you,” She described as she hooked it around his neck.

“So, my primordial being, do not bother yourself with the opinions of sheep or the thoughts of lesser men. I certainly don’t,” She requested with a kiss. “I want you to wear it for good luck. Protection.”

Her phone at that point began to ring, and she stared at the number slightly confused, for she did not recognize it. She answered it after a moment. “Hello?”

“Hello Miss Lage. This is Felix Gallardo,” Came the response.

“Oh. Mr. Gallardo, how are you?” She replied turning to Pacho with a wide eye look. His returning look was with narrowed eyes, and a tense jaw.

“I simply wanted to make sure that painting arrived safely,” He informed softly.

“Yes. Yes, it did. I was hoping to be able to thank you in person, but this works too. It’s quite lovely,” She thanked, wondering where this was heading.

“Good. I must say, I was a bit hesitant to get it for you, since you looked at it so sadly, but then I saw a glimmer of something, that… I could relate to,” Felix admitted. “I saw a longing. For home. I often get that way myself thinking about Sinaloa.”

“Home? Not necessarily. Simpler times, more like. Haven’t missed home in quite some time,” She lightly argued.

“Hm. It is rather interesting, though. The things we would do for those we consider home. Safe. Like threatening an opium dealer to cut a deal for your lover. Guerra said he spoke to a charming young lady. Would hate for anything to befall said lady, for sticking her nose into business she does not belong in,” He vaguely threatened.

“Well. Mr. Gallardo. I would simply say that I can take care of myself. I’ve dealt with plenty of villains, Felix, and I hate to break it to you, but I’ve faced scarier. Have a lovely day,” She hung up the phone after that.

“Villains? You mean… your mother?” Pacho tried to clarify.

“Let’s just say, ruining a ranch, was nowhere the worst thing she ever did to me,” She whispered vaguely gesturing at her face.

“I see. Well then. I guess it’s a good thing you are mine. Anyone tries to harm you, they’d be dead,” He promised after a moment of silence, fully understanding what she was implying.

She smiled sweetly at him, and they spent the rest of the day talking about his work. He was giving her a glimpse into his world and how it worked. That to her was a level of trust she wasn’t expecting, but she appreciated it, nonetheless.

Neither of them were aware of the chaos that was about to unfold, due to the events going on in Medellin.

[camp-counselor-life]

“To teach staff how to facilitate connections in this new landscape, and with potentially more challenging behavior, we can start with what we know. In a New York Times article titled “We’re All Socially Awkward Now,” Kate Murphy (2020) makes the case that being social is like a muscle; when you stop exercising it, it atrophies. This may not be as big a deal to your staff, because they’ll tell you that most kids are socially awkward anyway. But now they also will be socially out of practice, so your staff will have to intentionally exercise that muscle. We know how they connect; they might just be extra awkward at doing it.

Shared interests — How exactly do you figure out if you share a similar intertest with someone else? The simplistic answer is by talking or, more importantly, listening. The deeper answer is to try to discover what those interests are through conversation, activity, and unstructured free play. You might be able to find out that my son loves Minecraft just by talking to him. But if you spent more time with him and paid attention while he is playing, you’d see he loves to build, to invent, to be super competitive, and to complete things. Those are the kinds of interests you can discover when you take listening to the level of curiosity and exploration.

Common activities — Teach staff how to engage campers and get them working together through an activity. Then debriefing or even just reviewing an activity becomes intertwined with what the campers did together. Having common activities gives kids a chance to weave others into their story. Those are the connections they remember and that can serve as a strength when they slip toward loneliness.

Facilitated experiences — We always set out to do something specific with kids that will have an intended outcome. Low ropes experiences and cabin chats at the end of the night are examples of specific activities that we hope will elicit a certain response, growth, and learning. Use these experiences to connect kids to each other, to learn from each other, and to experience a sense of growth that seems intertwined with others. Ask more questions about how individuals rely on one another, create more safe space for kids to share their experiences, and maintain your interest and curiosity about who they are.”

“More choice — Having choices builds a sense of responsibility and control. Being out of control or having no control is a pandemic-related trauma we all now share to varying degrees. Even if your camp is not a choice-based program, there are many ways to help campers make good decisions. Here are some ideas to consider:

Add a variety of smaller activity choices or projects within a program area. This is especially important for activities like archery, where the main activity is limited, and there is a lot of waiting.

Make sure that secondary choices include both higher and lower levels of activity. Just because we are at sports and recreation doesn’t mean everyone wants to or should be running around. Having the choice of a quieter sitting game going on at the same time as a very active game will give kids a chance to self-regulate and feel more in control.

Redefine “participation” with your staff. Do the campers have to participate? From sitting out to parallel play to being fully engaged, help your staff see what successful participation can look like for all the different kids who may attend camp.

Be sensitive about alone time and downtime. We have all spent more time alone than ever before. Your campers may have developed a need for it.

Make COVID-19 fun! Seriously. Can you think of anyone better than a bunch of camp counselors to make whatever CDC/ACA/Health Department guidelines and procedures fun and interesting? Have to wear masks? Great! Have your counselors come up with several designs and styles and sell them in your store or online. Order a bunch of white cotton masks with your logo printed in white paint on them and then tie-dye them as an activity at camp. Have a sewing program? Sweet! Make masks for local homeless shelters or for signature events at your camp. Does the idea of “social distancing” still seem like the antithesis of camp? Give your staff some hula-hoops and bandanas, tell them to make a game of it, and stand back. What about all the cleaning and sanitizing procedures? Don’t even get me started on all the variations of TikTok videos or dance battles your staff could come up with while wiping things down or sanitizing surfaces. If this is the new normal, trust that your staff can make it as cool and fun as fanny packs.”

“Questions and time — The best way to help kids (or anyone) find their voice is to be an exemplary listener. Teach your staff how to ask good questions and then to carefully listen to the answers to encourage personal sharing. Over time, staff will begin to incorporate what a camper says into their understanding of who that camper is. This summer the very top thing on our camp staff’s list should be to spend time with campers, listening. That will set the stage for kids to safely find their own voice.

“Weird but not wrong.” In the past, we often used that phrase at camp to describe behavior that we wanted to correct even though it wasn’t actually wrong. The word “weird” was never meant to be derogatory; it just felt like an apt description of behavior that didn’t fit a norm; behavior that often pushed staff out of their comfort zone. In our current circumstances, though, let’s just make all the weird-but-not-wrong stuff OK. The last thing the kids — and frankly the staff — need right now is pressure to be “some elusive other thing.” A huge part of kids’ developing interests and passions is for those around them to, at the minimum, tolerate and ideally, celebrate, their developing obsessions. Something as simple as a sneer or eye roll could turn a kid off an idea. Teach your staff how to be curious, to engage rather than turn away, to be fascinated by this other person being themself. There is awe and wonder in curiosity. That’s how we should feel about kids.

Camp might be the perfect place to bring us back from the brink of a loneliness epidemic.”

[cinderella1181]

Battle Cries Chapter 5

TITLE: Battle Cries

CHAPTER NUMBER: Chapter  5/?

AUTHOR: Cinderella1181

WHICH Henry/CHARACTER: AU Henry Cavill /Juniper Denholm

GENRE: Romance/Comedy

FIC SUMMARY: Henry Cavill is the fourth son of the Lord and Lady of St. Helier. He is also now 37 still living at home and has no plans to move out. His father, recently retired, is forcing Henry to live on his own. Set up nicely, by his parents Henry has to find his place in the world and find real love for the first time with a girl he didn’t necessarily think he would even like.

PREVIOUS: Chapter 4 

RATING: M (sex, language)

WARNINGS: Um, nothing yet.

AUTHORS NOTES: Juniper fought me tooth and nail for this. I did take some liberties with the brothers job, but...fiction. 

Tags: @omgkatinka​ @sobeautifullyobsessed​ @losille2000​

Juniper sat next to Marianne and watched Henry out of the corner of her eye across the expanse of the table. She was glad that he had come back to sit with them, and almost felt bad at the teasing that she had given to him, but the way he had been carrying on since he had returned was enough to give that feeling up. 

Marianne turned to her in between songs.  “Juniper is such a lovely name, but so different. How did you come by it?”

“My mum was a student abroad one year here at Oxford. She is the Birkenstock, long flowy dress hippie.” She smiled.  “My dad was a lecturer, and they had a brief affair. My mum went home to America and found out a month or so later she was pregnant with me.”

Marianne smiled.  “Sounds kinda romantic.”

“I mean, I guess ultimately it was. My dad was still married to his first wife, but he was absolutely besotted with my mum and pretty much from the moment that she left, he started the process of trying to get divorced. The marriage was ending anyway, so they got divorced, my dad went to America to get my mum, and they have lived happily ever after since then.” She laughed. “I am their only child, but they make it work.”

She smiled.  “Is your father a hippie, too?”

“Oh god no, he’d wear tweed to bed if mum allowed him. They are the very definition of opposites attract.” Juniper laughed.  “They are so different but to watch them together is amazing. I was lucky. I grew up in a house with a lot of love, a lot of freedom of expression and a lot of being able to choose who I want to be.”

“I had hoped we did that for the boys.” She smiled. “Henry is the fourth of five boys.” Marianne motioned to him.  “And he is the one, from the moment he was born, that I worried about.”

Juniper raised her eyebrow. “Why?”

“He wasn’t going to take over the title like Piers, Niki joined the Marines, Simon went on to university where he teaches and Charlie went into finance,” she said quietly.  “Henry was always so lost.” 

Juniper looked over him and caught him looking at her. He quickly averted his eyes.  “He seems to have found a spot here.”

“Only because his father forced him.” She sighed. She leaned in to Juniper.  “Frankly, I don’t think that Anya being here is a happy coincidence. I think my eldest son and daughter-in-law are trying to rekindle that relationship.”

Juniper looked over at Anya who had her hand possessively on Henry’s back.  “She seems to think it’s going well.”

She sighed.  “I wish it wasn’t. The last time they were together, it was nothing but ugliness and heartbreak. He may look big and imposing but underneath all of that is a sweet soft boy.” She smiled.  “He is kind-hearted and fiercely loyal.”

Juniper nodded her head.  “I’ve gathered as much, in the short time I’ve known him.”

Marian looked at her.  “Maybe you two should give it a go.”

Juniper looked at the older woman.  “Are you out of your mind?” She shook her head.  “Oh no, Henry is nothing like any of the men I have ever dated, he is most definitely not my type at all.” She shook her head.  “No.”

Marianne smiled a little.  “Then why do you keep staring at him?”

#####

Juniper sat in her garden and thought about the events of the night before. She had actually enjoyed herself. Henry, after the initial few moments, had left her mostly alone. Just the occasional, ‘Can you’ statement. She wasn’t sure why she was so mad about the fact that he had been like that. 

There was nothing between them, yet every time she saw him, something in her wanted to hear his voice. It was completely irrational. He was not the type of man she went for, or even had dated in the past. But there was something about him that was endearing. And the suggestion from his mother made her even more upset. 

She made a noise in her disgust and took a drink of her coffee.  She couldn’t spend another week thinking about him. She could hardly believe that she had spent most of the last week thinking about his annoyingly handsome face. She sighed and stood up, heading into the house. Her mobile phone was going off; it was Madeleine. She smiled and picked it up, putting it to her ear.

“Morning, you're up early for the morning after a show,” she said. 

“Well, when your boyfriend wakes up and wants to fool around, you oblige him.” She laughed.  “Now that he is sated, wanna get breakfast?” 

“Okay, honestly Mad, we have had the ‘I do not need any details about your sex life’ discussion.” Juniper pulled a face, laughing a little. “Breakfast sounds good. The usual spot?”

“Absolutely, I will see you in twenty,” Madeleine replied. 

Juniper stood up, heading into the house and up the stairs to her bedroom. She threw on a pair of coveralls and a cute shirt underneath, and headed down and out to the street. She would just walk to the small cafe that was about halfway between the two houses. She was happy to get out and exercise her legs.

She walked into the cafe and headed to the counter. The girl behind it looked up and smiled.  “Madeleine coming?” the server asked. “Are you going to want the usual, Juniper?”

She nodded. “Yes, thank you Kate, I’m going to get us a table outside.”

“I’ll bring it out.” She called back to her. 

Juniper threw a thumbs up at the girl and headed out to sit at their usual table outside. She looked around and watched as people came and went. Soon she saw Madeleine walking up. She sat down across from Juniper and smiled.  “Ordered already?”

“Of course. Kate is working, so we can be sure it’ll be correct,” she replied. 

Madeleine sat in her seat and smiled.  “So, did you have fun last night? I know you don’t usually stay as long as you did.”

She smiled.  “I did have fun. All things considered.” She shrugged.  “I think it would have been more fun if certain people had not been there.” 

“Juniper, he wasn’t that bad.” Madeleine looked at her, her eyebrow raised. 

“What makes you think I was talking about him?” Juniper replied.  “He was tolerable last night. Once I took the piss out of him, he honestly hardly talked.”

“Oh, then Anya?” Madeleine asked. Juniper shot her a look. “I am a little confused. If you want nothing to do with Hen, then why are you worried about the girl?”

Juniper sighed deeply and didn’t answer. She was saved by the arrival of coffee and food, which gave her even more time to think. Finally she spoke.  “She’s just not right for him. You could tell how uncomfortable he was around her. Marianne said that she had broken his heart.”

Madeline looked at her, a small smile on her lips. “You suddenly care about his feelings?”

“Yes, in so much that he is a person.”Juniper answered quickly.  “Don’t read too much into this, Maddy. I am not in any way, shape, or form attracted to Henry.”

Madeleine sat back and took a drink of her coffee and looked at her best friend.  “Then why has every conversation we have had in the last week somehow going back to a certain Mr. Cavill?” 

Juniper glared at her.  “Not every conversation.”

“No, not every one, but most of them. Juniper, there is nothing wrong with admitting that you find him attractive and that you are attracted to him. My god, Joey and I both are attracted to him. It’s not a terrible thing.”

“It may not be a terrible thing, but it is not something that I even...ugh, you know what I don’t want to talk about him any more,” she said.  “Let’s talk about anything else.” 

Madeleine laughed a little and nodded.  “Okay, but this whole conversation isn’t over.”

“Yes, it is, I don’t want to hear about him any more,” Juniper replied.  “I am done.”

[tarithenurse]

All is fair in Love & War - 5

Pairing: Loki x reader Content: Everything. We’re talking violence and killing (though not detailed), angsting, illness, fluffing, scheming, master/pet, citrus fruits (one sided...but detailed), probably a lot more. But hey! No swearing! A/N: This is a semi-AU in the sense that it is in a sort of medieval/fairy-tale setting, but Loki and MCU’s version of Nordic mythology still applies. I’ve taken the liberty of tagging people who’ve reposted, but if you do want a tag pls let me know.

5. Limits

You hear the shouting but cannot be bothered to look around for what is happening. Only when the noises turn to screams do you attempt to sit up although each movement makes your head pound and spin. It takes a few tries and by then it is quieting down again but you still struggle to open your eyes that have begun crusting together, dry like your mouth and throat from too long without anything to drink. Squinting through the haze, you can see someone slumped on the floor in the hallway. Is the place under attack? Slurred thoughts dance in and out of your mind, constantly eluding focus although a part of you attempts a certain optimism in the midst of your weakened condition. Perhaps the Midgardian forces have been able to finally move past Loki’s defenses? Someone will find you, bring you home? They can’t. The rejection surprises you, although not as much as your own silent laughter, and you collapse back into the bed just as someone enters the room.

The voice is familiar. Strangely comforting. Gentle hands examine you and lift you into the arms of the person. Black hair. Soft words are cooed as encouragement to cooperate, but they are not needed as you neither can nor want to resist as a glass is pushed to your lips and the cool content dribbles in. Greedily you suck at the rim, slurping the liquid into you as if your life depends on it…which it does. That is why you whine as your caretaker stops administering the drink.

“Mmm-mo…” Despite your efforts, your voice falters.

The man, because it is a man, has understood you anyways. “I know, but we must take care, pet. It seems  you have gone too long without wet or dry and we do not whish for you to get worse.” He returns you to the warm embrace of the furs, allowing you to drift in and out of sleep.

Each time you wake he is there. Tending the fire, proffering sweetened water and later broth for you to drink…or simply sitting by the bedside watching over you. As your health returns, so too does the knowledge of what has happened and who is playing nurse. It should make you wary. Instead it comforts you. Soon, you can sit up in bed unaided and eat solid meals which Loki himself brings you, and you actively strife to regain you strength through exercise in the brief moments the captor and guardian leaves the chamber.

It is after one of these intervals, where Loki has been gone for a while, that you decide to find out what happened. He has brought paper and thin, bark-wrapped sticks of charcoal for you to practice your writing while he himself sits nose deep in a book. Crooked letters and raw sketches of people only you remember litters the page before you…however, one is a figure slumped against the wall.

“Lo-your highness?” No fault in staying on his good side. He hums in a manner you interpret as a go-ahead. “When you came back…what was happening? Was the keep under attack?”

Green eyes bore into you as if to discern what you know, but eventually his face transforms into an emotionless mask. “It was not,” he offers coldly, “however I expect any servant of mine to follow my commands. Failure to do so has consequences.”

“But the screaming, sire?” The small hairs on your arms and neck are standing to attention.

The smirk is dark. Gruesome. “Consequences.” Closing the book, he puts it down and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. “Understand this, my pet, although my servants do not understand much of what I do or why, they have been warned never to disobey me or mistreat anything belonging to me.” A cold hand pushes a strand of escaped hair away for your face. “Those at fault have been punished to set an example for the rest to understand that I, their new master, will tolerate nothing less than pure loyalty.”

As frightening as the words are, coming from a monster with the powers of a god, it is something else that catches your attention. “New master?”

The chuckle is surprisingly warm. “Yes. Do you recall we spoke of the Aesir-Jötun War?” You nod. “After the death of Laufey, someone else was sent to rule Jotunheim under the watchful eye of Odin. To ease the transition, a descendant of Laufey, but one who had lived his entire life in Asgard, was chosen. In blood from Jotunheim. In allegiance…to Asgard.”

The schemes of royalty and their rich allies had never been something you spent much time considering. Things were as the were and you could do nothing to influence the events either way. Still, listening to Loki, you can see the strategical value in the choice. You can also see that his whish to be called king is not as far from the truth as you had hoped because the king of Asgard would undoubtedly back up the claim.

“That’s where you went while you were gone…back to Asgard…”

Reaching over, Loki takes the writing tools from you and puts them aside on the dresser before returning to his spot. He sits in silence. Perhaps he’s contemplating what to say? You can feel his gaze burning on any part of you that is visible from the furs as if he is evaluating your condition, assessing the effect of the treatment he is subjecting you to – successfully. Though still emaciated, there is a healthy glow to your skin and your body is beginning to seem a bit fuller. Not much, but enough to help you stay warm, stay awake. He has taken better care of you than you would have expected when he first caught you.

When Loki finally speaks, it is with a severity that startles you. “[Y/N], what are your thoughts on the war between our nations?” His hand is resting on the fur where your knee is hidden beneath.

It is strange to hear your name on his lips, but that (as well as other of the names he calls you) is becoming endearing. “I…” You pause, because frankly you do not know what to think anymore. “It seems that I don’t know all there’s to know…” An image of a commander sleeping in a tent stirs in your memories. “That we, us common soldiers, haven’t been told the…the entire truth.”

Instead of pulling away when he reaches for your hand, you allow him to run his thumb over the knuckles while he talks about the journey that he has been on to visit outposts and fortify the defenses at the front, to meet with allies and spies to attain information crucial to the campaign. According to the god, things are going well, and the Midgardian armies have been forced to retreat in many areas with a minimum of losses on both sides. Perhaps he’s lying, you think, but a part of you objects at that notion. From the little you have seen just of Jotunheim, the hosts at Utgard alone would make short work of the scattered companies trying to cross the border.

You fall asleep to his soothing voice, drifting into a dreamless slumber peacefully.

…   LOKI’s POV   …

[Y/N]’s breathing has slowed to a steady rhythm long ago, but he still finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her thin hand. I should not be this soft. And yet, how can he not want to care for this fragile, little creature that she is?

The moment he decided to spare her life, to turn her against her own king and utilize her, he also knew that he would have to treat her much kinder than it would be appropriate in the eyes of his own people. Violence and mistreatment would not be the way to get her to do his bidding. The fierce stubbornness should be guided, not be broken…it is too endearing anyways. And that there is the problem. Somewhere, during her time as his captive, he had begun to see her as more than just a tool and a body he normally would ravish, take repeatedly until he would grow bored and then throw away. The day he returned and saw what his servants had done, he had feared for the Midgardian’s life and it had sent him into a fit of rage. A desperate panic had fueled the violence as he sought out every single one of the people responsible for [Y/N]’s care. And after he was done with them and had tended to the woman’s immediate needs, he had scoured the palace for any who had known of the disobedience. He saw to it personally that they were tied up in the courtyard and then he flogged them. The message could not be clearer: do not betray your king’s trust.

A sigh escapes the sleeping woman, bringing him back to the present. Turning in her sleep, she holds on to his hand and a tiny smile graces her full lips for the first time. She may be a mortal, but the power she is beginning to hold over Loki is unsettling and he knows he will have to do something about it.

…   READER’s POV   …

Day by day you grow stronger and take to pacing the room and seeking any other sort of exercise possible within the chamber. Naturally, it cannot stay hidden from Loki for long, but he seems pleased with your initiative rather then scolding you for pushing yourself and he even walks beside you the length of the corridor and back several times to study your prowess. Dark patches stain the floor as though pools of dark liquid have seeped into the wood, and you try not to think of what it must be from although you know beyond a doubt. Frighteningly, your captor seems not to be the slightest bothered by it. His eyes are fixed on your form sweating under the sudden change in activity, and when your legs threaten to give out under you, he is there to hold you in an almost tender embrace.

“Well done, my pet,” he beams at you with sparkling eyes, “I believe you deserve a reward.”

Without further ado, he lifts you in his arms as though you weigh no more than a kitten and carries you all the way to the bathing hall where he perches you in one of the chairs before calling for water.

Since you were left to die in your room, this is the first time you see anyone else besides Loki and you cannot help to feel a certain apprehension as the servants begin to hurry to and from with buckets of steaming water, but none of them dare glance as you as long as their master is present.

The door closes behind the last one, leaving you alone and safe with the god. I shouldn’t feel safe. Yet, you do…until he stoops by you to remove your shawl. Clinging to it, you are painfully aware how little strength you have left to oppose him, but rather than enforce his will with violence he kneels to meet your frightened gaze.

“I understand, little one, but you have nothing to fear.” Slowly, he reaches to cup you cheek in his cold palm so gently that you find yourself leaning into his touch. “Allow me to help you.”

This time you do not object when he begins to undress you, carefully avoiding touching your bare skin until you sit before him completely naked, arms pressed against your chest to shield your self from his eyes as much as the prickling air. With a quick movement he lifts you like a child once more, holding you so close against his chest that his heartbeat is strong through the silk of his blouse in the few seconds it takes to carry you to the large tub.

A sigh escapes you as the warm water engulfs you, sending shivers of pleasure through your body. For a moment that is your entire world: the scalding cocoon of liquid and Loki’s hand still supporting your back. You can hear him rummage with the bottles of scented oils and soon the aromas of pine needles and lavender fills the air around you, luring you to relax and lean back with closed eyes. A part of you prompts you to cover yourself while the god washes your face and hair before moving along the shoulders to each arm with lazy circles of a sponge.

“Move forward so I can scrub your back.”

Silently, you obey, gripping the rims of the tub for support as you press against your thighs to rest the chin on the knobbly knees. There’s soft splashing of water and you feel the waves kiss your face, still it is not before you feel two strong limbs slither past you on either side in the tub that you realize that Loki is sitting behind you, his legs barely grazing you skin. A hot fear rolls over you, stealing your breath in the process. Flashes of memories present themselves in quick succession: the tight grip on a throat, wandering fingers across breasts, and the hard erection pressed against comparatively small body. But it is the sponge that touches upon your back, stroking in lazy circles to allow the oils and herbs in the water to affect the tense muscles.

At some point, he hands you the sponge, prompting you to clean the last areas. Happy to be allowed to see to cleaning your private parts, you do as you are told, deciding in turn not to object as cool hands massage your shoulders. Somehow, as your own hands move downwards, you find yourself leaning into Loki’s embrace, smothering a moan of appreciation at the sensation of his chest against your bare back. Reaching between the folds at your core, you cannot be bothered to be surprised at the slickness there that not even the water can completely rinse away. I shouldn’t want this…but it is needless to chastise yourself for the smoldering need and growing trust that has arisen between you and the god.

Strong hands move to your hips, pulling you flush against him with no effort to even attempt hiding the stiff cock that presses into your lower back, coaxing a tiny gasp from you. Cradling your head, he lowers it to his shoulder, granting a view of your body disappearing into the milky waters.

“Let me –” a soft kiss on your jaw punctuates the sentence – “make you –“ this time the kiss lands below your ear – “feel –“ on your shoulder – “good.” The last kiss is on your neck, making you sigh in delight.

Loki is surprisingly gentle as he explores your curves. The big hands that have grabbed with near untamed strength on other occasions are now stroking and massaging every inch of skin, often favouring your breasts and the tender nipples that happily perk in response to his ministrations. The first soft moan escapes you when cool finger dance on a hidden path from hip to apex of your thighs. A shudder of anticipation and apprehension runs through you as Loki strokes along the folds while nudging your legs apart with the other hand before it returns to cup your breast.

The god is skilled with his hands. Playing you like an instrument, he soon has you creating the most sinful sounds and arching under his touch as waves of delight rolls through you each time he strokes, circles or adds pressure all the right places. More often than not, he slips a couple of the long fingers inside your burning core to find new ways of calling forth waves of growing sensitivity. Your own hands can find no rest until you bury your fingers in the black tresses to pull yourself closer to him and you feel a growl reverberate in his chest, feel his cock twitch against your back. Whatever the simple action has released in Loki, you feel the shift in his body and in the way he holds you tighter while kissing and nibbling at your neck before finding your lips.

That’s how you topple over the precipice. Lips locked in a first kiss, his arm possessively holding you to his chest, and his finger playing with every nerve of your core. You ride out the orgasm on his hand. Each guttural moan swallowed greedily by the god.

…

What have I done?

Somehow, you had managed to fall asleep after Loki had carried you back to your room, but you woke up before sunrise and found yourself unable to chase away the many self-reprimanding thoughts that woke with you.

Pulling the shawl closer around the shoulders, you dig the last embers free from under the ashes and add kindling with practiced hands. Soon, the flames are dancing eating happily off the firewood, casting long shadows that leap and dance with each flicker. I shouldn’t have let him.

Dressing yourself is bothersome due to the silly ribbons and impractically flowy sleeves (even though you’ve carefully chosen a dress with as little embellishment as possible. If this is the fashion of noble women, then you are more than happy to remain a plain girl from the country side. In the little village by the quarry, there is no room for these delicate fabrics and frilly laces. I should never have left – look at me now!

Then you make the bed and sit to practice the writing, carefully tracing each letter to spell out your name, Midgard, the capital Sjöblik, and Jotunheim (although you are fairly certain you must have gotten that one wrong: J-O-O-T-U-N-H-A-Y-M). Running out of names, you start scribbling your thoughts onto the paper, allowing your memories of home to guide you until you grow frustrated with your own lack of speed. Words are slow and clumsy, you feel, and the charcoal begins a different dance across the page to depict the jagged mountains so high that the snow never leaves the pinnacles. The darkness of the forest skirting the slopes rubs onto your fingers, finds the fine lines of your hands to nestle in before becoming smudges on anything you touch. Filthy.

The part of you that is an obedient Midgardian who has been raised to serve her king unquestionably feels a suffocating guilt that makes the bile turn in your stomach. As long as you remember, everything in your life has been a question of what the king needs to secure the country. Your father worked for many years in the quarry together with your two older brothers until the captain came to the village and drafted them to the war. But the king needed his taxes regardless, so your mother took over her husbands work while you kept tending to the livestock (both your own and the rest of the villagers’).

It wasn’t enough.

Next year when the tax collectors came, they took the old cow, the handful of sheep and all but one scrawny chicken. Unless you could get to town regularly to buy food, then you would have to hunt or fish. But hunting was forbidden, and even if you had had the money the town was too far away. So you went to the quarry with your mother one morning, and while the workers went to their daily task, you sought ought the foreman hoping to be accepted as a day labourer. That’s when it happened. The rumble of falling stones overpowered every other sound, the earth shook, and you knew. You just…knew. You did not need to run to the site of the collapse for any other reason that find the one or two survivors. Without warning you were alone.

That’s why you had left to join the king’s army. Maybe, you had thought, you would be lucky to find your father or brothers or at least get news of them. Were they even alive? As it turned out, the probably weren’t because the battalions they had been in had been unsuccessful in their raids of what had been called the reclamation of Midgardian territory in the north.

Now you know better.

Well, if I can trust what Loki says.

If only you could find out more. Words spoken many months ago come back on dark wings. What once sounded like a threat from the god is now becoming a promise, a viable option to consider: become a tool, a spy to gain access where Loki or other of his allies cannot to learn what the Midgardian king and his supporters are plotting. Find the truth.

[snkret-photography]

Back to Me

Most people know that I follow an abridged variation of a Paleolithic/Ketogenic diet. It makes me feel the most optimal and reduces a lot of my inflammation and hormonal imbalances. Also I’ve never really been a big carb or grain persons so it was an easy transition mentally. This has just been what has worked for me to feel optimal. When I was younger, I ate whatever I wanted, when I wanted and proceeded to exercise like I was getting paid for it. I don’t have that time or energy anymore so my current lifestyle is well supported by my diet. And while I have a general label for how I eat so other people can easily digest it, I don’t particularly care to label it. I try to keep things paleo but Quest Bars are my crack, literally candy bars. I get one life and even if I reincarnate, the experiences in that lifetime won’t solidify my satisfaction in this one. So I still eat what I want, when I want but instead of focusing on the immediate satisfaction that it gives me, I focus on the long term gratification I can derive while still making sure I don’t feel deprived. It works for me and that’s all I worry about.

Recently, I started a new job, I’ll probably talk about that more in depth at some point, but it’s a very youthful workforce and the company operates in the ad tech space. Which means everyone is aware of diets based on the loose depictions they can find on Instagram; legit, no shade. I’ve been on my food protocol for about 2 years and over the past year have cut down to eating once a day, which I just prefer to be freshly made at home right before bed. This translates to me surviving the work day on coffee and water alone. Which translates to everyone having an opinion on their lack of willpower communicated through copious questions and declarations I’d rather not entertain. Like I said, it’s a new job. But whenever I glaze over the details of how I choose to eat, people immediately start throwing out buzzwords as if I remembered the definition and not the word itself. This is usually followed up with some variation of:

“They say that is/is not good for you because some bullshit study somewhere in some bullshit magazine somewhere else.”

I follow an eating protocol that works for me, my goals, and my overall health from both an internal feeling perspective and careful attention to medical markers. Added fact that I love biology which means I actually look at the basis of science studies to look at their original reasoning for deriving a hypothesis, the control of the study, who backed it, and the subsequent reporting along with the counter arguments. I.e. I look at the big picture and not just what “they say” as a basis for how I live my life and make decisions. How I eat works for me but it may not work for everyone else. I do a lot of people’s diet plans and I almost always start out with a list of carbs to intake. Just because I limit the type and amount of carbs I eat, doesn’t mean that everyone else would benefit from such. I may be an accountant but I am not a copy/paste formula. And “they” don’t know everything. Just because some people have made buckets of what Is and is not healthy does not mean that it is 100% accurate. They haven’t studied you and your bodies reaction to the blanket list that they’ve decided to impart on the public. And the public, being the public, has a low tolerance for research and assuming their own opinions; we all love when some stranger says something on the internet super convincingly and have broken it down in a manner in which we can regurgitate without much reference for what is actually said.

This isn’t a conversation about diets. And I’m no better for the flaw in which I’m pointing out. We all go to pseudo-authorities to help make formalized decisions for us on both short-term and long-term decisions. From what to eat, to figuring out our careers, choosing partners, relaxation methods, methods for creating happiness in our lives, and so much more. Consultation is one of the most common things we all do and we always tend to consult, directly or in-directly, those in which we believe have a stronger foundation in the topic than we do. You want career advice, you consult someone who has a career length or position in which you desire to. You want fitness or dieting advice, you consult the trainer or dietitian. More commonly you follow the person who competes on Instagram or ask your friend who’s always been skinny/buff, depending on your goals. You want to know how to navigate your relationship, you ask people who have relationships in which you aspire to. At least, in theory this is the manner in which people go about things. Everyone consults based on their immediate circle and the manners in which they trust other to help them navigate their problems. I don’t believe in monogamy, yet all of my friends in relationships consult me on how to secure their relationships and improve the quality of because they’re aware I'm going to advise them based on the value of our friendship and not my personal views on the matter. I know trainers that constantly tell their clients that to achieve their results, it require discipline and consistency yet their clients chief question, paraphrasing, is what they can buy to achieve that. So they in turn sell them accountability until the person can gain that for themselves and routines that are built around the person’s goals. At my gym there is a trainer who I’ve seen float the exact same workout to both men and women trying to achieve completely different goals, only changing the duration, intensity and repetition of the workout. That is so not how it works but that is how a lot of people work. “This worked for me or I have found x so it should work for you and anyone else who asks.”

This theme of listening to the “they” hit a real head recently. I greatly enjoy the role of devil’s advocate. No particular reason, it brings me joy and that’s all that matters. So going with the current is rather easy but personally, infuriating. I would go online to browse random sub-reddits and a bunch of jack-offs behind their keyboard were operating on a full level of knowledge, confidence and rudeness you could tell was in-organic. I would entertain a public discord on some newsworthy topic and was subsequently met with opinions that nobody could concretely defend. And all that diet shit I mentioned earlier. So when it was time to decide my next project, I didn’t even want to do one. I looked back on my recent projects and then broadened that to my entire works over the past year from the creation of this website to side projects I had picked up and was entirely confused. I had no idea what I didn’t like about everything as a package nor that impressed by individual projects. Even my posts were bugging me. So far from the course in which I originally set. And somewhere in reflecting on why people found it so appropriate to consult me on my own practices from an outside party in which neither of us ever regarded personally, something clicked. It’s been a very inauthentic experience. Sure I have some projects here that I absolutely adore. Yes, I have gotten to do something I love, work with people in the manner I desire, and develop my skills in a manner I never really thought I could before. Of course this has been a cathartic outlet with great growth and has had a visibly positive impact both in my and other’s lives. It has also just made me grow closer with a lot of people by opening up the realm of conversation. It’s dope. But something still wasn’t clicking. My writing was getting weaker and almost always derived from an emotional perspective. I kept trying to change my website and Instagram layout but could never figure out how to keep it in the manner I developed it. Photo-shoots had more to do with getting content out or making a quick buck on the side rather than developing an idea and creating a story from it.

I had developed a business and parts of my life on the advice and consultation of people who have no actual basis of authority. And doing things strictly to impress others or at the console of something others have an opinion on yet no tangible marker of authority is dissatisfying to say the least. I don’t like social media almost strictly based on not giving a fuck about the facade that people put on to have these amazing lives they don’t nor entertain the countless opinions of people who can’t keep that same energy. I originally designed my website in the taste of my ex-boyfriend who had never designed anything for public consumption or really taken any action on anything. Adjusting concepts and final visions on the advice of a person who just on-looks but doesn’t operate. Then I look at the approach I developed in writing to be more open in my communication about my emotions and life at the advice of all my friends who like to act like they have none, self explanatory why I should have not listened. Broaden the pattern, I had an abysmal living arrangement on the advice of people who suggested the money saved would be best long-term. In short, a bunch of opinions from people who have nothing to lose in the outcome. And it all just settled. I couldn’t take much pride in things when the outcome was based more on the advice of non-active participants than myself. Which was my own fault. I can consult the world but I don’t have to take the world’s advice. It was something I’ve always known and implemented in my life yet neglected in my business. Putting off projects because my consultants didn’t particularly like the idea or get it. Wondering if I needed to go back to the drawing board or if I wasn’t communicating it properly. But it’s not their project. They’re not putting their name on it and quite frankly, if they don’t like it then that is a miss for them. But if I put out a project I’m not invested in, then that is a lost for me that I will always have my name attached to.

So now, on the anniversary of my dive back into photography and writing, I’m going back to the original ideas. I will do things that I want to move in the direction I want. I will consult authorities and opinions alike but will make note of the differences and be sure I’m still just as invested at every step. There is no worse feeling than to have to live according to someone else’s version of happiness, success, and achievement. The manner in which other people live and operate are mere matters of comparison to derive what parts we identify with and which parts we don’t, constructing the best possible experience for ourselves. And I want to bring people the best that I have. I love what I’ve put out over this past year because no matter how good or bad something may be technically, personally, anecdotally, I have a record in which to document my growth. But what is the point of a goal if it is not consistently refined as you achieve it? So when I set out on the first year, I had a lot of goals with a lot of people who are no longer here. Now I have some goals for myself and at the forefront of them, and in the words of Megan Thee Stallion: What The Fuck I Want, When The Fuck I Want!

*And I’m still at the mall with your motherfuckin’ daddy, eh

[fairytalefantasia]

As promised, the update to my rules that makes me sound like an asshole:

The official rules page is in the process of being updated as we speak, but I owe it to you all to put it in a place where you will readily see it.

Y’all, I hate that I’m having to do this. I try to be as accepting of other RPers as I possibly can, because at the end of the day this is all just for fun, so enforcing a lot of ridiculous standards seems a bit pretentious and arrogant. 

However...considering that I have been doing creative writing roleplay for coming close to 20 years now, I have to draw the line somewhere. 

I know I’m not the best writer. I know I’m not the best at plotting. Compared to a lot of folks on this platform, I’m perfectly middle of the road in skill and creativity. So I don’t necessarily expect all of my partners to be better than I am or even as good as I am. I’m not asking that. I am going to start asking that RP literacy and comprehension be a must. So what do I define as RP literacy? 

This means:

In one-liner RPs (which, if you know me at all, is a rarity), you must provide cues for me to follow and progress the plot, because I sure as hell am going to be doing all I can to do the same for you. We have to help each other out. 

Please read my posts. Please process my posts. If I give you a detail or cue, please do your best to remember it, and if you’re unsure or can’t remember, do your due diligence and go back to check. If you still aren’t sure, please ask me OOC. I have a memory like a steel trap sometimes, so I’ll have no qualms in reminding you. The post is law. If you’re given a detail or a cue you and ignore it, and then subsequently post in ignorance, I will have no choice but to react accordingly in character. I should not have to babysit you and fact-check for you. This is simple exercise in reader comprehension and using your resources. 

We must each be mindful of how much the other is putting in and keep the input ratio at 50/50. If I’m pulling all the weight and doing all the work, it’s no longer fun for me. At that point, I might as well just be writing a fanfiction piece. I’m not interested in that at this time. 

What I call “cop out replies” are going to be forbidden. Replies that share nothing more than “Bob walked to the door,” or “she laughed,” or the like (where you basically contribute NOTHING) fall under this umbrella and will not be tolerated. 

I’m usually pretty good about sharing my character’s internal monologue and states of mind. Please do not presume anything else about my character other than what I’m telling you. I promise, I will tell you what you need to know. Accordingly, you should also be well aware of non-established, pre-established, or soon to be established relationships. For instance, if your character is meeting, say, Hans for the first time? He’s a prince, and should be spoken to and interacted with as such. Unless it’s your intention not to, of course--which is fine!--your character should remember to mind their P’s and Q’s. That’s just simply realistic. I write a lot of royals who observe proper etiquette, so this is just a good rule of thumb. This is just one example of using reason and common sense during interaction. Don’t presume that just because we’re in the middle of a thread that I will ignore basic logic and reason such as this. Basically, if we’re at square one of an acquaintanceship, treat it like you would in real life. Make no assumptions, and when in doubt, ask.

If you aren’t sure about anything, please ask me OOC. I will not lead you astray. I want to rp and I want to have fun. We can’t do that if one or both of us is confused. 

P U N C T U A T I O N PLEASE.

I know this all sounds super high-maintenance and might make a few of you second-guess RPing with me. Please, don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to make anyone jump through hoops. In fact, a lot of this should be RP Basics 101. Please don’t feel like you can’t approach me, but please be advised that I am here to be your RP partner, not your RP coach. To put it bluntly, if you don’t think you can manage this, then frankly, I am just not the RP partner for you. This process is dependent upon both of us using our creativity, literacy, reading comprehension, logic, reason, common sense, and equal exchange partnership skills to make this work. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am in my writing and conceptualizations and things and I’m just too old and tired to do anything less. 

Of course, if there are any questions, please ask me. 

[disease-danger-darkness-silence]

Um also, I think we need to really discuss the fact that. Like. Obesity doesn't cause type 2 diabetes outright.

This is getting long but I'm on mobile and I have been unpacking my rage at this shit for a year now since my diagnosis so... Here we fucking go.

(This is all very... Simplified, because I'm not a biologist or medical doctor, but I do understand how my body works because I was a medical professional. But it's based on the research myself and my current physician have done together, which is us, standing on the shoulders of giants in their fields. Google scholar is your friend.)

Type 2 diabetes is insulin tolerance - you technically make enough insulin, but you have built up a tolerance so the same amount doesn't do the job anymore. Unlike a lot of other chemicals your endocrine system makes, it can be really difficult for your body to adjust insulin production - the pancreas is a delicate flower of an organ.

Type 2 can turn into type 1 (body doesn't make enough or any), but as far as what causes it, as opposed to its symptoms, it's not really even the same disease.

Turns out there is a HUGE body of research showing that type 2 diabetes causes obesity. Not, you know. The other way around.

My doctors, my whole life, spent so much time harping on my weight and nothing I did worked. I exercised. I ate fairly healthy. I did NOT cut calories because I was already prone to hypoglycemia, but I DID try to get them from good sources where possible.

The problem is that I have disordered eating (not an eating disorder - two different, although related, things) because of ADHD, autism, and general executive dysfunction. I was constantly going a day or two at a time without eating BY ACCIDENT, just drinking soda and water and coffee, and then I'd gorge on food - usually healthy, but not always - and it caused my body to just get really, really used to insulin floods to manage the sugar.

So I'm sitting here trying to do what my doctors are telling me, and feeling like shit about my body, and feeling broken, and being made to feel like I'm just not trying hard enough.

It took me settling down with a physician's assistant as my GP, instead of an MD, for me to find out that instead of focusing on my weight, my doctors really should have been focusing on eating consistently. Because I was in pre-diabetes since probably the age of 22, and now I have the full-blown thing.

I have struggled, the last year, because I'm like... Autistically hyperfocused on my diet now. I have alarms set so I remember to eat. I am constantly looking at carb and sugar content, and on the lookout for things sweetened with stevia or sucralose because I'm allergic to aspartame. I don't really like water but I've been forcing myself to drink more of it so that I'll drink less soda, and I've cut energy drinks out of my diet entirely but for special occasions (also, because the water here is NASTY, lead-and-arsenic filled garbage, I have to spend precious, precious cashmoney on PUR filters). I hate zoodles and other pasta substitutes, but have yet to find a decent-tasting and EBT-friendly (affordable, I'm saying. I'm poor. I'm so, so poor, and I can't afford the fancy diabetic food, but it's not considered a medical necessity so medicaid ain't covering it) noodle option. I can't stand cauliflower so trying to find a sub for my go-to low-spoons meal of white rice with tuna has been like pulling teeth. And add into it that metformin, the most common drug to treat type 2 diabetes, both disqualifies me from selling plasma and also causes severe stomach distress, and it's just a fucking mess. I don't know how I'm maintaining anything resembling system equilibrium.

My disordered eating could very easily have turned into an eating disorder, and only my self-awareness of it prevented that. Frankly, I love food, I just forget to eat because I don't usually experience the physical sensation of hunger. The only thing that has significantly impaired my mental health more than my diabetes and dietary needs is my housing situation, the last year.

TLDR: If you need to lose weight, do it safely. (Preferably with the help of a licensed dietician or nutritionist, if you can afford it, because they're 100 percent going to be better-informed than most MDs on the topic, but... Yeah. Not an option for everyone, I know.) But honestly? Do question why you need to, first. If I had, I probably would be a lot happier right now. And I may be even fatter but I wouldn't be fucking diabetic and miserable.

Actually I do think that it's super important to talk about the fact that cutting 500 calories a day for a 1lb a week weight loss is considered "slow" or "moderate" weight loss.

*IF* you can sustain that for a year that is a 52 pound loss in a year, which is pretty fucking fast, actually, but people act like you're a hopeless defeatist if you start talking about weight loss in terms of 1 pound a month because people want *results* but if you're talking about being able to sustain weight loss (which some people just straight up cannot for a variety of reasons and is not reasonable to *expect* everybody to be able to do) then it's kind of fucking bonkers that doctors and the American heart association and diabetes infographics and whatever talk about doing the kinds of diets that typically only last 3-6 months (12-26 pounds at a pound a week) and expect people to maintain those losses.

When you talk to doctors it is extremely reasonable to say "okay, and how, specifically, should I do that?" when they say to lose twenty pounds, but what is ALSO a very reasonable question that I never see brought up is "okay, by when?" and if they say "within the next year" it's also perfectly reasonable to say "why does it have to be in that time period?" Because if we're talking about the benefits of a 5% weight loss for reducing the weight-associated risks of heart disease or diabetes, then losing that weight over five years instead of over six months should be as effective, and is much more likely to be a lasting change instead of something that kicks off a bunch of weight cycling (which has its own terrible side effects that are bad for you).

There are some people for whom, for a number of reasons, it is impossible or near impossible to lose weight in the long term. It is possible for most people to lose weight in the short term, with a significant amount of effort. Maintaining long-term weight loss is exceptionally difficult and it seems like it's not feasible for large numbers of people, and I can't help but wonder if that's because what we're considering 'long term' really isn't long term at all.

If you've spent time around people trying to put on muscle you'll see something that I think is actually a more reasonable approach to long-term body changes, and that is recognition of the fact that you can only put on a (relatively) tiny amount of muscle in a year. For most people who have been training for any length of time, it's between 5-7 pounds and it gets harder to put on more the longer you've trained. Lifters and bodybuilders who recognize this and still want to put on muscle understand that they are in for an extremely long-term project that they have to intentionally maintain and put a lot of effort toward.

I want you to think about anyone you know who is a serious gym rat. I want you to think about how many hours a week they spend in the gym, and what they're giving up in exchange for that time. I want you to think about how much they spend on equipment and gym memberships and protein powder and first aid and very specific foods. If you know someone who's a very serious gym rat, you probably think they're a little unreasonable, that that's too much effort to put into looking good in a tank top.

But that's pretty analogous to the kind of effort, planning, and expense that needs to be put into maintaining a long term weight loss. And that effort needs to be put in forever - no matter if you're having kids or your partner is hospitalized or if your financial situation changes or if you are permanently injured, just like a bodybuilder can't expect to keep their gains if they're suddenly spending ten hours a week at the hospital instead of the gym.

I mean, people talk about weight loss and they get angry when you bring up the statistical failure of things like Weight Watchers or if you discuss how destructive dieting can be and they go "so, what, are you saying it's impossible to lose weight?" And the answer is, no, not for everyone.

It is possible for most people to lose weight. Just like it's possible for most people to become competitive bodybuilders. But we frame "mid-30s mother with two kids and a long commute and a full time job needs to lose 10 pounds and keep if off" as a task with a difficulty curve similar to learning how to cook a few crockpot meals, not similar to becoming a competitive bodybuilder.

[the-erudite-library]

Random Headcanons

- In addition to members of one’s own faction not being allowed to administer their aptitude test, teachers are also not allowed to. the theory is that a personal relationship could compromise the integrity of the tests and stems from a teacher sabotaging tests to protect her divergent students

- Peter is unexpectedly good with kids. He probably has younger siblings, right? Wrong, he’s an only child. His parents are both prosecutors and he personally has never worked with children. He doesn’t even especially care for kids as a concept, but still they flock to him and trust him implicitly. Animals too.

- Tori knew Evelyn, Jeanine, and Andrew growing up. She thought that Andrew and Jeanine were smarmy assholes, but was pretty cool with Evelyn

- The chicago experiment has been been running for about 500 years

- The notion of faction before blood was something that was popularized in the third century after the founders were dead and gone. They would have thought it was complete bullshit because they knew that the damage really truly dividing people could do

- Susan has a massive crush on Tris and has since they were like 13 and is just constantly dropping very obvious hints and internally screaming when Tris fails to pick up on them

- The Bureau that we encounter in Allegiant is just the Chicago branch. There’s a national bureau and international bureau, and experiments both successful (sort of) and failed all over the world. The international bureau is oversight that isn’t really doing its job and takes a very hands off approach as their more out there branches commit egregious human rights violations against the GD residents of the headquarters and those living within the experiments

- Many GD employees of the bureau that live and work within much larger branches find themselves (no matter how well educated they are) slamming into a glass ceiling way too quickly for their liking and many find the solution to be to transfer to more remote branches with less oversight that will give them a little more wiggle room. Many of Nita’s supporters within the bureau were transfers who came out to Chicago in search of that freedom and found themselves sorely disappointed

- Eric has a sister who is 11 years older than him and lives in Erudite. She’s stern, and sharp tongued, and meaner than hell, and she and Eric bicker constantly. He loves her utterly and she just adores him.

- Faction before blood is less of a hard rule and more like a cultural norm. Like, some people definitely think it’s utter bullshit and do as they please and no one can really stop them because what they’re doing isn’t wrong it just seems weird. There are lots of families who meet up outside of visiting day and cross faction lines to stick close to each other. Even some friends do that.

- It’s a taboo to sleep with people in other factions and depending on the faction you can be expelled for it (Abnegation & Dauntless; while Candor and Erudite judge on a case by case basis). But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen and many divergent are the result of inter-faction affairs

- Jeanine’s parents had a crazy dysfunctional marriage and really weren’t great to her either. Her mother was a workaholic who had never wanted kids in the first place but much of the reason that she was so unhappy had nothing to do with Jeanine at all. She was very gay and very in denial of it; part of the reason she worked so much was to dodge her very physically affectionate husband. Her father was a bit pushy and overbearing, though he cared very little for what Jeanine was actually interested in and who she was as a person and was far more invested in her achievements that he could brag about. He also quietly resented his wife both for her frigidity and her refusal to have more kids with him. Despite all of this, Jeanine didn’t have an awful childhood. She knew her parents were a mess and simply learned to tune out their fighting, they were hardly home enough for it to bother her much anyways. 

- Neither Andrew nor Natalie had an aptitude for Abnegation. Andrew was Erudite and Natalie was 100% GP, they loved the family they had together and tried to love their faction but they didn’t like it very much. Andrew grew up on the ritzier side of Erudite and some of the quirks that came with that lingered for quite some time and he never quite shook the urge to be nosy. He doesn’t do mindless routine and throws himself into his work constantly because he needs that kind of stimulation in the mundanity of the rest of his life. Natalie handles it a little better but she too gets a restless itch under her skin that just yearns to do something, anything. Tris saw them as the perfect Abnegation but that was because over sixteen years she managed to miss every single one of her parents’ off the wall conversations as they curled up in each other’s arms because the other thing that made the restless energy better was touch as they spoke of everything under the star; and never knew the way that Andrew’s days were an exercise in patience, in listening, in not screaming because he isn’t wired to enjoy mundanity; and the way that Natalie would pace in the living room because she couldn’t run laps until she was ready to pass out like she wanted to.

- Andrew is a stupidly tactile person; he prefers affection through touch and when he was younger this was not in any way restricted to his romantic relationships. Half the reason people thought he and Jeanine were dating was just because he was so all over her all the time and she seemed to enjoy it plenty, or at least she never complained. Suffice it to say, he does not like Abnegation’s aversion to touch at all and it took him a hilariously long time to get into the habit of not just wrapping his arms around Natalie and pulling her close to him for no other reason than he liked her and would like her even more if she were a couple inches closer.

- Jeanine was awful, that’s definitely true, but the guy she learned it from was worse. Norton was a terror, no getting around it; he was actually a pretty nice guy on the surface and got along with most people pretty easily. That was what made the things he did so unbelievable. As a scientist, Norton relished intellectual debate as he felt that it spurred progress; as a politician, he absolutely didn’t tolerate dissent in any form. He went after the Divergent yes, with a vengeance, but he had his detractors eliminated in equal measure indiscriminately. For him there were no other options, every point was a breaking one and he considered every slight intolerable. He was still better than the Dauntless leader he worked with, Max’s predecessor. To say her methods were horrifying to behold would be an understatement. People laughed as the sub-leadership positions seemed to change hands once every couple of years but how no one figured out that Norton and the Dauntless leader were killing people who had doubts about them was one sickening miracle.

- Jeanine, on the other hand, preferred to deal with her problems - the Divergent excluded - in other ways. She didn’t relish senseless violence and after learning who Norton truly was beneath his affable surface, frankly found the man and his methods to be harsh and over the top. If there were ways to find compromises that worked in her favor, she would find them. She believed it was of much greater benefit to her to have an army of puppets than a mass grave. Usually the way she dealt with people who made things complicated was first to offer them a peaceful out, one of those exact compromise that worked in her favor and basically ripped any power they’d thought they had out from under them. If that failed, she would - almost always with a near insulting degree of nonchalantness - blackmail them. Everyone has secrets they would kill to keep and Jeanine made it her business to know every single one of them. If that failed then she disgraced them; dragged the secrets she’d threatened to share and more out before the world and let the press have a field day ripping that poor soul to shreds. If somehow that still didn’t shut them up, then yeah she killed them and was so annoyed that it got to that point that she didn’t even feel bad about it. They’d practically brought it on themselves.

- Dauntless and Erudite don’t have a whole lot in common, but one commonality they do have is that they both believe that absolutely anyone can do absolutely anything if they work hard enough at it. To put it more simply, “It is not a question of if something is possible, but /how/ something is possible”

- Erudite is the culture full of people making memes about their deteriorating mental health. The biggest culture shock for Caleb had nothing to do with the work, or the talking, or the constant questions but the Erudite-born talking about how much they want to die at every inconvenience no matter how slight

- Tori is actually short for Astoria, meaning ‘hawk’

[ritterkaitlyn1991]

Bacterial Vaginosis Treatment For Both Partners Stupefying Tips

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Bacterial Vaginosis Labcorp Test Codes

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Bacterial Vaginosis Leczenie Hemoroidow

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[nicolekidmanwigfactory]

ok, so listen to the shit my psychiatrist told me yesterday because IT. IS. JUICY. (TW: eating disorders)

i need to vent but here’s a read more in case you wanna skip this because this is LOOOOOONG

i was describing to her how i’m currently pricing out personal trainers to help me start exercising again in a healthy, non-disordered way because the last three times (in the past 18-24 months or so) that I tried to start working out again, I found myself spiraling and getting overly anxious or unrealistic about my goals, so i’d either overexercise, restrict, and/or purge.

as i described the height of my exercise compulsion-- highest intensity elliptical for 60 minutes or 2000 calories burned (whichever came second) every single day, no exception (Sundays were my off day and I relished them)-- from seven years ago, which was worse than the actual bulimia at times, she just cut me off and said an hour a day wasn’t too bad, ignoring 1. the 2000 calories thing, 2. that i weighed about 130lbs less I do now, and 3. i was either severely restricting or compensating for binge behaviors from voracious appetite swings 4. caused by hormonal fluctuations 5. due to then-undiagnosed thyroid cancer.

BUT WAIT. THERE’S MORE. then she laid into my dietitian and said eating disorder dietitians in general are overly focused on “making sure their patients are comfortable eating” instead of losing weight (if they're ones who need to, of course). ummm...getting me less regimented in my eating is the fucking point. i’d eat something i wasn’t “supposed” to and then purge it somehow (exercise, vomit, restriction, etc.). <-- that’s the fucking basics of the fucking disorder, and that’s not even explicitly mentioning the mental illness aspect.

again, she told ME, A LONG-DIAGNOSED, DEPRESSED GRADUATE STUDENT WITH A HISTORY OF TREATMENT FOR BULIMIA AND OTHER EATING DISORDERS that i need to lose weight. Yes, i know that. does she really think i don’t know that? i wear my clothes and look in the mirror and have been in eating disorder treatment for the past five fucking years. what makes her think this is news to me? does she not think i don’t remember how I bust my ass off to healthily lose 100 pounds in college, and then gained it all back (and then some) in FOUR FUCKING MONTHS when my bulimia turned into binge eating disorder and my EATING-DISORDER AND QUASI-SUICIDAL MIND tricked myself into thinking this was the healthier option?! BECAUSE I SURE AS HELL REMEMBER. she does have the point that my weight is not healthy in the long-term (of course i know that), but neither is a fucking depression and any kind of eating disorder.

i WANT to lose weight but my dietitian agreed to work with me on the condition that my focus COULD NOT be on losing weight (she was gonna work with me no matter what, but she’s a genius with how she approaches her clients) until my eating patterns were stable and the frequency of my disordered behaviors dropped dramatically (which they have- i’ve only purged ONCE in the past year. My binges are not just far and in between but also much smaller and cheaper than they used to be). so if she’s gonna come after my dietitian, this psychiatrist is also coming after me because i would not be where i am without her (+ my therapist).

okay, i did expect some of this coming into the appointment though, so i did subject myself to this a little. she said some of this stuff in october at the first appointment i had with her but i was able to talk back against it in my head and discuss it with my therapist and i didn’t think about it again for a couple weeks. but the shit she was saying yesterday was just so much more inappropriate and insensitive that I only tolerate it for the refills on my meds.

i’m not saying she’s an awful psychiatrist. i just feel she needs to work on her bedside manner, or at least with her overweight eating disordered patients (because we already feel pretty shitty about that, and you don’t even need to have an eating disorder to feel that) or she needs more training in eating disorder treatment protocol. at one point in both appointments, she implied with the subtlety of a sledgehammer that it won’t be possible for me to have good self-esteem at my current size and weight, which completely defeats the point of body positivity and loving yourself at any size (FYI: Loving yourself at any size ≠ pro-obesity. Anyone who says otherwise is looking for a socially acceptable way to hate on fat people. The key word is “any.”).

All this said, she is a capable clinician. the medication regimen she has me on is working beautifully. my depression is so much more stable and the highs and lows of my mood are more like speed bumps and potholes than the mountains and ocean trenches of before. my anxiety is under much better control too (though a lot of that is because of the strategies I’ve been working on with my wonderful therapist) and the anxiety is also more situational. after all, i did go a gay bar by myself last weekend for the first time ever (it was at 2:00 on a Sunday afternoon, but i still did it despite the anxiety!). 

I am also so appreciative of her ADHD diagnosis. I was apprehensive at first because the diagnosis was so quick and not even the focus of the appointment, but the medication she put me on is working. i thought that high school killed any enjoyment i once had for serious, intellectual reading, but since the medication i’ve started paging through the plethora of books i’ve bought over the years but never read and gotten absorbed by random pages even though i don’t know what’s going on. I don’t remember the last time was able to concentrate for extended periods of times without a deadline or outside pressure. i can read lengthy journal articles in record time and still absorb the information. the only downside is they kill my appetite, which she admitted she is part of the reason why prescribed them for me. (this part i’m not that upset about since i have been on binge suppressants for years and I see this as an additional tool- I’ve had no urge to abuse them other than the ED voice that instinctually tells me to, but I’ve just ignored it from the beginning).

so even though she is highly insensitive to my needs, she is also a highly capable and otherwise qualified psychiatrist. however, during therapy today, i discussed her comments with my therapist and that I would continue to see her while i searched/waited for an appointment with a different psychiatrist, since I had to wait 7 months to see this current doctor. instead, my therapist jumped on the phone, called a couple numbers and was able to get me an appointment with a psychiatrist she trusted for right after the new year. so i only have to see this current one once more and that’s only so I can get refills and continue my current medication regiment, which been working wonderfully for me.

i didn’t mean to make this so long but it feels good to get this out. my clinician is gonna inform my dietitian (which is making me impatient for my next appointment because she was ready beat a bitch last time because of this doctor and i want to see what she has to say this time) and then, if i didn’t mind, she wanted to bring this up with some managers at her location. i don’t care if she informs some higher ups, i just don’t want my name to get back to the psychiatrist until after the next/last appointment. i’m also going to file a complaint, not for vengeance or anything, just so her superiors can hopefully let her know how other patients might interpret her comments.  

at least for me, this psychiatrist’s comments aren’t about me not being able to handle what i don’t want to hear. they were unprofessional, inappropriate, and frankly, uninformed and dangerous. if i hadn’t been further along in my recovery, i might have been liable to abuse my adderall as an appetite suppressant for weight loss purposes, start exercising and dieting again when i’m not mentally ready, or just accept her fat-shaming for what it wasn’t since since it was coming out of the mouth of an MD.

But I’m lucky to be in a place where I can recognize those comments for what they are. And I give credit to my therapist and dietitian, who’ve gotten me that place in the past year and a half (and I guess the current psychiatrist deserves some credit too for her medication regimen that was effective right off the bat, but that’s where I’ll leave it). And to the therapists, dietitians, and doctors I’ve have in the past five years, but mostly to my current ones, because they got me back on track when I moved back to WI and then further along than I have ever gotten before. Their voices are nagging in my ear to myself credit to, so I guess I played my part too.

@lorinwasadiver let me know when you’ve read this bc i want to know your angry thoughts

[untiediknot]

Tico Phillips - ID # 620091551

When it comes to gender representations and stereotypes in mainstream media, it’s difficult to contend with how it might benefit women and men - or even to reconcile with the various changes needed in the way gender is represented - without first recognizing the many nuances which exist within media itself and outside of it. Let me begin by saying that this is a really complicated, contentious issue. Entire books, lengthy ones at that, have been devoted to media and its impact. Nonetheless, I will try my best to unpack a few points. First of all, because “mainstream media” encompasses such a wide variety of platforms and products, it is difficult to address these kinds of issues directly without first breaking down this term more thoroughly. Broadly speaking there is print and broadcast, whether it be music, film, television, books, news and the internet to name a few. Any one of these would merit its own deep dive into the topic of representation of women and men. 

In my opinion, mainstream media (at least in its current state) is by design and definition hegemonic. It both reflects and projects normative values - it may challenge those norms but ultimately cannot pose a fundamental threat to them. Representations of men and women in mainstream media may be progressive, even transgressive, but only to a certain point. The limits of mainstream media to “accurately” represent anyone or anything is a perennial argument for the importance of independent media. For instance, the other day, I recently watched the 2019 movie Hustlers, whose plot mainly consists of a group of female strippers who conspire to rob wealthy Wall Street men. 

While on the surface this narrative does sound transgressive (take for instance, the idea of the film itself being exclusively female led - by a diverse case of women of colour no less - or the premise of disenfranchised sex workers taking control of their lives and exercising autonomy using their wits - instead of their bodies - to get ahead), one cannot forget that the whole ‘point’ of the movie is heavily reliant upon its conformity to and position within outdated tropes of women primarily as sex objects and men primarily as financial providers. Even if it seeks to represent an experience that is for the most part ‘inspired by a true story’, its presentation is, for lack of a better term, tired. 

Mind you, I thoroughly enjoyed the film - and I would recommend everyone go see it whenever they get the chance - but what with its thematic focus on sex, materialism, vanity and greed (especially through a gendered lens), it quite frankly doesn’t tell us the viewers anything we don’t already know (or haven’t already seen) time and time again about male/female power dynamics. In fact, the closing line of the film was particularly poignant. One of the main female leads, Ramona retorts, “The whole country is a strip club. You have people tossing the money and people doing the dance.” With that being said, men (particularly the ones behind the scenes ‘pulling the strings’ as it were) are almost always tossing the money in their funding of these projects and women (particularly the ones on the world stage) are almost always ‘doing the dance’, struggling to keep up - especially if job prospects and opportunities are limited.

Representation matters, no doubt. It’s just that I think that the politicalization of representation is an intentional capitalistic strategy by these powers that be (i.e. the bigwigs). Media is a consumable good, that goes without saying. It can also be used as a tool to distract. In fact, Brooks and Hebert argue that “much of what comes to pass as ‘important’ (or not important) is based often on the stories produced and disseminated by media institutions.” For instance, getting politically unaware people to dialogue about representation in media is a way to get them to interact with media, and at the same, preempt actual political work. People may know for instance the names of all of Kim Kardashian’s children, but ask them to name the elected members of parliament from the House of Representatives and they blank out. They may know precisely how many females/blacks/LGBT identified individuals are on their favorite TV shows but not on their city planning or school boards. Why is this? As discussed in section 1 of Whose Perspectives, the gatekeepers of the media are for the most part, responsible for “selecting, constructing and representing perceived realities - while obscuring others”, mostly for their own gain, financial or otherwise. After all, there’s nothing more dangerous than an educated public, so if they (the public) are kept ignorant (and pacified), they (the elite) can continue to push their agendas and continue to line their pockets, because they know that the public will ‘buy’ whatever they sell - literally and figuratively speaking.

Mind you, to say that media’s influence is purely negative would be negligent at best. I think that while there are definite drawbacks, there are also definite benefits. For instance, seeing people who look, act, or represent themselves the same as you can be comforting if you struggle with a sense of belonging or feeling alone or alienated from your peers. Consequently, as a society we're seeing a lot more diversity now, especially on television, and that's really exciting, especially since media tends to mimic and mirror society itself. Take for instance the critically acclaimed TV series ‘Pose’ on FX which explores how race, class, sexuality and gender intersect within the lives of the queer, trans and gender non-conforming participants of the underground ballroom scene in New York City. It should be noted that this is the first ever show in history with the largest cast of transgender actors (and characters).

If someone had no prior concept of the struggles faced by these minority groups, just engaging with the show might influence how they treat and interact with the oppressed and disenfranchised in their own neighborhoods, inadvertently teaching them compassion and tolerance which may (hopefully) result in them advocating for equitable legislation that benefits everyone - inclusive of people from all walks of life. Thus, when it comes to gender representations and stereotypes in mainstream media, perhaps we should not contend with how it benefits (or does not benefit) men and women across all walks of life, but rather the various responsibilities that we have as individuals (and as a collective) to create content not with the intent to sell or make a profit (as the gatekeepers are prone to doing), but rather to advance civilization forward in meaningful ways.

                                                       References

Brooks, D. & Hébert, L. (2006). Gender, race, and media representation. In B. J. Dow & J. T. Wood The SAGE handbook of gender and communication (pp. 297-318). Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE Publications, Inc. doi:10.4135/9781412976053.n16

Donald, P., et al. (2011). Gender and Media Content. Whose Perspective: A Guide to Gender-Aware Analysis of Media Content

Ryan Murphy Productions (2019). Pose (FX) Trailer HD - Evan Peters, Kate Mara series. [image] Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_t4YuPXdLZw [Accessed 16 Sep. 2019].

STXfilms (2019). Hustlers Trailer #1 (2019) | Movieclips Trailers. [image] Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LUG2U-IxPx0 [Accessed 17 Sep. 2019].

[uk-news-talking-politics]

MPs take control of Brexit: What the hell happens now?

By Ian Dunt

The moment we've talked about for months has happened. Last night, MPs' patience with the government finally snapped and they voted by 327 votes to 300 to pass a motion taking control of Brexit. So what does this mean, how will it work and is Theresa May's plan finally dead?

The motion passed basically sets aside one day - tomorrow - in which the government does not have control over what the Commons debates. During that time, MPs can put forward motions on potential ways forward on Brexit and vote on them. The options are likely to include things like Norway Plus (single market plus customs union), May's deal plus customs union, no-deal Brexit, and maybe a second referendum.

The vote is expected to be a failure. There is unlikely to be a majority for anything the first time around. If that happens, expect lots of instant commentary about how MPs are all a shambles and there'll never be support for any form of Brexit. But in truth, this has been factored in and is expected. It's a process, not an event.

Oliver Letwin, who tabled the amendment, told MPs yesterday that the first vote would simply "disclose where votes lie". He thought it was important for all the various options to be voted on at once, so that MPs could not game the system. Instead of filing through the lobbies as usual, they will probably vote on pink slips of paper. And they'll probably be able to select more than one option. It's exploratory, rather than definitive.

There would then probably need to be a second day of voting - maybe next Monday - for a run-off of options. So you'd get rid of anything which won little support and create a contest between the ideas that had a chance of passing. This will probably take the form of preferential voting, with MPs listing their preferred options in order rather than just selecting an ideal outcome. "I don't at all discount the possibility that at a later stage - and I'm sure there'll have to be a later stage - that we should resort to some other method [of voting system] to crystallise the majority," Letwin said yesterday.

This is all yet to be figured out. Letwin is in  charge of deciding how it will work. But his approach is not about securing an immediate winner. It is about creating a process where tolerable compromises can be found. He is trying to find a way of discouraging idealism and rewarding pragmatism, which, given where we are, seems a pretty sensible way to proceed. That spells bad news for the more radical propositions on both sides of the debate: no-deal, which is unlikely to get any significant support, and maybe also the People's Vote.

What happens with the People's Vote is a major issue and a vexed one. Many supporters of the plan don't really want a second referendum to be one of the options put forward by MPs this week. There is a strong intellectual argument for this. All the other options are about destinations. The People's Vote is about process. Their argument is that a confirmatory public vote should be held on whichever Brexit option is selected, because whatever it is, it'll be different to the Brexit sold to the public in the referendum.

This separation of outcome and process also encourages MPs to think of least-bad options as well as ideal ones. Putting People's Vote to one side means those who support it are forced to think about which Brexit they'd accept if they do not secure it. That will almost certainly be single market and customs union membership. So this argument usefully avoids the split between Norway Plus and People's Vote supporters, which has bedevilled the anti-Brexit movement for the last three years.

Labour's Keir Starmer seemed sympathetic to those arguments yesterday. "Some of these options are not like-for-like options," he told MPs. "It would be possible to say that, whatever deal there was at the end of that exercise, it ought to be subject to the lock or safeguard of some sort of confirmation vote."

However, quite apart from the intellectual arguments, we should be clear that this is also a self-interested assessment by the People's Vote campaign. They are concerned that if it is put to the vote alongside all the other options it will be knocked out fairly quickly, perhaps just after no-deal. That could cause lasting damage to the campaign, and kill off the momentum it has built up this week after the success of the online petition on revocation and the march in London.

But this strategic assessment has a flaw. The most likely way the People's Vote campaign will succeed is if it is seen as a way out of an impasse. If MPs find a form of Brexit with majority support, the incentive to hold another referendum is massively reduced. This is a potentially dangerous moment for the second referendum campaign. A lot will depend on what happens over the next few days. Both pathways - inclusion and exclusion - could be lethal. Or alternately, we could see it establish itself as a viable proposition, especially if Labour whips in favour of it.

The act of MPs taking control has plenty of potential unforeseen consequences like this. It could even prove an unexpected boost for the government. There are now very clear and visible signs for the Brexit hardliners in the ERG and DUP that their grand project is slipping away from them. The most likely avenue for a Commons majority is in a significant softening of Brexit. That could finally jolt them out of their ideological complacency and get them to support May's deal.

Yesterday, Jacob Rees-Mogg was saying that he would reverse-ferret and back the deal if the DUP did. For the time being that support is not forthcoming, but things could change. Support for May's deal could emerge very quickly. There are a lot of critics who are basing their decisions on each other rather than the deal itself, so if one or two leadership figures buckle - Dodds and Mogg, say - there would suddenly be a wave of capitulation towards the deal. May could then hold another meaningful vote, get it passed, and she'd have sidestepped the Letwin mechanism.

But it's unclear if even this shift in support would get her over the line. For a start, the ERG are now officially split, with some prepared to bend if the DUP back the deal and others really digging in. In a frankly deranged Newsnight interview last night, former ERG head Suella Braverman insisted she'd keep on voting against the deal no matter what happened. "The consequences that flow from that are out of my control," she said. Outside of an ERG meeting yesterday, one MP said there was "50-50" support for the prime minister's deal. Then another MP said: "I think it's more the other way, actually." They're all over the place.

There is probably a baseline of about ten ERG MPs who'll refuse to vote for May's deal no matter what happens. There are a similar number of moderate Tories on the other side of the party who won't vote for it either. So to get it passed, the prime minister will need to find a lot of Labour votes. At the moment, there is no sign she is succeeding in that. You can't rule anything out, but the deal still seems unlikely to break through.

May is still the prime minister though and she still runs the government. Yesterday she insisted she would treat the results of indicative votes as exactly that: indicative. She seemingly has no plans to enact what MPs vote for. This has led some commentators to shrug off the process as a meaningless distraction to pick a solution which isn't going to happen.

This is a simplistic assessment. The votes on Wednesday are the start of something, not the end of it. MPs now have proof of concept: they are prepared to remove government control over the timetable. First they will see if they can support a given option. Then, if they find they can, there is another option available to them. They can remove government control over the timetable again, but this time with the intention of passing legislation, rather than just holding votes. And this really would force the government to do what it was told.

"We will be relying on the government to reflect parliament's wishes in the first instance," Tory MP Nick Boles said last night on Newsnight, "but we won't be relying on it for long. If ultimately the government refuses to listen to what parliament has voted for, then we'll look to bring forward a bill, pass an Act of parliament, that will require the government to reflect parliament's wishes."

This was the system Yvette Cooper first proposed when she tried to use an amendment to shake up the Commons rules in a bid to speed through her private members bill on preventing no-deal. All these options have the same tactic: ending government control of the timetable. What you do with the space created by that action is up to MPs. But they can use it for firm action forcing the government's hand, as well as experimental action exploring potential options.

Revolutions, maybe because of the name, always sound like they happen overnight. But in fact they are often incremental processes. Downing Street opposed yesterday's amendment precisely because of this risk: that once MPs got a taste for control they would keep pushing for more until eventually parliament was running the government. If it keeps resisting what parliament decides, that is exactly what is likely to occur.

The irony, of course, is that this is parliament finally showing that it is truly sovereign. The exact arguments that created the Brexit result might be the ones which finally provide a way of resolving it.

[davidfostercomedyblog]

How I Got Into Stand-Up Comedy - A Personal Memoir

I got into comedy because my Probation Officer made me stop smoking weed.

Alice Corrigan, a wicked witch of a corrections officer whose reputation was well known in my high school. “You got Corrigan?! Fuck, sorry dude.”

I loved weed, and continued to smoke through my first year after sentencing, carelessly trying to fool the tests via substances like Goldenseal, Test Pure, and/or gallons of water the night before each meeting. I’d strain to abstain from my beloved herb for 24 hours, then on the ride home from the Corrections office light up in joyous release, rapping along to some rap lyrics that denounced authority.

But Corrigan was no fool, probably why everyone hated her. After about 18 months of our cat-and-mouse game of urine testing, my mother woke me up one morning holding the (portable) phone in my face.

“It’s Alice Corrigan.”

Rude awakening.

“Hello?” I answered, trying to invoke sounds of maturity and sobriety all into two syllables.

“Hi, David. I need you to come in today by 2:00 for a random drug test.”

Long pause: Random drug test. Isn’t that an oxymoron?

It was my friend, Nick’s birthday the day before, and we spent the night on my porch listening to the new Cypress Hill album, attempting to match their lyrics in actual smoke. Alice filled my reflective gap.

“These are mandatory, so I’ll see you as soon as possible.” She was so cold, so adult, so stern and unforgiving. I hated her so much.

“Oh, okay, no problem,” I answered, trying not to reveal my devastation.

“I’ll see you later,” she hung up.

I proceeded to pound gallons of water, desperate for a miracle, only to be told at our next scheduled appointment that my hyper-hydration was for naught. I came up positive, much as I apparently had in many tests for several months prior. One more positive test would constitute a “violation,” which meant at least a brief period of jail time, which was a line for me.

I enjoyed the adrenaline rushes of graffiti writing and shoplifting but wasn’t cut out for prison. I was rambunctious and experimental, arguably damaged and angry - but with a 1240 SAT (imagine if I hadn’t smoked weed all night the night before) I knew I was better suited for zoot suits than jumpsuits. A prison sentence, no matter how brief, was out of the question. I quit smoking weed.

For a while I was bored and depressed, confused as to how to fill this void that copping, rolling, smoking and occasionally selling weed had done before. Fortunately it was around this time that I met E and moved into Manhattan.

The 90’s were arguably New York’s “sweet spot,” when it was becoming safe enough to always go about your business and enjoy yourself, but also pre-7-11 stores and gentrification, and the culturally rich neighborhoods that once made the city into the capital of the world still retained their integrity. The Lower East Side was still inhabited by broke artists, and E had grown up in Greenwich Village, which believe it or not still boasted some shady blocks where you had to be street smart.

E’s crew of friends could have shown up in a picture under “cool” in the dictionary. They were the best of both worlds, mostly private school educated, but equally street savvy: A racially diverse group of 18 year olds who’d grown up as much on downtown pool halls and hip hop as they did on independent film study and fine literature. They had nicknames for one another and secret handshakes and genuinely scoffed at ideas of style or dialectic parameters based on skin color. I thought they were perfect. I was as quickly accepted by them as I was influenced, and before I knew it my wardrobe was more urban, dialect more slang, and for the first time in my life I wasn’t embarrassed about sounding smart. 

E and I became inseparable besties, literally overnight (on a magic mushroom trip), and frankly, I wanted to be him. He was mixed, Hispanic and white, but when you grew up in New York, dressed in all Polo and North Face gear, and referred to all guys as “niggas,” you’re just “Spanish.” He was the most charismatic, which made him the unofficial leader of our crew. His energy dominated every cypher, and he was as popular with the film nerds as he was with black thugs and girls of all backgrounds. Handsome and stylish, E didn’t need to be hilarious to get laid, but he was – funny bordering on psychotic even. We had many drunken nights downtown with the local pool hall crew that would leave my head spinning the next morning, not only in literal hangover, but also psychological reflection of who I was, who I’d been to this point, and wanted to be going forward.

Without weed I felt mentally clearer, sharper and wittier, more creative. E’s words began coming out of my mouth and mannerisms through my body. I noticed people laughing more at my jokes, gravitating more to my energy and deferring to me in conversation, and what 18 year old wouldn’t enjoy this?  

Funny is a muscle like any other. We all have it, though some of us with a greater potential than others. Two guys can go to the gym together every day for two years and do the same exercises and will come out not looking the same. One’s biceps will be bigger than the other’s. Maybe the other’s legs will be stronger. One will have lost a lot of hair. The other did not. They look at each other constantly, almost as much as they do the mirror, coveting that which contemporary women deem more attractive. They go home and listen to bad music. They have simple jobs and terrible conversations, small penises and an embarrassing medicine chest. They’re unhealthy, too big, uninformed. I digress.

E introduced me to Manhattan Public Access, which up until the advent of Youtube and iphones, was a reputable vessel amongst our generation. Everyone who was anyone was up on the few dope shows that aired weekly on one of the free (uncensored) networks. Spic N’ Spanish, Sam Kellerman Live (RIP), and most close to home, Baby Show, which was produced by another crew of arrogant Greenwich Village kids that E knew from childhood. They would run around town with their video camera making comedy sketches, then air them as a half hour variety show, a pre-recorded, low-budget, uncensored SNL, if you will. Skits were hit-or-miss (also like SNL), but they were always interesting, vulgar but smart, and obviously having tons of fun. I decided for the upcoming Christmas to ask my parents for a video camera.

Over the next two years E and I made about 50 sketches (with the help of our crew). We wrote our first (awful) screenplay and laughed harder with one another than either of us had before in life. We worked hard and often, and my mind’s generation of ideas seemed infinite in the absence of weed. I understand many other artists have the opposite experience, which is just one example of how one size can never fit all, whether with diet, medicine, or otherwise. Marijuana became as distant a memory as an ex-girlfriend you know you’d made the right decision about.

We became instant stars (within our crew). Everyone looked forward to seeing the next joint. We’d hold screenings at crew headquarters, and a subtle “sibling rivalry” even developed, i.e. Who do you like better? Q-Tip or Phife? Havoc or Prodigy, etc.? E or Sauce?I knew I could never compete with E, though others would occasionally say otherwise.

Sadly, I don’t think our friendship was as emotionally rewarding for him, but served as more of a temporary band-aid for his own inner turmoil. When we turned 21 E got more into alcohol and girls, and who could blame him? Girls loved him and he loved liquor, and apparently handled them both very well. I was slightly less tolerant of booze and much less attractive to the opposite sex, subsequently less enamored with the bar and party scene that didn’t seem to reflect the urban identity I’d always aspired to anyway. For the first time a divide had formed between my best friend and I that I didn’t know how to respond to. E would regularly wake me up in the middle of the night with drunken messages on my answering machine, often times a girl’s equally intoxicated laughter in the background; a live audio reminder of my un-coolness and unattractiveness, and worst of all, the inception of my falling out with my brother.

“Saaaaauce! Where are you, Sauce?

Hot, drunk girl: “Where are you Sauce?!”

“Come out, nigga, we miss you!”

Long pause, as I lay in the dark room staring at the answering machine, feeling 40 years old at 20, probably angry that I didn’t believe he really did miss me.

“Aight… pussy-ass nigga,” and I feared that he meant it, or that I agreed, or it was objectively true. 

Was I was a pussy-ass nigga?  

E became an alcoholic. He would black out and have episodes where he’d insult or try to fight me, spewing whatever resentments he apparently harbored in sobriety. I never knew how to respond, whether to laugh it off as brotherly jabs and repress the upset I felt, or react more alpha, consistent with the hip hop culture we’d all immersed ourselves in. Usually I’d get stuck in the middle, leaving me more confused and insecure in my identity than I had since freshman year high school. E’s behavior grew more erratic and I would shut down, unable to compete or keep up with his intoxicated mania that would occasionally embarrass me in front of mutual friends. After one such incident that took place in my room I looked out the window at the sun coming up on another drunken night and saw him and Tre still downstairs on 13thStreet, leaned up against Tre’s car smoking cigarettes. I was unable to fall asleep, too angry and hurt and unable to make peace with how insulted I felt. Finally, I ran downstairs with the intention of attacking and fighting him, but by the time I got to the block they were gone. I was glad it apparently wasn’t meant to be. Eventually my anger transformed into sadness, and although our tight knit crew continued to chill, our brotherhood was over. E was the worst best friend I’ve ever had.

As I sought to fill the void left by the video camera collecting dust in my closet, my college Film Writing teacher suggested to me: “There are other routes to success in entertainment besides improv skits. Have you ever tried stand-up?”

It sounded preposterous, and I was naïve enough to think my teacher must not have been aware of the shy little boy that still existed within me – also young enough to believe that shyness or anxiety are mutually exclusive to courage.

One year later I started dating a girl whose mom had been a heroin addict for 17 years. Over the course of our time together I heard many stories from both sides, of the hell Mom put her daughter through growing up. They were probably the biggest fans of my jokes I’d ever had, hysterically laughing at nearly everything I said and did, thus encouraging me with their loud Nuyorican flamboyancy. We dated just long enough for me to realize how funny I was, also how lucky I’d been to have the parents and opportunities I did. I was given everything (tangible) a human being could ask for. Why should I not pursue the most difficult thing in the world?

One night shortly after we’d broken up I stayed home to watch a Richard Pryor special, in hopes of lifting my spirits. Not only did it obviously achieve said goal, I was mesmerized by his ability. While on stage Pryor seemed to me to personify “alive.” He looked so free and engaged, so courageous and perfect in his proverbial dance with the crowd and his material. I watched him take risks and rule his space, all the while exhibiting the joy of a child, and thought to myself: That’s it. That is the perfect vessel by which to taste life. I had no choice. The following week one night while E was out drinking I hit my first open mic.

If you’ve never waited three hours to do three minutes for three angry people in a dimly lit room devoid of any energy then you’ve never lived. Actually you’ve never metaphorically died the comedy death that is most open mikes. Truly it is awful, piercing deeper into our souls than just performance nightmares, but as existential crises, stomping on our egos, leaving us with the indigestible knowledge that we can never get back those few minutes of life. For the moment all worry and doubt of our talents are replaced with a bittersweet conviction that we are in fact definitely wasting our time.

A number of comics seated gaps apart from one another around the periphery of the room, faces buried in their notebooks, preoccupied with their own creative agendas while your material through the microphone resonates as nothing more than white noise. Every joke seems to receive the same one or two laughs from the same two or three sweethearts, their sympathetic contrivances bouncing around the room, ironically transforming its tone from awkward to dismal. Once in a while pops in a more veteran comic, unforced to wait his turn and the nerds perk up, temporarily uncovering their faces to actually pay attention. Consistent with their greenness, laughter is given as automatically as it is from laypeople to the Chappelle’s and Seinfeld’s of the world. They either assume his punch lines to be funny before they arrive, are just desperately attempting to connect with the comic in any way, or both. As soon as the popular guy leaves you can practically hear the plunder of energy, the re-separation of attention, sighs plunging back into future discarded material and half-attention (at best) to the poor schlep forced to go next.

The only thing harder than performing for fellow comedians is performing for fellow comedians who are waiting to go on stage; and the only thing harder than that is performing for comedians who are waiting to go on stage and don’t know you enough personally to give your new banter any shred of credence. These are not real people, for all intents and purposes, which can make it impossible to get an accurate read on how your new material or yourself will ever be received by real people. Maria Shehata once posted a joke (on Facebook) I’ll never forget. Some well-built, grown man challenged her to punch him in the stomach as hard as she could. She did so, and caught him off guard with her strength. “He didn’t realize how many open mikes I’ve done.”

Wednesdays’ “Train Wreck” at The Parkside Lounge on Houston and Attorney St. was appropriately named. Located so distally on the outskirts of the Lower East Side, by the time I arrived I barely felt like I was any longer in New York, especially because the inside of it always reminded me of some Midwestern bar. Fat, old, white men in beards and plaid shirts lined most of the bar in front of a thin, buxom blonde who looked good only at first glance, the TV’s above her head showing sports highlights or the News. The occasional Bud Light-guzzling, 50-year old black guy walks by, his afro not at all kept to uphold any of the standards of contemporary urbanites. The jukebox played a lot of Lynard Skynard, or maybe it was just stuff I thought was Lynard Skynard, and my post-adolescent mind could do nothing but define myself via harsh (silent) judgment of it.

As if some illegal black market we partake in, the comedy room was located through a dark narrow hallway of bathrooms, then behind a curtain in the back room. Sign-up was at 5:30 with “showtime” at 6, and I can recall some weeks walking purposely slow to the venue so as to convince myself that I’d tried my best, but arrived too late for sign-up. The handful of times I braved to punctuality ended up being awful bombs of silence that ate at my core for the remainder of that night.

“Sauce, have you ever been racially profiled as a wigger?” the host once asked after my set, and everyone laughed for the first time since I’d gotten on stage.

I wasn’t prepared to feel so small and didn’t know if I should risk retorting. Instead I remained mum, and it reminded me of the drunken, belligerent insults I’d had to absorb from my best friend during the past year. I felt like the new kid being pointed and laughed at by all the other cookie-cutter students who’d known each other for years. I felt I was being made fun of by the lames for being different, but I had no way to prove so, and was unable to laugh at myself.

In my 15 years in comedy to come, at the Parkside was the only time I was heckled by a comic. It was an Indian girl, a bit older than me, a regular, familiar face in the front row, who interrupted midway through my set: “Do you know that you’re white?”

Her remark got only a couple of laughs from the room, I assumed because even if the majority appreciated her sentiment, her timing was inappropriate. You don’t heckle fellow comics.

“I do,” I responded to her, able to muster only a hint of sarcasm through my lack of confidence. She’d hit a nerve. As my blood boiled I quietly finished my set, minutes later walking home, cursing out the Indian girl, as well as myself, rationalizing that I was “too real,” too authentic, and the act of stand-up was too contrived for me. It wasn’t for me. I figured I’d return to improve. A few months would heal this wound, and eventually I made my way back in time for sign-up.

At home life was worse, as I’d made the mistake of moving in with E. Our dynamic was fractured, probably by both of our hatreds for him, and I’d completely lost track of my voice. I felt like I was always bombing. I had no confidence, no sense of identity, and practically walked on eggshells when E was home, for fear of being derided in a way that emasculated my vulnerable ego. I’d gone from expressing the best version of myself to the worst version of myself and it was the inception of my anxiety disorder: An overwhelming head rush that would come on either at random and linger throughout the day, or during acute moments of social anxiety. I had no idea how we’d gotten to this place, and at 23 years old even less of an idea of how to climb out of it.

I consider February 13, 2002 to be when I actually started doing comedy. It was a different open mike, Gladys’, on W. 46thSt. in Times Square, known to be “one of the better mikes” in town – a spot I’d already bombed at once the week before.

For some reason beyond my awareness, for the first time in my life I killed from the first sentence out of my mouth. Something must have clicked, or maybe it was just dumb luck of the first joke hitting then riding the wave of confidence instilled by the unanimous laughter. From start to finish the entire five minutes was an out of body experience, watching myself delivering my words and the crowd responding as if I knew what I was doing; almost reminiscent of how it feels to lose our virginity. It isn’t that we’re unable to enjoy the moment, but the experience is clouded by the mental joy for its significance. It is literally unbelievable.

As I walked on air to the back of the room, overhearing my name repeated into the microphone by the host and the sincere applause that followed, I was stopped by a tall, friendly black dude, Max.

“That was great, man.”

“Thanks.” This must be what happens when you don’t suck.  

“Are you available tomorrow night?” he asked.

Huh? “Sure,” I responded with a contrived calmness, and he booked me for a $25 spot on a Valentine’s Day show at some local bar in Castle Hill in the Bronx.

He’s gonna give me $25 to do comedy?! Literally 10 minutes ago I had under my belt about 15 shitty spots over the course of two years and no clue as to whether I could ever have a good one. Ha… sucker!

“Thanks, man, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

I invited Tre to the show, and it wasn’t only because he’s black. He was also my other roommate, had nothing else to do and a car, which would save me a late night train ride home from the Bronx (something I had no idea would be in store on a weekly basis for years to come). I purposely did not invite E – not that he would have come if I had �� but his presence would have made me that much more nervous. Instead, Tre was neutral.

The show was at a typical Castle Hill neighborhood bar, probably 60% Puerto Rican, 40% black, and one white person. Familiar hip hop blasted from the DJ booth as the majority of the patrons all fraternized and flirted, or freaked each other to the funky rhythms filling the fortress. How fun! A quaint little room, though not offensively so, the “stage” was set next to the bar and facing out to a handful of tables while the rest paralleled the bar traveling stage right.

The bouncer was friendly enough, and gratitude washed over me when I saw Max immediately after walking in the door. Like I’d just spotted my friends’ table in the school cafeteria, I gave him a pound and hug that I hoped everyone else in the room noticed. He greeted Tre and directed us to two empty seats at the bar, almost directly in front of the wooden box they’d be using as a stage. We ordered a couple of beers and I tried to act like I wasn’t terrified.

I was told I’d be going on second and instantly wished I could get up and walk around, go outside to pace, or just be anywhere besides the confined physical position I was in. I learned later in my career that I absolutely could have. Instead I sipped my beer and felt it mildly settle my nerves as I struggled to pay attention to one word anyone before me said. I remember a Puerto Rican comedian making a joke about my being the only white guy, though amiably padding it with a compliment and head nod of camaraderie. He had a decent set, and none of this had any impact whatsoever on my internal state. As he finished and Max came back up my panic set it, and I realized I wasn’t seated far enough way from the stage for this degree of nervous energy to be walked off.

As Max introduced me the DJ played the new hit single by Jadakiss and Bubba Sparxxx, a white rapper from down south (surely not a coincidence), and for some reason I felt like I’d look more nervous if I didn’t dance. My nerves produced some idiotic, upper body dance moves that had to be atrociously caught somewhere in between serious and mockery. I was a damned fool, surely looking as amateur as I did white, but I got lucky. The crowd bought my faux confidence, misinterpreting it as organic from this goofy white boy with whom they were too unfamiliar to detect the difference.

I did the same jokes as I had the night before, which was really the only jokes I had, which was five minutes about the perks of dating a girl who already had a boyfriend (the ex-heroin addict’s daughter). It was hacky and simple and delivered with a hokey animation, but for the setting it was perfect. Every joke hit even harder than the night before. I got laughs on set ups and punch lines, and in between bits even my defense mechanism persona of laissez faire facial expressions sent many of the women into hysterics. I “had them,” as we say, and it became fun. I was killing.

I’d never experienced anything like it before. Once killing, we reach a point where the crowd no longer cares how clever each joke is, but instead they’ve fallen in love with us. Who we are begins to shape our material instead of the material shaping who we are, and our listeners reward us with a benefit of doubt not dissimilar to what we get from close friends. I’m sorry to break the news, but this is also why it’s erroneous when laypeople take pride in having just “made the comedian laugh.” First, we’re not necessarily funnier than every non-comedian in the world. We’re just the ones who chose stand-up comedy as a pursuit. Second, and more to the point, in a social engagement there’s a good chance that welikeyou,your personality and energy. We might even love you and/or are warmly responsive. This doesn’t mean our laugh is sympathetic or your joke is not funny, but “making the comedian laugh” is not the equivalent of knocking out the boxer. In the exchange of humor the importance of connection cannot be overstated. I digress.

Tre and I stuck around until the end of the show, basking in my glory. Max paid me the $25 in cash, and it felt like $25,000 in my hand. I couldn’t believe someone had just given me money to do comedy, but even more appreciated were the pounds and hugs I received on my way out. I could feel Tre proudly walking behind me; also some of the women in the room eyeing me, and I didn’t want the night to end. I suggested to Tre that we go to Club Passion, downtown. “My treat!”

Club Passion was a ghetto strip club on 8thAvenue. For clarification purposes, “ghetto” strip club does not imply only the strippers’ ethnicity, but also the nature of the club. Instead of a traditional strip club setting, Passion functioned basically like a party filled with male customers and extremely forward, sexy women in thongs and lingerie whose job it was to “work the floor.” Whoever happened to be on the stage and pole at any given time was usually the least paid attention to, as fly girls were all over the room grinding on guys for dollars at a time; and most touching was permitted, if not encouraged.

It was one of the greatest nights of my life, instilling in me a pride and self-confidence that seemed to heal all of my wounds from my fractured friendship with E, and filled the void left by our defunct skit productions. His habits and lifestyle continued in the same direction but our friendship began to feel like a friendship again, mostly because I’d discovered in myself a strong sense of purpose and pride, and even my anxiety symptoms got a lot better and less frequent. I was a comic, better yet an “urban comic,” and (thought) I was good at it! I felt happy for the first time in two years, and we developed a new dynamic, where the student had sort of surpassed the teacher.

[proverbs1728]

Mental Health Awareness Week 2020

Mental Health Awareness Week is a great opportunity to promote wellbeing.  Mental Health Awareness is like health promotion - we are given information about what can make us poorly and how we can stay healthy.  

It’s not telling us what to do.  If it’s done right it is about making us aware of what might be helpful or harmful.  Then we can have a bit of control and, of course, we have some responsibility for doing what we can.

Mental health and physical health are closely linked.  One effects the other. Things like diet and exercise and smoking and alcohol and medicine are all part of our wellbeing.  

Mental and physical health can be affected by our environment, say pollution for instance.  There is strong evidence that our wellbeing is influenced by social factors like poverty, housing, employment and inequality.  These are some of the things we could be doing something about.

This year, the Mental Health Foundation has chosen ‘kindness’ as its theme for the awareness week.  I pricked up my ears when I heard this as it occurred to me that churches are places where kindness is something that can be found in abundance. Loving our neighbour is exactly our thing.  

The Mental Health Foundation has an excellent website and it says

“Kindness can have real benefits for our mental health and wellbeing.’  They did a substantial online survey with yougov in April of 2020.  63% of UK adults agree that when other people are kind it has a positive impact on their mental health.  The same proportion agree that being kind to others has a positive impact on their mental health.

What I take from this is that as individuals, groups, parishes and dioceses have a great deal to offer.

Let me set out my stall.  As an Approved Mental Health Professional, I am the person who makes the decision about whether a person with a mental disorder is deprived of their liberty.  

It isn’t an easy job and you couldn’t do it without coming away wondering if you have made the right decision.  I will never forget a night when, as a trainee, I walked down the corridor at the Bradgate Unit with a woman who was to be detained.  During that day I had heard about her experience of sexual abuse as a young person.  Many, many years later she had children and was married to a man who worked for a high profile accountancy firm.  

She had taken an overdose and was in the Royal Infirmary threatening to discharge herself so that she could take her own life.   While I walked down the corridor with her I felt that this was a very poor response in a situation of desolation and desperation.  

 I am a provider of mental health services but, twenty years ago, I was an in- patient consumer of them as well.

It’s quite hard to say this.  My head says ‘why, what’s the problem?’ but my heart feels strangely ashamed. I just wanted to say to you that I know how it feels to be told to smoke less or drink less or get more exercise. Back then I could not see how this might help and, frankly, it added to my sense that I wasn’t really being listened to.

 Now then.  Covid 19 and the lockdown have made life difficult. I keep hearing people talking about things getting back to normal.  Folks are looking forward to watching the football, going out for a meal, gathering for worship.   We mourn for the comfortable world from which we have been exiled.  We weep as we remember Zion.

As for me; I’m very keen on folk music and dancing.  Lots of events and gatherings have been cancelled and so lots of seasonal encounters with folky friends have been missed this year.

I’ve been working from home, queueing for my shopping, not able to visit my family or friends.  My holiday in France had to be cancelled.  An appointment for very minor surgery was postponed.

For many people the consequences have been very much more serious. People have lost their jobs. Others have not been able to receive the treatment they need for painful and life-threatening illness.  Families have been separated.  Many people have been confined to a life of loneliness and isolation.  Some have died.  Many are bereaved.  Lock down has reminded us that we have many things to be thankful for.  

Now I want to ask, is normal all is cracked up to be?  I have some statistics for you.  I’m not trying to convince you of anything except to say that we have a high tolerance level when it comes to some things that are ‘normal’.

The average person living in Europe loses two years of their life to the health effects of breathing polluted air.  

Normal is twenty eight thousand street homeless people (according to the BBC)

Normal is that 70.9 million prescriptions for antidepressants were given out in 2018 (there were 36 million in 2008).

There were nearly 50,000 detentions to psychiatric hospital were made under the MHA in the year 2018 / 2019

Approximately 1 in 4 people in the UK will experience a mental health problem each year.

In England, 1 in 6 people report experiencing a common mental health problem (such as anxiety and depression) in any given week.

I could go on and on: addiction, crime, violence, painting a bleak picture. Actually, part of what the statistics tell us it that normal is ok for most people most of the time.  Five out of six of us won’t experience a common mental health problem this week.  We won’t be victims of abuse or lose our jobs.  

I suppose that’s why we can get along with normal.  As a species and especially, apparently, as a nation we like to carry on as though things are normal, even when they aren’t.  We take statins, stimulants, anti-depressants, consume alcohol, blood pressure pills, sleeping tablets.  

I noticed an advert on the tv the other day.  Two blokes, who live next door to each other, go for a night out and get indigestion.  One of the men has an effective, and no doubt expensive, remedy, which means he can start the process over again the next morning.

I’m not knocking normal.  I just want you to think about it a bit.  What then is it like if things aren’t normal?

The lockdown has shown us the world in a different light.  Does anybody remember birdsong being so abundant and so sweet before?  I used to be able to hear the M1 from my back garden but now it’s just birdsong.  Were the birds singing before and I just couldn’t hear them?

Air pollution has dipped.  The water is cleaner.  It’s quieter. Road traffic has diminished to 1955 levels.  People have volunteered to help the NHS in their hundreds of thousands.  £33m raised by Captain, soon to be Sir, Tom Moore. I’m also hearing people saying we mustn’t go back to normal.

But not being normal also means being different.  Different, like being a woman in a male working environment, like not having English as your first language, like being a member of the LGBT+ community in a heterosexually orientated world, like being a wheelchair user in a world of steps and stairs.  Being reminded that you are different all the time is to feel excluded, like you are not wanted.  Never at home.

And not being normal is, pretty much, how mental illness or ‘mental disorder’ is defined. But normality has changed and so being abnormal has too. It took until the nineteen seventies for western psychiatry to decide that to be ‘homosexual’ was not a mental illness.

The diagnosis of mental illness is different.  There is no objective test, as there is for say, polio or meningitis.  The presence of mental illness is identified by reference to a manual of classification.

This is difficult so please stay with me!

I quote from the International Classification of Diseases, ‘The phenomena used to diagnose schizophrenia include thought echo; thought insertion or withdrawal; thought broadcasting; delusional perception and delusions of control; influence or passivity; hallucinatory voices commenting or discussing the patient in the third person; thought disorders and negative symptoms.’  

The doctor will make a diagnosis based on their interpretation of your symptoms.  You could have several people with different sets of symptoms but the same diagnosis.  Then another psychiatrist makes a different diagnosis.  This happens a lot.

The treatment is anti-psychotic medication, which has serious side effects.  Some additional observations here.  One from a clinical psychologist, who said that knowing somebody’s diagnosis is about as useful as knowing their star sign.  

Another writer, who has extensively researched anti-psychotic medication, suggests that you will get tardive dyskinesia, which is a bit like parkinson’s disease if you take anti-psychotics long term and that you are better off living with the psychosis than taking the medication.  Sometimes I can’t tell if the behaviour of the person I am working with is caused by the illness or the medication.

I have endless respect for my psychiatrist colleagues.  We can discuss treatment and plans.  They bring their perspective and I bring mine.  We get input from SALT and OT and nurses and psychology.

The treatment of mental illness is problematic because what is needed is time and space and that’s what we don’t have. The approach is driven by necessity, usually a crisis.  We always seem to be firefighting.

The speed of life increases, social pressures increase and mental illness goes up too. We don’t have the resources or, as far as I can fathom, the will to sort out some of the social problems that contribute to mental disorder.  

In a very large nutshell, this is how mental disorder works.  It’s called the biopsychosocial model.

The biological factors are your genes, brain chemistry, immune response, environmental toxins and soforth

Psychological factors are attitudes and beliefs, learning and memory, coping and emotional skills.

Social factors are work, education, poverty, things like that

Each of us has strengths and weaknesses in these areas and different tolerance levels.  

Some people cope with working and parenting and exercising and not smoking or drinking and burning the candle at both ends and they cruise their way through life.

Some people don’t.  Some people work hard and look after family and they do this for years and then suddenly it comes crashing down.

Some people experience poor mental health from an early age, the opportunities diminish, the treatment takes its toll.  There are combinations of all the above, as many as you can think of.  

Since the latter part of the twentieth century there has been a move away from specialist provision like day care and long stay hospitals and much more of a move towards looking after people in their own homes.   Sadly, we have now lost the concept of asylum.  The huge Victorian hospitals with their acres of parkland have been replaced by pokey little units commissioned and designed by people who never imagined being looked after in one themselves

As in other health services there has been a move to help people to manage their own support and treatment. The focus is on developing insight and living with the condition.  Attitudes to mental illness are more positive than they were last century but people with mental health problems still experience significant discrimination and prejudice.

 Back to normality.  In 1983, 66% of the population describes themselves as Christian.  To be Christian in the UK was to be normal.    In 2018, 38% of the population described themselves as Christian and 12% of these Anglican.  

When I left school in 1983, it was nearly normal to be an Anglican. Nowadays, it’s not normal at all! Brothers and sisters you are beautifully equipped to take this forward.  You are kind and you are abnormal.

 What do we have to do?  We have to be kind to ourselves and to other people.  The covid virus has been awful for lots of people.  It has been incredibly stressful for health and social care workers.  It has been incredibly stressful for people who have been forced into isolation. There has been an increase in domestic violence.  Who knows how much people are drinking.  Non accidental injuries to children have increased.  Services for homeless people, housing and benefits advice, drop ins closed. There is going to be a backlash. We were going to be clearing up for a long time and things won’t be the same.

Let’s be kind.  Let’s be good Samaritans.  The Mental Health Foundation has produced some lovely resources.  There is no point in listing it all here.  Get on their website.  Share it electronically.  You’re all internet savvy else you wouldn’t be here.  It would be great if you could print some of this stuff off and share it safely with friends who are not on line.  

There are so many suggestions but I think we should be getting on the phone to our friends and families.  There are people I haven’t spoken to for soooo long.  Get on the phone.  Talk to people.  Pray with them.  When I have a minute I’m going to write a letter.  I’d love to get a letter with a stamp and ink and everything.

My suspicion is that we are good at being kind to other people but not so good at being kind to ourselves.  Make some me time.  I know that it goes against the grain for many people.  Take time just to be silent and pray for just a few minutes during the day. Do things you enjoy.  Do something different, change your routine, just to see what it feels like.

Relax and reflect on how you’re feeling and how your day or week has been.

Pray and meditate.

Turn off from your social media channels for a day (or even a week).

Stop watching the news (although it is ok to have ‘Today’ on when Bishop Guli does ‘Thought for the Day’).

Treat yourself to something small, such as buying or planting some flowers. 

Spend some time in nature – pray outside.

And check how you are feeling.  Get in touch with the doctor if you need to.  Talk it through with a friend or call the helpline 0808 800 3302

 Moving forward, the church is equipped to support people who have mental health problems.  We have space, we have tea and we have compassion in abundance.   I would really like you to go and think about how the church can help to support people to stay out of hospital and to get them out more quickly.

There is evidence indicating that the opportunity to practice your faith and contact your faith community is central to recovery and good mental health.  We need to be talking to our local mental health trust to see what is needed. There are beacons of good practice and so we need to ensure that we know what’s going on in our locality so’s not to replicate or dilute good stuff that’s going on.

We need to think about how we welcome people who may be experiencing poor mental health when they come to church.  Are we welcoming? Are we overbearing?  Is there a message about mental health coming from the pulpit?  In intercessions?  Perhaps you could offer support to causes that would benefit wellbeing, showing our community that the church has many of the same concerns and putting our shoulders to the wheel.

 To conclude.  My wife and the cat and I have born isolation reasonably stoically.  It has been like being in a tiny little ark, locked into our bubble while we watch the world drowning in chaos.  When we went for a walk, I was struck by the number of rainbows; in windows, on the pavement.  And I remembered

“ Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth.”

So God said to Noah, “This is the sign of the covenant I have established between me and all life on the earth.”

And when I hear the birdsong I think maybe God has been present all along but I just didn’t notice in the busyness of daily life.