#talking about shit in counselling and like. processing & coming to terms with the fact that I think i'm autistic

[byanyan]

ahahahaha... tfw you come to the realization that you've created a character who is loudly and unapologetically themself bc you are terrified to be yourself... where you internalize everything, they externalize everything...

[seraphdreams]

https://www.tumblr.com/seraphdreams/734650996278558720/hey-seraph-i-know-i-vented-to-you-about-some

Thanks for letting me vent. It means alot to me. And thanks for showing your boundaries as well. If I ever make you uncomfy please let me know. Its also gonna be really long so I hope you don't mind.

It's just that I've been feeling alot more blue since the wedding becuase its just that ever little noise my (POS) younger brother has been making to trigger like roughly barging into my door so that it jiggles and stomping around for the same effect. Its gotten to a point where I can no longer differtiate between the two. Like he hasn't externally been bothering but he's been doing sly shit like slamming himself against my doorknob to jiggle it (what's the word?) And its not even rough its just softly enough to trigger me. And then hes been coming in to the room I'm in, looking at me as if I'm worth less than the scum is his shoe and leaving and after he's already triggered me in just put even lower in terms of mood and self esteem and he's made me feel like I wa sshit and that I have nothing good about me. And he even did it yesterday when I was trying to sleep and he was rocking back and forth and it was really triggering and I wanted to bang on the wall but I was afraid of him and I didn't want to fight him becisse I was afaird of him banging on my door and the general backlash which could cause a fight pulling my hair out (he does that during fights) and he's always just provking me to try snd fight him just so that he can beat me up. And then there's the fact that I cant talk to nobody about it bc my therapist discharged me for three months (that's their policy) and I'm still on the waiting list for counselling and I can't talk to my mum bc she dont fully understand or says that he doesn't (as much as I love her to bits) and I can't talk with my sister bc the last time I ranted to her about ruining my plans we got into an argument and I blocked her. And then on top of that I traumadumped my sisters best friend (who was my designated friend for the day) becuase she knew about the family drama and I thought it was safe to tell her and I also told her about being flirted with by a guy but I thought it was a joke and she reassured me (said that I was above average - beautiful black girl tm) but then she said that I was insecure and constantly looking for validation which alot of girls don't like and even guys and it makes me realise that I do it alot. And I just keep reacting and giving him a reaction bc I get triggered easily and I just don't know how to properly articulate what I'm feeling bc nobody in my family will even listen to me and even say that I'M the one terrifying him. And I talked with teachers and counsellors about it but they just say that all siblings fight like that.

Can you give me advice on how not give him a reactions. Or how to cope with his bullshit. Also what do I do if I am reacting. Sorry for dumping his on you, I just need someone to tell who will listen and not dismiss me.

i just want to say i’m sorry that all of this is happening and people should not be dismissing you especially the ones that are there to help you. that’s no “sibling fight” that’s straight up abuse. and though i’m not well versed on the subject of siblings, i just think that to stop giving a reaction you should stop caring. if i do remember correctly, you said your brother was younger? in that case, it’s futile to give into him since he’s younger and not important.

let’s switch the narrative here — instead of thinking that you’re the problem, think of his behavior. people who are happy with themselves don’t ruin others’ day. in conclusion, he’s just bitter and acting like a child and in that case he needs to grow up. his actions don’t reflect you.

now all of this won’t happen in a day, and if you find yourself reacting just remember that it’s normal in the healing process to fall back, but that just means you gotta push two steps forward. also find things to distract you or rewire your brain from reacting. when you find him provoking you, just think of something else besides his annoyances. something that makes you happy or calms you down. or just switch your focus to a whole new task/topic

[alaffy]

Riverdale 5x13 - Reservoir Dogs (Spoilers)

Quite an episode.  And without Jughead for two weeks.  But I’m guessing that’s because a lot of next week’s episode is going to be Jughead heavy and Cole was probably filming that during this time.  First off, I want to say again how I appreciate how seriously Riverdale is taking the issue of PTSD in soldiers and how, in the US, not enough is done to help them when they return.  

I will also say that, while I wasn’t thrilled with Frank returning at first, I’m starting to change my mind.  What I like about him is that he’s a former soldier, he knows exactly what’s going on.  But it feels different then Fred.  Fred was a father teaching his son, with Frank…it’s sort of fatherly, but it’s not as much teaching in that it’s…counseling?  I’m not sure how to explain it.  

 I’m not too surprised that Bingo was actually a human.  In fact, this reminds me of the last Episode of the old M.A.S.H. tv series, which I’m sure was the point.  And it’s no surprise that Archie, not being able to handle the fact that he has to leave someone to die, isn’t able to process that and so his mind changes Bingo into something else, something he can handle a little better.  It’s not unheard of.  And I’m actually interested in where this is going. 

Cheryl’s, and now Kevin’s, storyline…I’m a little uneasy with.  There is a reason for this, but I’m not convinced that my reason is the reason they’re going for so I’m going to skip this for now. Also, Veronica and Reggie start a business (is she still teaching?).

 And, finally, there’s the Betty and Tabitha's storyline.  So, I noticed people saying that they actually haven’t put a name to what’s going on, that these are sex workers being killed.  I do find that interesting, but it’s also could be because of some censer rule that I don’t know about (Oh, you can’t say sex worker on a teen show at 7pm or some stupid shit like that).  But it is very clear that they are going for a storyline that shows how sex workers are seen as disposable in society.  The truckers know the girls are missing, they don’t care.  Hiram knows there are bodies in his swamp, he doesn’t care.  Glen, when Betty first brought this to his attention, brushed it off as a few girls with problems.  In this episode, when Betty pretends to solicit the truck driver, it turns out to be a sting operation. Now, obviously, Betty pretending to be an FBI agent is wrong (although wouldn’t they have taken her badge when they quit?) and she is extremely lucky that they didn’t arrest her for pretending to be an officer. But Betty is right about one thing.  She is right in her statement on how Glen is treating this case. Why? Because instead of focusing on truckers who solicit sex workers, he’s more interested in entrapping and arresting the sex workers.  Because, of course, if the sex workers weren’t there, there wouldn’t be a problem right?  It’s a great way to assure a community that you’re dealing with a problem, without doing a damn thing.   

This leads into several bad choices Betty makes tonight.  Look, I’m going to say this, I don’t have a problem with Betty and Tabitha trying to find the killer as it is clear no one else truly is.  And I can understand why Betty has problems believing that law enforcement will be able to help or even care to help when they catch the trucker.  If you go back into the first few seasons, there are several times where Betty does actually turn to the police or an authority figure for help, only to be ignored (Keller, Alice) or to find out the authority is already compromised (Weatherby).  And, yes, she always skirted the line between right and wrong in previous seasons (because the whole show is about the morally grey area) …but clearly her methods are out of control, she’s putting herself and others in danger and she is taking the law into her own hands. So why is Betty doing this?  

Folks, I cannot stress how much Roberto said this season is about trauma.  And, yes, women can experience trauma and they can experience PTSD.  And before anyone says they know that, well after some of the comments I’ve seen recently, I’m beginning to question if some people do.  Betty was trapped in a hole for two weeks, basically waiting for a man to kill her (her story could also be a lot worse, I’m just hoping that the story doesn’t go there).  And sometimes, like Betty, people don’t get the help they need for their trauma.   That’s not to say that nobody’s tried, but their methods aren’t working.  And the way Betty talked in her therapy sessions?  It doesn’t sound like she has come to terms with the fact that she was a victim, or rather, that it’s ok for her to be a victim. That while she may have made a mistake, that doesn’t excuse or justify what happened to her. Understanding that being a victim is not shameful or your fault is the first step in surviving.  So, instead of having the emotional breakthrough she needs to heal from what happened, Betty is fighting her demons by going after the same type of person who hurt her.  Again, she is doing it in the worse way possible, but she can’t see that.  I guess the best way to put it is that Betty is, mentally, still in that hole and in a perpetual survival mode.  Her sister’s survival, the women’s survival, her survival…kind of one in the same.   And when you’re in survival mode, yeah any method sounds reasonable to you. Anyway, it looks like 

Jughead and Archie will be getting help next week, so I’m hoping that Betty does too.  

[veryvincible]

If tony meets the criteria for ocd, why do you still say he doesn't have it? Not disagreeing just curious

Disclaimer again: I am not a mental health professional, I am simply a mental health advocate with many years of research under my belt, as well as lots of firsthand experience with the diagnostic process and other mental health-related incidences with the medical field (in America specifically). So, as always, feel free to look into it yourself if you’re interested in it, because there’s always discourse in the (very messy) field of psychology. Anyway, on we go.

The thing to remember here is that, with fictional characters, we don’t get to delve into their minds as much as we’d like to; internal monologue, as deep and complex and beautiful as it can be, is still a collection of words to define a mass of feelings, and these masses of feelings can be attributed to so, so many things. When a therapist diagnoses you, they get to ask funky questions like, “Do you feel like your thoughts and concerns spiral, and you’re helpless to stop them?” “Thinking back to your childhood, do you think you exhibited similar symptoms that you’re experiencing currently?” “Do you, personally, have an opinion about what may have been a catalytic event for you adopting this state of mind?” and all sorts of things. Though those are much more formally put than most questions I’ve been asked by therapists, the gist is basically the same-- they get to deep dive into your history, your mind, your self-awareness, your body language, your feelings... and you’re one cohesive person with a cohesive story. 

For comic book characters, we don’t get to delve into that. We don’t get to go, “Well, his childhood was like this, and that explains these behaviors! We can assume his panic response is Like This, and we can assume his attachment style is Like This, and we can assume his symptoms are Like This, and we can assume he feels Like This,” but those are all assumptions, and we can’t probe further. On top of that, most of them aren’t even intentional-- sure, yes, Tony Stark is a very sad man, and most writers make him this very sad man, but I can guarantee that most writers aren’t specifically looking into MDD and writing Tony accordingly. Some may be drawing from personal experience, others may be drawing from assumptions, etc. Whatever the case, Tony is not a cohesive man with a psychological timeline wherein one event leads to a developed response, consistently.

Above all else, diagnosis is a tool for treatment-- yes, it is excellent to be able to better understand yourself and feel the relief that comes along with this, but diagnosis came into being for the sake of medical professionals being able to say, “Hm, you’ve got [whatever]. I will go tell the other doctor you’ve got [whatever], so that guy can help you, because he specializes in [whatever], or you can try these home remedies for [whatever], or we can delve into [whatever] emotionally with talk therapy.”

Because diagnosis is a tool for treatment, you get these funky little footnotes in the DSM (which, again, is not the end-all, be-all, but when it comes to fictional characters, it’s totally fine) and other diagnostic tools that tell you “Even if you meet all these criteria, this diagnosis isn’t necessary if these symptoms would be better explained by something else!” because treating you for every psychological condition you qualify for could be rough on your body, it could end up with conflicting treatments (especially if you make incorrect assumptions, or if certain symptoms are stemming from different physiological factors despite appearing the same externally), and it’s just kind of tedious.

Like, you could potentially exhibit every symptom under the diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety, but if you have severe PTSD from long-term trauma that’s made you super jittery, it might be accepted that Generalized Anxiety wouldn’t be the best diagnosis for you, because ideally the treatment you’d receive for PTSD (trauma counseling, medication, etc.) would help with that.

I will say here that having an “umbrella diagnosis” under which other potential diagnoses could fall is not the same thing as having comorbid disorders; you probably know that already, but I’m going to say it anyway, just in case. Comorbidity involves overlap but separation of diagnoses, whereas the whole “Don’t diagnose your patient with [whatever disorder] if these symptoms are better explained by another thing!” happens more often when the entirety of one potential diagnosis fits under a section of another, more fitting diagnosis. So, if you see anyone with very long lists of diagnoses (probably don’t put big lists like that in your bios, though, please-- that seems kind of dangerous), that’s not a sign that they’re, like, mental illness-hoarding or whatever the fuck, despite that being a very common assumption that a lot of neurotypical people (and honestly, other mentally ill people) can have. Bodies like to be balanced. When one thing falls out of place, a lot of other things might follow. Just a disclaimer for you here, because I feel it’s important to say.

So, that covers... most of the reason why I don’t personally like to point to Tony as a character with OCD. First of all, sure, he has what could be considered obsessions and what could be considered compulsions, but we can’t actually ask him, “Hey, do you think these thoughts are obsessive? Are these potential compulsions things you perform ritualistically in order to make the obsessive thoughts go away?”

And... I don’t know. I think OCD (for me, specifically-- I know there are others with OCD whose opinions differ, and more power to them) is something that has to be written more intentionally for it to read as representation. Sure, they might have what could be intrusive thoughts... but my intrusive thoughts don’t just feel like thoughts that “could” be intrusive. They are intrusive, unmistakably. My compulsions don’t just feel like solutions to the problems I’ve made up or exaggerated in my head; they’re irrational, fear-based, anxiety-inducing. It’s the way you make sure every upstairs door is closed before heading downstairs, because otherwise you get a tightness in your chest and you can’t focus or breathe quite right; or the way you get up out of bed to make sure your door is locked multiple times just in case you forgot; or the way you develop avoidant tendencies or overly communicative tendencies because if you don’t, the ramifications within your relationships could be unbearable. It’s having a voice inside your head that’s not just telling you you’re a monster, the perfect antithesis to everything you’ve ever held dear; it’s a voice inside your head that is the monster, a voice that sounds the same as your own, simultaneously overprotective of your well-being and overly interested in the total destruction of your person.

And... I’m not saying Tony doesn’t experience that. He clearly has this feeling of “I am a monster” inside of him. He clearly has that feeling due to what he perceives as his own shortcomings. But these are comic books, and though there are many ways you could introduce intrusive thoughts in an internal monologue, we don’t really get that with Tony as much as I’d need to in order to feel represented by him. We don’t get him thinking shit like, “You could abandon this all, you could leave this shit to the rest of the team, you could fuck off and live on an island somewhere else, you could hole yourself up in a room and never leave, you could kill them, you could kill him, you could kill everyone, you know for a fact you have the resources to kill everyone, don’t you want to make sure? What if your tech fails? What if you do kill everyone? What would happen, huh? How would that look? How would that feel? What do you think it would feel like to pick up their bodies, to look in their eyes and have nothing staring back at you? You could tell him you hate him. Not to save him from you, no-- you could just do it because you’re able to do it, because you’ve cultivated these relationships and you’ve fooled everyone into loving you despite knowing you don’t deserve it. You’ve tricked them, and every day you continue on like this you’re manipulating them, and you’ve taken so much from them-- they’ve put so much of themselves in your hand that you could so, so easily crush if you just took a second and did it.”

... And we don’t get the accompanying monologue of, “No, god no, what the fuck, that’s not who I am, that’s not who I want, I’m not like that, I love them, that can’t be who I am, if that’s who I am then what does that say about me, what does that say about the space I take up, what does that make me?”

Which is where the OCD version of “I am a monster” tends to originate-- the inherent inability to separate oneself from the illness, the difficulty in coping with an overactive survival mechanism ready to ensure you’re prepared for every single thing that could go wrong, very specifically the things you’re most worried about, because that’s what matters, right? The things you’re worried most about. And Tony’s most worried about love, about his loved ones, about the planet, about life.

But “I am a monster” doesn’t imply that internal monologue. “I am a monster” could be a legitimate analysis of what he’s been through and what he’s done, clouded by self-loathing instilled in him by his father. “I am a monster” could be something he’s thought since he was younger, not because of any specific symptoms he developed, but because of what he was told-- because he was told he was wrong, bad, unlovable.

I think Tony could get there. I think I honestly may have written Tony there at some point, just because it’s easy to write for me. But if we’re following standard diagnostic procedures with a man on a page who really hasn’t been written intentionally with anything other than substance abuse, symptoms of PTSD, and depression... I don’t know. It doesn’t read like OCD to me. It doesn’t feel like OCD to me, and if at any point it did, I think that would be more of me filling in blanks with my own experiences than it would be anything else.

(There is one canonical instance of “I could kill this person right now if I wanted to!” level intrusive-ish thoughts I can think of off the top of my head, and that is in the most recent Iron Man run, and that also doesn’t read like OCD to me because, honestly, nothing Cantwell writes with regards to mental health seems natural or authentic or accurate. Also, I don’t know if it really qualifies as an intrusive thought if it feels more like a justified outburst of rage to the character thinking it, so, uh. Hmm.)

[fairycosmos]

chloe what do you do when you feel really suicidal? but like not like before- but NOW that you are grieving such a painful loss? dont need to answer but i read your a. to the anon that felt trapped and like they couldnt leave now bc their sibling died too and like you and that anon i feel the same. im so so suicidal chloe. i cry every day and night and i feel despertate but my parents just lost their child so. how do you cope... as much as its possible. what do we do? fuck.

dude i am so sorry you're in the same position as me and you are going to hate me for saying it but there is no satisfactory answer 😔 it's a cruel joke. we're in the worst pain we've ever been in, and our instinct is to want to make that stop. but we can't because now we're obligated to stay alive, where all the hurt is, because we're one of the only ones left. and we dont want to cause more of this feeling by ending it all. it's like a contract you didn't agree to and are now trapped in for the foreseeable. grief is the absolute heaviest thing a person can carry, it's a fucking nightmare. it doesn't make any sense, it doesn't have a cure and it's disorienting as fuck. it's ok to be exhausted by it. reality has been irreparably  worsened and it's an absolute tragedy,  it's completely unfair. personally i'm more suicidal than i've ever been, but like you, i know i'm not going to do anything.  and in moments of great pain, where i want to act on those thoughts, i find myself coming back to that fact. i watch the idea of suicide run its course through my head and then i acknowledge the reality of things, that i can't leave. that it doesn't matter how sad i am and how tired i am, because i'm still here, and processing these emotions is a part of that. the urge to kill myself is there, but the actual act of suicide has never been less of an option than it is right now. so i can feel whatever i need to feel, but there's no point leaning into it or daydreaming about it. because it's not going to happen. sometimes i'm screaming and crying to myself in absolute agony while this is all going on, and sometimes i'm just sitting staring at my phone, numb. the desperation is very real, and i understand that. but it is not as urgent as it feels in the moment. no matter how many times i think i'm at my limit, i know that there's going to be tomorrow. and at the moment that sounds like a really bad thing. but i know that by waking up my parents aren't getting a call saying i'm dead, which for now is kind of the whole point. i am living to minimize their trauma, i am living for them, and an optimist would have hope that that could keep me alive long enough until i get to the point where i can eventually live for myself again. i could definitely see that for your future, even if you can't. the thing is you don't have to know what to do and you dont have to look for ways to fill the void that has been left behind by your sibling. you just have to learn to exist alongside it, and i do mean just exist. as awful as it is. waking up, putting one foot in front of the other, crying and crying and crying. that is good enough. i know it doesn't feel like much of a life, but. it's the short term answer, or so it seems to me. another thing i remind myself of is how it all comes in waves. waves are the nature of both grief, and strong suicidal urges. maybe they're always running in the background, but the moments of pure despair where you feel like you're bursting at the seams, they're so strong and harsh that they flare out faster than you realize. and they feel unbearable, and i know those moments are very frequent when you're in our position, but it's good to remember that the intensity of their nature makes them temporary.  especially if the grief is fresh, every little thing triggers an avalanche of hopelessness.  but some part of me believes these experiences will either a. become less persistent with time or b. become a part of us we learn how to navigate.  at the moment, the simple act of being completely broken by these episodes means you're surviving them. i think it's not a matter of knowing how to cope, but knowing that if you're here to ask these questions - what do i do, how do i go on, etc - then that is proof you have been coping. and it probably doesn't feel like you have been. i think there's a common misconception that coping is thriving, letting go, having positive memories. and sure that's a part of it. but there is a lot of darkness and absolute horror to work through before that. additionally,  there is no rule book on how exactly to work through it. theres just time, experience, learning what works for you and hanging on. i'm trying to hold my own hand through it, i'm trying to look at the present moment i'm in and just think about what i need at that very second.  not what i'm going to do tomorrow, not what i should've done yesterday, but what i have to do right now to make it through.  a lot of the time the answer is nothing, and i just sit and stare or cry, because like i said, ultimately nothing can fix it. theres no epiphany that can change what happened. 

as far as practical things you can to do combat suicidal thoughts goes, i have a few suggestions that i really hope you consider as viable choices: talk to your doctor/therapist - idk where you live or what your financial situation is like, but if it's at all an option i would really urge you to seek professional help. at least let your GP know what you're dealing with so maybe they can refer you to a therapist, or give you some mental health resources. grief counselling is also a step in the right direction. having someone to talk to and implementing positive coping mechanisms into your day to day life, even if it's the last thing on earth you want to do, can work wonders. understanding your own suicidal thoughts, why you react the way you do and what you can do about it, can really come in handy when you're breaking down. it's ok to reach out. it's ok to visit different counsellors until you find one that fits you. it's ok to treat your emotional turmoil as seriously as you'd treat any physical disease. there is always support and treatment options available in some form, and it is always worth looking into.

call a (grief or suicide) hotline - i've had the hotline number open in my browser for days. if you are in a moment of crisis, it can absolutely help to have someone talk you through your emotions, listen to your pain, and then give you some gentle recommendations as to what you should do next or where to go from here. you don't have to tell them your name, you don't have to say anything you don't want to say. you're in control of the call and they care about keeping you going. you're not alone. theres also online grief support groups - i'm in a sibling loss group on fb.  it's absolutely crazy how many people are in this position. 

talk to your parents/family/friends - i know saying 'this is a tough one' is a giant understatement.  idk if it's the same for you, but i've been isolating to cope and i don't want to tell anyone what i'm thinking because they're already having such a hard time grieving my sister. but if there's anyone you trust, i just want you to know it's alright to lean on them. it's up to you how much you open up, but the urge to keep to yourself leads nowhere. those around you can relate (to an extent) with your grief, and sharing it, talking about memories and crying together - it's fucking awful, god it's the worst thing ever, but it's necessary. and i don't want to say it helps, but a shared burden is always better than trying to shoulder it alone. you deserve to be listened to and supported. and if you think you're being an inconvenience to your loved ones, that's your inner self hatred talking. they would likely rather be there for you when you need it, than have you harm yourself because you kept it all pent up. it's a lot easier said than done, but it's important to keep in mind that it's an option.

try to create a safe space - try to remove things from your living space you could use to harm yourself with, and make the environment as comforting as possible. refer back to safe coping mechanisms/ distractions that have worked in the past - this can be as simple as going for a walk, watching stupid shit on your phone, meditation, having a crying session, writing to your sibling or just about how you feel in general. these are not suggestions that will solve anything or cure mental illness by any stretch of the imagination.  they just get you out of your head. that can really make a difference. 

create a crisis plan and learn what triggers you - this is a bit of a process but that's alright. being able to identify what sets you off, and being able to recognize your own toxic thinking patterns/behaviours, is the first step towards combatting them. another idea is, if you do end up talking to a loved one or a mental health professional, come up with a plan with them regarding what they should do when you're suicidal and your judgement is impaired. you can even start by just making one for yourself, like writing down a few suggestions as to what you should do when you're in a crisis, what your other options besides suicide are. 

i think that's all i've got right now. i'm sorry this got so long, especially when i know nothing truly helps. i just know what it's like having all this useless life in front of you that you're going to have to fight through without the one person who always should've been there. i keep thinking about what she'd say to me if she could see me, and i know she'd be livid if i threw my life away, but. that doesn't change the fact that she didn't get to live hers, and that i miss her so so much it aches. i keep coming back to the idea that our relationship will continue to grow beyond  death. i can still talk to her, reminisce  with her, understand her, love her. so much of this reality was shaped by her. it's not the same as when she was here, but it's not total absence  either.  anyway, i'm so so sorry for your loss and i hope you can just focus on taking care of yourself, love. because your life still has so much worth and you deserve to see your own future even if you cant stand the thought. moments of happiness and peace are still 100% possible. it's just never going to feel like it did before. and it's ok if you spend the rest of your life struggling to come to terms with that fact, because at least you got to live the rest of your life. i'm sending so much love to you and i'll be here if you need a friend. one day at a time.

*no pressure to read all this you can just refer back to it whenever you feel the need

[sadsapphicslut]

chapter one - original story (i havent come up with a title yet lol)

okay so here it is!! if anyone actually reads this i love u :) please leave feedback if u have any!! 

TWs:

death, drugs, medication, mental illness, references to sex, swearing, alcohol

wordcount: 8.2k

(also i dont think anyone will but im paranoid of people stealing my writing so obligatory dont copy/post to another site or steal my work in any other ways etc)

There were five of us; 4 boys and me. In hindsight I realize from the outside our group probably seemed a little predatory, but it was never really like that. For the most part they were like brothers to me. Of course, being the only girl in a small and isolated club of mainly older boys, things were bound to happen. We were in high school and it was summer, can you blame me? Regardless, however much I loved them, it was not quite in the way my father always assumed or my mother always warned (during our uncomfortable monthly visitations before I managed to get rid of her for good).

The months everything went down, which I often referred to only as ‘The Worst Summer of My Life’, (quite melodramatically but not without reason) were somehow still full of the best moments of my life. Moments I often find myself wishing I could repeat, as nothing has or will ever come close to the way I felt, sitting amongst my boys day after day, somehow light as the warm July breeze that blew past us. My entire body weightless, as non-existent as the time that passed us by. Despite the depression I’d found myself plunged into during the days after my only brother’s death, I truly believe I will never again be as happy as I was then. Laughter seemed to flow freely from our mouths, smiles plastered onto our faces no matter the circumstances, content to just exist. I don’t think I can ever forget the day it was raining so hard the entire city was flooded, but we walked around uptown well past the point of being absolutely drenched, our clothes dripping so heavily the security guard denied us entry into the public library. Something about that day made me feel so free, like we were invisible. Completely apathetic to the whims of the real world, somehow existing only in our twisted minds and intertwined fantasies.

Maybe if I’d had my head screwed on a little tighter, or if we’d met under different circumstances, it wouldn’t have ended the way it did. I used to go down that line of thought every night before succumbing to a fitful but heavy sleep (under the direct affect of 25mg of Quetiapine, working to counteract my Concerta and Lexapro). Those types of irrational thoughts were ones my therapist deemed as my habit for rumination. In regard to the death of my brother she called it ‘bargaining’, one of the stages of grief. I never liked it when she spoke about those stages as I’ve always felt them to be wrong. Maybe because I never quite moved on to the final one, no matter how many years pass. ‘Acceptance’, coined as the “Re-entrance to reality”. Maybe it’s different since I was never really grounded to reality in the first place. I still wake up some mornings, thinking I’ve heard his voice in the other room, ready to beguile me with tales from his day of retail work. Other times I swear I’ve walked past him on the street. Some people may relate to my experiences, with reasonings of ghosts, angels, apparitions, or insanity, among many other causes for the apparent viewing of a loved one long gone to the other side. I never shared these beliefs, but I am not one to deny. Rather, I always take these instances as an omen. A warning. I have come to this conclusion not without evidence, at least circumstantial, given the many occasions over the years – and especially that summer – where I found my hypothesis to be true. All I can say is that I am glad I’ve never been met with the same chimerical visions of my mother; one can only hope that is because she ended up where she belonged. Maybe I’ll see her there, though I hope at the very least they could keep us in separate rooms of Hell if the situation does arise.

From what I know of the others now, which is admittedly not much – majorly due to my own neglect, as opposed to theirs – they share the same prescription for rose-coloured glasses as I. We always were too engrossed with our own romanticization of nostalgia and sentiment that it clouded our view. I often think this was one of the reasons we seemed to fit so well together. Not quite like puzzle pieces, too self-absorbed to hold a candle to that analogy, more like complimentary colours. I wish it could’ve stayed the way it was. We did try, and I never found myself able to fully disentangle myself from James, nor he could to I, but for most of us we could recognize an ending when one arises. I used to find myself using the word tragedy a lot while reminiscing, but I no longer think that word is appropriate. Fate is a more fitting term in my opinion, regardless of if one believes in it or not. “(A)n inevitable and often adverse outcome, condition, or end,” as reported by Merriam Webster. I don’t think there’s a word in the entire English language more accurate in describing how everything ended up; and if there is, I am yet to find it.

  Chapter One

A Dead Brother

          I have tried to erase the day my brother died from my memory so many times I lost count decades ago. I still find the image seeping into my unconsciousness quite dreadfully on the nights I neglect to take my pills and catch myself waking up with a steady flow of tears that dampen my pillow along with the drool that always seems to pour from my sleeping mouth. The dread that pools in my stomach sometimes being heavy enough for me to lose my lunch. I frequently wonder how people managed to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault; the most painful lie I’ve ever been told and one that seemed to stream from people’s mouths as easily as the mini sandwiches laid in the living room of my brother’s wake were stuffed in. The worst part about being told it wasn’t my fault was how obviously one could tell they didn’t believe what they were saying either. His death was my fault; a fact so uncontestable I wanted to kill myself every time I was reminded of it.

           My therapist often tried to remind me that even if his death was “partially” (she always used the word partially, refusing to acknowledge the truth that his death was entirely my fault) my fault, there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent it. This was another lie I despised being told. There were a million ways I could have prevented his death or saved his life and yet, here we are, with him dead and me wishing everyday that I won’t wake up tomorrow. “Begonia,” she’d tell me – she was the only person who called me by my full name, I usually went by Nia, but a nickname felt too personal and I didn’t like her very much – “You mustn’t keep torturing yourself with these scenarios. He’s dead, and there is nothing you can do to change that. I am starting to wonder if you are going to let yourself move on. This isn’t healthy.” That was a line she liked to use a lot, “this isn’t healthy”. As if anything I do is.

           Barb, my therapist that is, liked to go over the details of my brother’s death a lot. She often called it a ‘trigger’, which is why she always seemed to want me to talk about it. “Trauma is a horrible thing, Begonia, and you must learn to move past it, process it. I can see you still haven’t managed to do that on your own, and that’s what I’m here for, to help you move on.” Barb was big on the idea of  “moving past trauma” and “learning to cope”, she often sounded like a broken record of a motivational speech. I found myself comparing her to school guidance councillors without realizing it, they were about equally as helpful (read: not helpful) in my opinion.

           Sometimes I blame my inability to forget and “move past” my brother’s death on the way Barb constantly brought it up and made me go through it. I never quite understood how that part of my therapy was supposed to help me. I asked her once, what good was it doing rehashing the worst day of my life?

           “Well, Begonia,” I hated the way she said my name, always so condescending and sour, like even the idea of me questioning her in any way was as impolite as shitting on her desk.

“You have to understand that I only want to help you. You seem to be unable to process your traumas on your own, which is why we need to go through these things. As you are aware, this PTSD,” she always left strange pauses after each letter, her slow tone grinding on my ears, “you have acquired has left you unable to function normally in daily life. I want you to get to a place where you can have a normal life (Ha!) and cope without these meetings. It’s what your brother would’ve wanted.” Barb liked to tell me what my brother would have wanted at least once every session. Putting aside the fact she knew next to nothing about him aside from the intimate details on how he died, I always thought it was an inappropriate thing to say as a psychologist specializing in grief counselling. It never particularly bothered me, I was reasonable enough to realize she was just trying to comfort me, but I never liked the phrase. “What your brother would’ve wanted.” What he would’ve wanted was to not die but we’re past that, aren’t we Barb, as you so often enjoyed telling me.  

I have always been quite averse to my diagnoses, ADHD at 14, Persistent Depressive Disorder at 15, PTSD at 16, issues with alcohol and drugs that landed me in rehab more than once. I’ve been on a concoction of different medications since I was 13, even before I was diagnosed with anything officially. Sertraline, Lexapro, Prozac, Ritalin, Concerta, Adderall, Quetiapine, Ambien, Zopiclone, a healthy mix of off brand and branded medications. Sleeping pills, antidepressants, stimulants. I can’t remember a time before monthly trips to the drug store and side effect surveys that I’m not sure if I ever told the truth on. It’s a wonder that people didn’t see a slew of addiction issues coming from a mile away.

I think I’ve always had the most contention with my PTSD diagnosis though, I hate it because I know it’s undeniably true. I wish it wasn’t because maybe that’d mean my brother was still alive, but he isn’t. And I’m left traumatized and bereaved. Sometimes it feels like it hurt me more than it ever did my mother or father. Maybe it did. I should feel selfish for saying that, but I can’t, because they didn’t have to look at him while the life left his body, praying to God for the ability to turn back time. See the moment his eyes glazed over, knowing I’d never get to hear his obnoxious laugh, or make fun of his dumb face ever again.

  ❈

             “Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.”

It was a cool evening in May, the end of spring brought with it the promise of summer and the air had the familiar aroma of daffodils and petrichor. I had decided to go to a party with my friend Faun, my dad having been out at his girlfriend’s place for the weekend and me having nothing better to do. I wasn’t one for partying, but I did like to get high, so I usually just hung around with the rest of the potheads and pill junkies until someone dragged me home or I fell asleep. That night Don, a friend of a friend of a friend, had brought coke and E and we were all determined to get as fucked up as possible. Faun only ended up doing one line before running into a bedroom with some guy whose name started with an M – was it Martin or Marvin? Maybe it was Mickey – and left me sitting on the couch beside a girl who was about 1 more shot of vodka away from passing out.

I had fully intended on doing some coke, but the E seemed to be hitting harder than I was used to. I was sure my Ritalin had worn off by then but maybe I was wrong. As I stood up to get a glass of water I nearly fell over and decided to sit back down. Turning to face Don, I tapped him on the shoulder trying to get his attention.

“What was in that molly?” I was vaguely aware of the way my words were slurring, but I felt weirdly energized. I was aware my heart was beating a little too fast, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I knew what ecstasy felt like, this was not nearly my first time doing it, but I felt really wrong.

           “Don!” He turned to look at me and I felt uneasy. His eyes looked a little crazed – not that out of the ordinary but given the circumstances I was worried – “What the fuck did you give me?” It felt like I’d done 5 lines of coke in the last 2 minutes and I knew that E had been spiked.

           Don’s face had an unmistakable expression of guilt written on it as he leaned down and whispered in my ear, his voice shaking, “I think it was cut with meth.” Fuck. My stomach dropped. I have to get out of here. I quickly shot up from the musty couch I was sat on, carefully holding onto Don’s shoulder so I didn’t fall, my legs still feeling unsteady. I opened my phone; the screen was too bright, and I had a hard time maneuvering it as I attempted to exit the house. Clicking the green Messages icon, I sent a text to Faun – e ws cut w meth im lesving – with shaky hands and burst out the door into the fresh air. I clicked my brother’s contact and pressed call.

           It rang four times before he picked up.

           “Nia? Why are you calling me it’s like 1am?” I could tell from the smooth tone of his voice he’d been drinking. He didn’t very often but he had an appreciation for cocktails and enjoyed getting buzzed now and then. He still was a year from being legal to drink but his friends we’re all 19 and 20 and bought alcohol for him. I found him fun when he got drunk, becoming talkative and giggly, but right now I wished so badly for him to be sober.

           “Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.” I was slurring, my voice a bit too pitchy to pass as anything but high. I knew he didn’t like it when I did this, but he never ratted me out. Sometimes I wish he did, maybe I never would’ve been able to go to that party in the first place.

           I could hear a door shutting on his end, I assumed he was going into a different room. “What’s wrong?” My skin was bubbling with anxiety at the prospect of having to tell him what I did.

           “Fuck, uh… I did something stupid. I’m at Emily Goguen’s, y’know up in Champlain Heights. Please pick me up.” I rarely used the word please.

“Nia, what the fuck did you do?” I almost started crying but I found my eyes to be bone dry.

“Please don’t yell.”

“Okay, really, tell me what is going on or I won’t come get you.”

“I accidentally took meth.”

“You what? What the fuck, Nia! Fuck this I’m on my way and I’m fucking telling Dad.” I cringed but I knew he was going to before I even called. The pit in my stomach grew deeper as the buzzing of my skin grew stronger. I could feel myself getting higher, everything was so clear and standing around was making me grow restless. Ray huffed on the phone and I heard him entering his car.

His tone was softer the next time he spoke. “I’ll be there in 5, just stay put, please. Do you want me to stay on the call or can I hang up?”

I felt like a child, which I was really, only 16 at the time, a whole life ahead of me. Still, I was grateful for the way he spoke to me, reminiscent of being 6 and getting a scrapped knee after falling off my pink Razor scooter. The high made me edgy, and my voice was sharp to my ears, “No, you can hang up.” I heard the click to indicate he’d done just that, and started pushing my cuticles as I waited, the task somehow greatly interesting me, and I did not realize until later I had managed to pick off all of the skin around my pointer and middle fingernails during the five-minute wait.

 Ray pulled up exactly five minutes later in his ugly, blue 2011 Ford Fiesta he’d gotten the year prior after passing his driving test. What I wouldn’t do now to smell the inside of that car once again, a distinct attar of pineapple car freshener and Old Spice deodorant mixed with stale black tea, faintly present due to his ever-growing collection of empty paper cups from various different fast foods and coffee shops.

I stumbled into the car, feeling the strong impulse to clean the space, but attempting to push it down. From the passenger side overhead mirror I could see my blown pupils and sweaty forehead, pieces of my copper red hair sticking to my face. My freckles were showing through my concealer that had mostly worn off and I wanted to cover them back up. My skin was pale from winter (and probably the drugs in my system) but my cheeks were flushed like I was drunk. My high cheekbones made my face look gaunt in the lighting, but my face was wide which balanced it out, so I didn’t look completely skeletal. Ray was looking at me, the worry apparent in his eyes, but his face was flushed as well, and I could tell he’d been drinking a bit too much to drive. I had my license as well, but it was clear I was in no condition to take over on that front, so I didn’t bother saying anything. I wish I had. There’s a lot of things I wish. I wish I hadn’t gone to that party; I wish I hadn’t taken that E; I wish I called someone else; I wish I waited it out at Emily’s; I wish I walked home; I wish I took a cab; I wish I waited for Faun; I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish.

“Are you okay?” He didn’t take his eyes off me as I shut the mirror in front of me.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine. Please just take me home.”

“Is Dad there?”

“No.”

“Maybe I should take you to Mom’s.”

“No!” I’d moved out of my mom’s completely just over 6 months ago, barely seeing her once a month. It was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. She never liked me much anyways, the feeling was entirely mutual. Ray seemed to have a close bond with her for some reason despite how she treated him like shit. I never called him out though, he no longer lived with her, so I didn’t really care what their relationship was as long as she wasn’t hurting him. She did treat him significantly better than me, however, so I figured maybe he managed to forgive her the way I never could.

“Okay, but I’m staying with you until Dad gets home. I’m not gonna lie to him about this shit. Fucking meth, Nia? Seriously?”

“It was in the molly.” He sighed and started driving.

 My brain felt like it was filled with butterflies, or ants, some kind of movement that was itching at my skull. The paper cups scattered around were making me anxious and I needed to clean his car. I began picking at my nails again, but I needed to pick up those cups, you see. I turned around and started gathering the ones Ray had discarded in the back, filling up an empty plastic bag from Best Buy. I was fully switched around in my seat, nearly crawling into the backseat to reach the trash my brother had left. I felt him tap my side, I looked over at him and he started to scold me.

“Nia, stop that will you, you’re distracting me.” But I needed to finish gathering the cups. The car was dirty, and my skin was itching, the traffic lights burning my skin. I was elated and I didn’t want to listen to him, he was just trying to get in my way. I continued to lean over, not registering the swerve of the car as he looked over at me.

“Nia – ”

He turned over to push me back into my seat, his eyes leaving the road for no more than a few seconds. This time I felt the swerve as we broke into the next lane.

 This is where I have a hard time piecing together what happened. From what I was told, we ended up running directly into a 2015 Dodge Ram 2500. In case you understandably have a lack of knowledge when it comes to cars, that is a very large, sturdy, and expensive pickup truck which I would probably consider the last vehicle you’d want to charge headfirst into while going 70km per hour. I don’t recall the actual incident of hitting the truck, whether that be from the drugs, the position I was in, or hitting my head on the roof of the car, I don’t know. What I do know is that when I woke up, we were in a ditch on the side of the road, with the car flipped upside down, and my entire body was screaming at me to Get Out!

I felt blood oozing sluggishly from my head and noted some indistinct pain in my right wrist where it had scraped something pretty badly and gotten twisted, but I otherwise felt alright. I couldn’t tell if the cloudiness in my head was from a concussion or the earlier events of the night, but I figured it was probably good I was awake, regardless of how dazed I seemed.

I turned my head to the left and was greeted by a view I will never be able to forget, it having been branded to the insides of my eyelids, scorched in my mind. Ray, with his left arm twisted in spectacular fashion, reminding me of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, after Lockhart spells away Harry’s bones. My brother had always been squeamish with broken bones and I hoped he wasn’t aware of how his limb looked at the moment. His head was bleeding quite profusely, and I was alarmed despite how many times I’d heard in movies that headwounds bleed a lot. His eyelids were fluttering, irises appearing glassy and unfocussed. And then I saw it. A piece of glass was stuck in the left side of his neck. The windshield apparently had broken with the impact and my brother was lucky enough to get a piece lodged right in his trachea. It was thick, bright red blood –  that I could’ve sworn was sparkling in my current inebriated perspective – was gushing out the side, so heavy I could smell it, taste it, in the air. I was frozen once I realized.

Do something, do something! Put pressure on it! Call 9-1-1! My mind was screaming at me, but it was all I could do to sit and watch the blood stain his clothes. He was wearing the corduroy jacket I’d gotten him for his birthday and a white button up, the red seeped into them until it was as if they’d always been that colour. My voice was caught in my throat, but I managed to push some sound past.

“Ray?” It was weaker than a whisper but in the silence that seemed to envelope us in that car, completely independent of the outside world and sirens that could surely be heard from blocks away, I knew he would be able to hear me.

He looked up, eyes focussing slightly on me, and a tear slipped down his face, only it went the wrong way since we were still upside down. He mouthed the words “I love you”. We never said that to each other. As close as we were, our relationship had always been more comparable to that of a best friend than sibling. We weren’t overly affectionate, never hugged or said I love you, hung out for enjoyment rather than as a punishment. Most people didn’t know we were brother and sister until we pointed it out, we never really looked alike and were absent of the traditional distaste and rivalry usually present between siblings. I knew, as he looked me in the eyes and said those words, this would be the last time I’d ever see him outside of a morgue.

I sat in my seat next to him with dry eyes, wishing desperately I could cry, needing to express the feeling of utter horror and despondency that completely overtook my body and mind, but I couldn’t. Barb told me time and time again that I was in shock, there was nothing I could’ve done, but I will never be able to believe that. I still remember the moment the final tear slipped down his face. He smiled at me, pain evident in his eyes. His entire body was covered in the metallic smelling red, and I wanted to vomit. I wish I could say the crash had sobered me, but it didn’t, not really. I was still entirely in a daze as I saw his muscles relax, smiling falling from his face, eyes not quite rolling back all the way but enough to give me nightmares for the next 20 years. The life had been absorbed from his body, leaving a heavy shell. I was told afterwards this all happened within the span of 10 minutes, but it felt like years. By the time the first responders had appeared I was an old woman. Grayed hair, and arthritic bones. Mourning for the brother I’d lost oh so many years ago, when I was just a girl. I think in a way I died in that car with him, I never was really the same. But who would be? Best friend and confidant, older brother, idol, dying in front of your eyes as you do nothing, knowing for the rest of your life that his death is – was – your fault. Knowing you could’ve done something, anything really, to prevent his untimely loss of life before the paramedics arrived. If I’d been the same after that night I would have to be much more disturbed than I ever thought.

I sat in that car beside Ray’s corpse for 3 more minutes before I heard the sirens closing in around us – me. I thought I might pass out, either from the toll of what I’d just witnessed or from my concussion, but I remained upright, probably from the adrenaline. I couldn’t move so I just waited, and hoped I’d die too before anyone reached the scene. It would be much preferrable to any other outcome I could think of at the time. I could vaguely register the pain in my wrist, but I felt so numb I’m sure you could’ve shot me in the foot and I wouldn’t have blinked.

A young fireman named Walter ended up getting me out of the car. The door was smashed and stuck which meant I’d been trapped in there either way. I was happy I hadn’t bothered trying to escape as I'm terribly claustrophobic and finding out I couldn’t would have thrown me into a proper panic attack. The fireman was incredibly nice, saying reassuring things the entire time they were opening the door with the “Jaws of Life”. I ended up seeing him again in the hospital actually, or at least that’s what my father told me. He wanted to check in on me and left me some hydrangeas in a vase. I always preferred chrysanthemums but I'm not that picky when it comes to a floral arrangement.

After the door was busted open I was carried out by Walter. I was shaking and apparently babbling nonsense but in my head I was trying to tell them to save Ray. I wasn’t really aware of all that much, completely blind to the crowd of spectators that had rudely gathered to witness the violence – wasn’t it supposed to be taboo to stop at a car crash? Wondering vaguely about what happened and wishing you could get a better look as you drive past the scene.  My head wound had made me a bit incompetent and the meth in my system was really not helping the entire situation.

I was laid on a gurney and rolled onto an ambulance. I don’t remember much about the ride; the sirens, the bright lights, a paramedic named Alice who spoke softly, smoothing out my hair while the other put an oxygen mask on my face (which I wasn’t entirely cognizant enough to question though now I'm not really sure why they did it) and splinted my wrist. Alice asked me if I was on drugs and I nodded but was unable to speak when she asked me what ( I would find this a common occurrence after the accident, my voice seemingly stolen alongside Ray’s). She just nodded and said something to the other ME that I didn’t quite pick up. She asked if I could tell her my name and I shook my head. She must’ve noticed the iPhone in my pocket and grabbed it, turning to the medical ID page.

“Is your name Begonia?” I nodded, though the name sounded foreign on my ears. I liked the way Alice said it though, she had a light Spanish accent and a matronly tone that made me feel safe. I wondered if she had kids of her own; she looked young, but my own mother had me at 19 so who could say? She told me her name after complimenting mine. “Begonia is a beautiful name; I love the flowers. I’m Alice, okay? We’re gonna make sure you’re alright and take you to the hospital.” Her voice was sweet like syrup and I became sleepy as she spoke.

“No honey, you can’t fall asleep yet. Just stay awake a little bit longer and I promise you they’ll let you sleep at the hospital.”

  I don’t remember anything of the rest of the ride to the hospital. I was dropped off at the Emergency Room at the Regional, head still too foggy to allow me to recall anything before I was sitting in a white bed, in a white room, with white sheets and a light blue hospital gown on. It was morning and my father was sitting at the end of my bed in an uncomfortable plastic chair, his eyes bloodshot and moist. He’d very obviously been crying for a long time and my chest panged with guilt. I reached up to feel my head and realized there was a cast on my wrist. With my other hand I touched the cotton that covered my forehead, wincing when I felt the sting of what had to be stitches in a nasty gash. I would spend the next 5 years of my life with a variety of diverse haircuts that attempted to hide the ugly scar that served as a reminder of the worst night of my life. Even now it is still extremely obvious, but I can’t be bothered to try and hide it, I so rarely look in the mirror that it wouldn’t matter if my skin turned blue.

My dad hadn’t looked up, so I attempted to gain his attention but once again found my voice failing me. I tapped on the bed a few times before he seemed to realize and face me.

“Nia… how are you feeling?” His voice was raspy and thin. He reeked of cigarettes and stale coffee, though this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I remained silent as he looked at me, searching my face for something I'm not sure he found.

“Nia, I, I'm not sure how to say this to you.” Here it comes. Almost worse than watching my brother die, the confirmation. “Ray, he’s, well dead.” I saw my father’s eyes begin to tear up again as I stared straight ahead. I couldn’t feel the sobs that racked my body, nor the hot tears streaming from my eyes. I saw my dad start to move closer but sit back down when I flinched. Of course, I knew my brother was dead; I had front row seats to watching the event happen, but somehow I still didn’t believe it until the words left my father’s mouth. According to my dad, who many years later described to me how eery the whole event was, my sobs were completely silent, and I was entirely unaware of everything happening around me. This dissociation lasted the first few days after the accident, and the entirety of my hospital stay. Leaving the blissful gap in my memory I have now.

Barb told me this was my mind’s way of coping with the tragedy and stress of what happened. I was honestly just happy I had an excuse to skip some of the dreadful retelling she forced upon me.

 ❈

             The funeral was of course a depressing and solemn event. I was still yet to speak and found myself thankful for the way people gave up on trying to get me to communicate. I dressed in a black skirt with a black short sleeved button up. A dark coat thrown around my shoulders as the cast on my right hand was too big to fit through the sleeve. I looked terrible, barely a week out of hospital before I watched Ray sink into the ground. The wound on my forehead was still quite nasty, though it looked better than it did before. I tried to cover it up with my hair but was unsuccessful. I got bangs soon after.

           The matter was very traditional, taking place in a church even though none of our family was really religious. It was only the second time I'd ever been in a church, the first having been for my cousin Julie’s wedding when I was four years old. I don’t remember anything of it aside from the material of my dress itching at my neck and making me rather miserable. Of course, not nearly as miserable as I was the day of the funeral, sitting in a pew at the front of the church, listening to a priest claiming Ray would’ve wanted us to celebrate his life. I knew this not to be true; Ray was extremely dramatic and would’ve cherished the thought of everyone he’d ever spoken to moping around for weeks after his death, beside themselves with grief. He sometimes referred to himself as “Romeo” after having been broken up with by another girl he was supposedly in love with, stating he better just stab himself in the heart now if he couldn’t have her. On the rare occasion he broke up with a girlfriend, he’d lounge around, eating ice cream, pretending to not be upset and comparing his cold heart to that of Richard VIII. The concept of him being any different over his death was almost comical; Ray was nothing if not predictable.

           I sat beside my father, who sat beside my mother (it was an extremely awkward arrangement that neither I nor my father cared for) and seemed to have the idea that I could evaporate if I thought hard enough about it. Unfortunately, I did not evaporate, or even come close to it, instead finding myself exactly where I'd been the whole time. I mostly tuned out the service, only really paying attention when my father and Ray’s best friend, Jake spoke. I managed to escape the duty of having to speak that day thanks to my fragile mental state and mutism. Though I'm sure I would’ve been forced all the same if I had been able to talk in any capacity, regardless of where my head was at.

           Faun was sitting in the pew behind me, feeling quite guilty about the whole ordeal. Or friendship dissolved soon after, I think she blamed herself for taking me to the party. It didn’t bother me too much though; we were never the closest and I sometimes thought her to be extremely annoying. An endless stream of shitty boyfriends that she only acquired so she could further repress her sexuality. When we were 14 we kissed at a sleepover and she admitted she was in love with me. I felt bad for not returning the feeling and our relationship had been on rocky territory ever since. I don’t understand how she thought she was in love with me since she barely knew anything about me, but either way she never brought it up again and soon after the monsoon of boytoys had begun.

           My brother’s friends and ex-girlfriends also attended the event. I didn’t approach any of them, far too scared they’d blame me for the death of their friend. One of them, Alex, went up to me to say how sorry he was about everything that happened. He was crying quite heavily (I later found out he was the friend Ray had been drinking with and the second last person to see him alive) and I could smell alcohol on his breath. I stood there while he spoke, telling me about how great my brother was as if I was wholly unaware. Body waving side to side as he stood with his hand on the wall beside me. He offered me some bronze liquid in a flask, and I obliged, savouring the burning sensation that followed in my throat. Alex’s voice was steady and deep, reminding me of my father’s. I’m not sure how long we stood there, him spinning a fantastic web of anecdotes and stories about my brother, some entirely new to my ears. We passed the beverage back and fourth until it was empty. My head felt lighter and heavier somehow simultaneously, and I found it much easier to listen to Alex talk. Later he tried to kiss me in my bedroom during the wake. His mouth was sour, and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. I wondered how he was able to talk so much without it getting in the way.

             We moved in procession to the cemetery after the service. The grass was a vibrant green colour, and I didn’t understand how the world kept turning after Ray’s death, for mine stopped the moment his heart failed to beat. The sky was a lovely shade of cyan-blue, with clouds so perfect they seemed animated. Pink carnations were planted near the outskirts of the yard and I could smell spring in the air; a heavy, floral aroma that never failed to comfort me. I thought it should be raining, it felt inappropriate that the weather refused to match my despair. My mind wandered as we approached the empty grave and I considered what it would be like if Ray was here beside me. He’d probably be making jokes, telling me to lighten up for a minute or my face would get stuck that way. He’d mock my silence, saying how I never managed to shut up for a minute before but suddenly I'm as proper as a nun. I'd smile, ruffling his hair to piss him off and try to refrain from laughing aloud. The absence of him only felt stronger as I imagined this scenario, so I shoved it out of my head.

           The casket was lowered into the ground, my father was a pallbearer and I often think about how he must’ve felt carrying his son’s body before watching him being buried. My mother sobbed loudly which annoyed me, it felt a bit exaggerated. I had a few tears falling from my eyes but mostly, I just felt numb. Incredibly and absolutely empty inside. To onlookers it may have seemed as though we weren’t very close, my reaction being similar to that of his ex-girlfriends’. However, this didn’t account for the loss of my voice, or the broken state I was in mentally. Maybe it was better that my reaction was rather dulled. It meant people didn’t feel the need to approach me as they did my mother. Less concerned given she was the one playing up her emotions to the point of embarrassment. My father cried, more than I but far less than my mother. He didn’t cry very often – I'd actually only seen it once prior to the whole event – and I figured he probably needed it. At this point I felt as though I'd shed enough tears to last a lifetime so Ray wouldn’t mind if I was a bit subdued in comparison. He never was a crier anyways.

           As I sprinkled soil onto his casket I imagined he was right beside me, watching, ready to criticize as usual. The dirt stained my hand, clutching the sweat and turning my skin a muddy brown colour. As I wiped the dirt on my jacket I could hear him nagging about how I better go wash my hands, what was I, a six-year-old? He was in denial about me growing up and took every chance to remind me I was still just a kid. Not that he had much on me, but I enjoyed it. I never was one to shy away from attention; at least not before. Little quirks and inside jokes between us were always some of my favourite things, the type of humour you could only get from living with someone your whole life. No matter how much his memory will fade there are some things I can’t let myself forget. His mocking tone when he’d make fun of me is one of those things. If I ever managed to let go of that sound then I must be dead as well.

           The sun beat down on my back, my skin burning in my black clothes. I wasn’t sweating yet, but most of the men around were – suit jackets aren’t exactly known for their breathability. My nose was dry and aching red, sore from how much I'd been wiping it the last couple days. Still the sweet seeping tinge of flowers and spring managed to crawl into my nose, settling underneath my skin, the buzzing from before had returned, I could feel my heartbeat loudly in my throat and had the desperate urge to just run. Instead, I just followed the rest of the party, sitting down in the passenger seat of my dad’s car. The silence that settled over us was uncomfortable and stale. He turned on the radio, Led Zeppelin filled the air around us, thankfully relieving some of the tension. I felt in my left pocket for one of the carnations I’d picked from a nearby grave earlier. The flower had begun to wilt, heat taking effect on its delicate composition. When I got home I put it in between the pages of my oldest copy of Romeo and Juliet. Ray would have found it funny if he was around to see.

The drive to my mother’s house was short and minimally awkward. We sat in silence – aside from the music – only because there was no alternative. My hand remained clutched around the dying flower in my pocket as we left the car and entered the home. Other people had already arrived, clustered in the living room, picking at tiny ham sandwiches and various desserts my mother had undoubtedly stress-baked the day before. I wasn’t hungry so I sat as far away from the food and people as humanely possible while staying in the living room, not wishing to hear my mother’s scolding about how I need to socialize more. Eventually I managed to slip away into my old bedroom, where Alex was sitting on my bed drinking a mickey of Smirnoff I assumed he swiped from my mother’s freezer. He offered it to me, and I accepted, the weird repetitive déjà vu like act, mirroring earlier and making the whole day feel like somewhat of a dream.

When I went over this part with Barb she always felt the need to emphasize that it wasn’t a dream. I knew this, obviously, which I told her every time, but she was inclined to disbelief when it came to my denial over my brother’s death. “Begonia, you must realize he’s gone. Dwelling is helping nobody, especially not you. This isn’t a healthy mindset for you to have. Always comparing living to your dreams. I want you to tell me you understand this isn’t just some dream you can wake up from.” The first time she said that to me I was thrust into a bout of wordlessness, as it struck a bit too close to home. The next time she brought it up I just told her of course, though even now I still cannot say I fully understand. How can I when all of my assumptions have been constantly disproven time and time again. How can I ever say this isn’t a dream when I'm not even sure I'm real? James always tries to reassure me, “Bee, I'm telling you, if you can feel this beat, the pulse in your wrist, your neck, your chest, you are alive,” he’ll say while pressing my hand to my wrist, but we both know it isn’t that simple.

Me and Alex made out for a few minutes until I managed to excuse myself. He was a bad kisser and tasted disgusting. I left him sitting on my old bed while I went downstairs to find my dad. He was sitting at the counter with a can of root beer, blank expression sat upon his face. When his eyes met mine he sighed, grabbing his keys out of his pocket. It was obvious neither of us wanted to be here, for numerous reasons, so we left. And if the radio stayed off as we drove home we didn’t acknowledge the silence that time. In my hand was the crumpled carnation, and for some reason it made my chest hurt. A deep ache of dread. I could feel my heartbeat, hear it over the drum of the car engine, and I crushed the flower further. I was careful not to rip it though, as if that was crossing some kind of invisible line my mind had set for me. My fingers felt waxy when I finally let go.

Back home, I opened the copy of Romeo and Juliet. I retrieved the deteriorating plant from my pocket and placed it in the center. Closing the book, I stacked it under a few dictionaries, a magazine under it so it was trapped on either side. I sat down in front of it and cried. Not the huge gasping sobs my mother seemed to fancy, nor the quiet weeping of my father. No, I cried the tears of a child who just found out their grandparents died, the soft uncomprehending grief that overcame them as they first learned what death really meant. How long forever was. My legs pulled up to my chest, hands loosely hung around knees, unable to clasp together because of my cast. I closed my eyes and I swear I could hear the sound of Ray sighing behind me, but when I opened my eyes I was alone. I went to bed, earlier than I ever had in my life, still believing it was a dream and I'd wake up like Alice after her adventures in Wonderland. But when I awoke, I was met with the slow, oozing perdure of my reality. The one which I could not wake up from, and the one where my brother was dead.

[komkommertijd]

i mean imo, you don't need to have a psychology degree to tell that J*s's behavior is inherently abusive, and that Max deserves serious counseling to realize that his father's behavior is cruel and that he's an abusive parent.

You’re completely right about this, anon, I just wanted to make the addition to that post to point out what the issue with it all was, for the people who missed it (because I almost missed the stream as well). I didn’t expect it to get as much attention as it did.

Let me just address the entire “Max deserves to realize that his father’s behavior is abusive” issue real quick. 

Please keep in mind that I do in fact not have a psychology degree, or any degree at all, and that this is just the impression of the sixteen-year-old kid that I am. I’m just word-vomiting my thoughts into this post, so if the order or the entire thing doesn’t make that much sense I sincerely apologize.

I personally feel like there is some kind of inner conflict going on that we are, naturally, not aware of. It can be hard to come to terms with the fact that what your parent is doing to you is wrong and harmful because they are supposed to protect you and it’s easier to accept the usual “I’m doing this because I love you and want you to do well” manipulation than to realize, know and accept for yourself that what is happening to you is cruel. No matter how bad they treat you, they are still your parent and in some cases, it might be difficult to get the needed emotional distance to get away from that toxic situation because they’re your parent, there will always be this little glimpse of sympathy you feel for them (maybe that’s not always the case but that’s what it feels like to me).

It’s one thing to realize that something bad is happening to you and an entirely different thing to detach yourself from that environment. And in Max’s case, it seems like he can’t really detach himself for multiple reasons. 

Once again, I don’t know what’s going on in his head and I can’t say any of this with 100% confidence in the truth behind my words, but it’s undeniable that Jos played a big role in Max’s process and success in racing (sure, Max has talent but talent alone is not enough to pursue an expensive and time-consuming hobby like this) and Max can’t detach himself because it would probably make him feel guilty after all his father has done for him (I don’t want to say he’s biased but he has that, let me call it parent-sympathy, that we all obviously don’t have). Because if one ignores all the bad things that happened, he was the one working on Max’s kart and “his engineer” as Max called it and it’s not like Max owes shit to him but he might not be where he is today without it all. 

Another issue is that he might have gotten used to this treatment and doesn’t see it as a bad thing but rather his father’s way of parenting (”that’s just how my dad is” as he said during the stream) and every parent has their own methods that not necessarily everyone agrees with. It’s always been this way and it worked out somehow and Max still has all his limbs and he’s fine now, which might be why it might not seem like much of an issue to him personally (also playing it down and pretending it’s not that bad is some kind of coping mechanism, right?). It was harmful, but it got him where he wanted to be so he might see it like something that was necessary in that situation.

How much does the media influence this entire disaster? Today’s stream seems like a good example with the story DC told Max and the way they talked about it makes it hard to believe that it’s really that bad when you don’t think about it too hard and the way Jos is portrayed by the media discourages any kind of realization. At least that’s what I feel like, surely some people might disagree with me. Literally though, just look into the comment section on Jos’s Instagram account for example, where people write the nicest things about him (I always get mild aggressions after scrolling through it for too long) and add the fact that there will always be this connection to his father through the sport that Max can’t get rid of and I imagine that it all adds up and should Max realize that his father is abusive, this entire thing will make him doubt his view on the issue because everyone thinks and talks so highly of his father.

There is surely a lot more to unpack and overanalyze here but just those few things might be enough to keep Max from detaching himself and getting help (as in therapy etc.) to deal with it because it’s such a final decision that cannot be undone, which can seem scary and the anxiety of “am I doing the right thing?” only serves to make it worse. He deserves to realize it all and to accept it and he deserves help and support in his situation but it may be harder for him to believe the truth than it is for us as outsiders.

I’ll stop here now but I hope that some of this makes sense in a way. If it doesn’t, don’t mind my idiotic rambling. I don’t want to play things down or sympathize with Jos in any way or form, I am aware of the things he did and I have not a single fiber in my body that doesn’t hate him. I just wanted to show that it might not be, and probably isn’t, as easy for Max to see that issue as it is for us as outsiders and I wanted to point out the obvious once again.

I don’t know any of them personally, I have no idea how things look behind the scenes and behind the things the media, and the people involved, allows us to see. It’s purely my speculation and I keep repeating myself but I’m very fucking anxious about saying something wrong :”)

I’ll let it sink in now.

[formulatrash]

Hey its that same volley anon again. I'm using this time to, I guess, reflect on my life? It's the first time in 16 years, and I'm kinda overwhelmed. My childhood home is being sold, I don't have pictures or a good enough memory to remember how it used to look like. And I decided to start a journal, but I look at the year 2020 on the page and I panic because 2 decades have passed and I remember only half of it. I feel like everything is slipping away down a drain.

I’m sorry that you’re feeling this way, anon. This stuff is really hard. 

Feeling uprooted can be deeply unsettling and make it harder to form or access coherent memories and when that’s combined with a major change it can feel very dissociative and disconnecting, when what you’re seeking is grounding. 

I’m not a therapist, obviously, so this is just some advice like I’d give to a pal in the pub - there’s nothing wrong with seeking counselling or therapy to cope with changes like these, in fact, there’s a lot good about doing it but I completely understand it can be hard to access any services, let alone appropriate ones. And y’know, friends in the pub also help even if you can.

So, with that in mind. Things feel more overwhelming when we don’t have a narrative to process them and make sense of them through and this is particularly true of the way humans understand our memories. Things feel jumbled to the point of distress when we can’t order them and we lose access to being able to understand things; I forgot a whole chunk of my childhood for most of my life because I didn’t understand the memories.

You’ve had a shock, with the volley thing, which has uprooted the narrative you’d had about your life. Disrupted, the vector through which you had understood things is now much less clear as a future plot line but that doesn’t mean that you can’t use it to understand the past, when it is less painful to think about. At the moment, that’s probably adding to the jumble and making the past seem much more confusing and uncertain than it will probably seem in the future, when you have narratives established again. 

That’s not a failure or something wrong with you, that’s just how our dumb human brains work. It’s why in times of stress and distress we can make very weird choices sometimes, disconnected from the systems we’d normally use to weigh things up.

Although it’s currently distressing to not be able to access those memories, forcing them won’t make them come and may make the present more uncomfortable and detached-seeming. 

It seems like you feel directionless and uninspired currently, which is natural after receiving life-changing news like this. What can help is literally just letting yourself be interested in some things - whether that’s immersing yourself in the racing this weekend or anything else.

Here’s some stuff I literally just find interesting, that you might not be familiar with:

Atlas Obscura is lots of interesting stories from around the world about everything from obscure festivals to street furniture and you can go for a wander through it for hours

BLDGBLOG is again, eclectic and talks a lot about the the theory of architecture and spaces; it might be a bit too close to (literally, although this isn’t intended as a pun) home in terms of your memories but Geoff Manaugh writes really engagingly and I’ve loved it for years as something just totally different from most of the internet

Deep Baltic is long reads about the Baltic states, which are well-researched and just interesting

I recently enjoyed this profile of boundary-breaking Kazakh DJ Nazira 

It’s really hard to find things that aren’t cancelled on YouTube these days but I like Seth Everman he is funny and although she doesn’t make videos anymore Sailor J is great, also I like Todd in the Shadows music reviews.

Journalling and shit is great and all but if you’re at a stage where you don’t know what to write, it can be just really jarring and distressing. So don’t feel like you need to force yourself - sometimes just getting a bit of curiosity can help things feel meaningful or more grounded even if it’s like wow what the hell is Latvian breakfast (a thing I have just realised I don’t know and am going to look up because hey, why not) or like why’s this dude got a giant statue of Bowser.

If any of my followers read down this far, maybe you guys could leave like Things You Find Interesting For Whatever Reason in the replies?

[asknightqueendany]

When I think about it Jon and Dany would have had a happy ending if Tyrion and Sansa had died in the crypts. Jon would have been in full control of the North without Sansa's incessant plotting. Dany would never have to listen to Tyrion's terrible counsel. Jon and Dany would have had two weeks to straighten everything out, marry, and win the war. What do you think?

I mean, maybe. The North likely would have had a more elaborate funeral for Sansa, as she’s the ruling member of her House. Dany would have taken time to comfort Jon for his loss (he didn’t really lose anyone of much importance in the Long Night battle), and that would have sparked them talking again. 

Then Sansa wouldn’t have been there to scheme with Tyrion, Varys never would have found out about Jon and therefore wouldn’t have had any alternative for Dany, at least a really viable one, so likely would have been for them marrying, as Davos had suggested, rather than trying to poison Dany to put Jon in power. 

With Tyrion gone, Dany may have leaned more on Missandei for advice and come up with a better plan than what they had and not got Missandei and Rhaegal killed. 

Yeah. They likely would have lived and married and ruled together and been happy. Ditto if Varys had died rather than Tyrion. Tyrion was at least for Jon and Dany marrying. No one ever made this suggestion to Jon and Dany’s faces and if Jon had had time to think about it, to see this option, he may have been able to come to terms quicker with the fact that Dany was his aunt and that since they were both Targaryen, that’s okay for them to be together. He still loved her in the end so he really just needed time to process, but all this bad shit happened in such quick succession, Jon didn’t have time to process it all and accept it. 

[ihaveneverbeengivenflowers]

(Not so) Random considerations on birth control methods and menstrual cycle

Although absolutely nobody fucking asked, I wanted to talk about my personal experience with birth control pills and menstrual cycle. First of all, let's catch up on how did I get here.

I started taking oral contraceptives (OC) since my mother took me to a gynecologist for the first time. The doctor made me a prescrition because I told her I suffered with cramps during my period. I was about 13 years old.

I kept taking OC every single day for the following 11 years, until I reached 24. Several doctors I passed by along these years changed the dosage and combinations of hormones I took, because each of them gave me a different bunch of adverse effects. Headache, nausea, menstrual cramps, recurrent urinary tract infections, candidiasis, vaginal bleedings... the list goes on.

During my teenage years I found out some women from my mother's family have circulatory problems, from varicose veins to venous thrombosis. There are also cases of cancer possibly induced by sexual hormones. That is: conditions that make OC, especially the combined ones, contraindicated for me. I got worried and decided to come back to the doctor and talk about another options available. The only one that was presented to me was the so called minipills, which are OC made with a single hormone instead of a combination of two. I took it for the following 5 years straight, and it seemed a good idea at the time because I've spent all my life struggling with underweight and anemia. Since the OC completelly suspended my period, I was supposed to be fine.

However, last January I had a major vaginal bleeding, even though I didn't stop taking my OC. I had terrible abdominal pains, and the bleeding continued for almost 10 days straight. Like I said, being underweight didn't improve the situation and my immune system shut down very quickly. Besides, I was having a hard time to keep up with my bills and wasn't covered by any health insurance at that time (I live in Brazil, and for those who are not familiar, things are a little bit different here. Theoretically we do have a public health system, but in real life we can't barely count on it and the access to the private system is kinda surreal for those living with minimum wage).

Well, as soon as I could, I saved enough money to go see a private doctor. I paid for the appointment and a several exams to find out that my bleeding was possibly caused by multiple ovarian cysts. Both of my ovaries were 3 times bigger than the normal size, and the doctor hypothesized that a big one of them (or a few) must have simply ruptured, and that the whole shit was probably induced by the fucking OC.

In summary, the doctor said I had polycistic ovary syndrome (PCOS). Plus, I should stop taking my actual OC and go back to the combined ones. Yeah, those same I was not supposed to take both because of my family history and the previously described adverse effects. He emphasized that was the only treatment available, and that my condition actually had no cure, so I should just take it for the next 30-40 years until I’d reach menopause, while praying for not having cancer or thrombosis or embolia and... well, to die of something else not related with OC.

So, well... I quit. I smiled and waved to the doctor and left the office. I was about to turn 25 and I decided I wasn’t going to take it that way. Now that you’re up to date in the story, let’s move on to where I was really trying to get with this post.

Please note: I ain't no gynecologist nor physician, but nowadays I’m a post-graduate health professional with a couple years of clinical practice. And I think I’m allowed to apply the little knowledge I acquired during 7 years (so far, still counting) of higher education to see through this situation with a tad of criticism. Not only regarding my own case, but regarding the doctors’ position when it comes to women’s reprodutive health - at least in my country. Therefore, let’s consider some key points:

Is there a real need to prescribe OC to young girls aged 13 years or less just because they come to the office complaining about menstrual cramps? During the period the lining of the unfertilized womb is being shed through the vagina. It involves muscular contractions, so of course it might get painful. There’s nothing abnormal about it, so why purging it like a plague instead of teaching them that’s a physiological process and how to relieve the pain in case it happens? Nutritional counseling, physical exercises, simply using a hot-water bottle or even taking an occasional painkiller can totally solve the problem.

The primary aim when taking OC is expected to be, should be, birth control. Yet, they’re frequently prescribed to girls that don’t even have an active sex life because of light acne, oily skin, menstrual cramps and/or intense menstrual flow without any further clinical complications... or just because. You might take it as some conspiracy theory, but you know what it looks like to me? Creating a very profitable market for pharmaceuticals. And nothing more. If women get sick and end up developing cancer or whatever, even better, so more drugs (way more expensive ones) will be sold.

In fact, there are another treatments available for PCOS. But it seems doctors are too lazy, or too comfortable in their position of filling a single standard prescription, that they completely ignore any alternatives. Can you wonder why? Maybe because it requires a minimum of health and sex education, and that takes time. How are they going to be able to attend people in less than 5 minutes if they’ll have to talk to their patients, right? Simply doesn’t worth it. Anyways, again, alternatives include acupunture, homeopathy, phitoteraphy, dietotherapy throught nutritional counseling and regular physical activity. Each case is different, but keep in mind: OC aren’t the only way, indeed, literally speaking they’re not even a treatment because they don’t treat it.

Opening a parenthesis: of course there probably are exceptions and good doctors no matter where. But doctors at public health system are in general unsatisfied with their working conditions and environment, while doctors at the private system usually are anything but well paid by insurance companies. In overall terms, the more academically qualified the doctors get, the less prepared for attending real life demandings in developing countries they are. Also, the less willing to work in such places they are. (If you’d wish to read more about it, I highly recommend seeing Chapter 5 - An example of a paradigm and its social conditions: scientific medicine of La construction de sciences, by Gérard Fourez.)

Still on PCOS topic: first of all, having multiple cyst on one or both ovaries doesn’t necessarily mean PCOS. PCOS, as a syndrome, means there are multiple criteria that need to be fulfilled for closing the diagnostic. In this case, criteria involve imaging exams, symptomatology, clinical and biochemical evaluation. In my case, for instance, PCOS is a diagnosis that simply doesn’t suit my medical history, but no doctor has ever bothered making an anamnesis. I’m not trying to say anybody should go to Dr. Google’s opinion (seriously, don’t), but look out for more information than it’s given to you at the office, even because often none is given.

I know suspending the menstrual cycle can make life much more easier. No worries about pads, unexpected leaks, cramps, PMS etc. But take it from a different perspective for a second. There seems to be a lot of content over the internet nowadays about body positivity, empowerment and tons of so called movements of deconstruction of established paradigms in our society about feminility and feminism. I’ve seen a lot of girls online sharing their experiences on stopping taking OC etc. I don’t know how far it’s good or not, but there’s a point that can be taken from all of it: the menstrual cycle is a natural part of every woman’s reprodutory phase in life. It’s not disgusting, embarrasing or whatever nonsense we’ve been told. And it can be a good way for us to conect with ourselves, to listen to our bodies. Observing symptoms such as pain, fatigue, cravings, emotions, sex drive; checking on cervical mucus, body temperature, hours of sleep... all of this can be part of a daily self-care routine and, moreover, be useful to birth control.

Talking about birth control: I’m genuinely surprised on how much the doctors whom I interacted during my life underrate condoms as a method against unwanted pregnancy. They say out loud that it’s not safe and, unless the conspiracy theory about selling drugs is real, I simply don’t get the reason why they do that. In first place, this is bullshit because condoms are a very effective fisical barrier that prevent even a single spermatozoid from swimming along the vaginal canal and straight up to the womb. Second, there’s no 100% safe method except for sexual abstinence; not even OC + condoms (theoretically not even tubal ligation) are 100% safe, since the human body isn’t a static machine and everything is prone to error. So, yes, opting for non-pharmacological methods of birth control instead of synthetic hormones can be valid.

Obs: condoms work as long as they’re properly stored, used and discarded. But the same can be said about OC and any other contraceptive methods. And, important: choosing a contraceptive method involves not only statistical data on the margin of error of condoms and pills, but also individual phychossocial aspects. In other words: a determined method might not be the doctors’ first option and they might not personally like it, but they can suck it up and use their fucking knowledges to find the best alternative for you.

Again, I’m not trying to encourage you anybody else to contradict their doctors. However, I think that questioning is part of a healthy and constructive process. First because doctors are human beings, therefore they’re as prone to error as anybody else (or even more due to long working hours). Second, because they’re supposed to be the primary source of information for any questions you might have about your own health. Third, because I believe with all my heart that the relationship between health professionals and their patients must include, if not be based in, trust.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

ARC: Into the Hurricane, Part 1

Lena's decision isn't the magical fix it feels like it should be.

Alex and Sam continue to sleep in their own room, and Lena continues to keep her distance.

She knows what she wants.

Reaching for it is another matter entirely.

"I don't where to go from here." It's Sam's idea to find counseling. "So we're going to find someone who does."

So counseling comes in the form of a casually impersonal office and a therapist who pauses more at the stack of NDAs Lena drops on her desk than she does at the fact they're three women in a strained marriage.

At their first session, the set a dangerous precedent: they lie.

"We were... emotionally intimate," Sam navigates carefully. Lena wonders if she can hear her teeth grinding. "With Lena's best friend."

Dr. Chisolm nods. "Okay. And is this someone you continue to have regular contact with?"

Lena stays quiet.

"She's my sister," Alex says quietly.

"That would be a yes, then." At Alex's nod, Dr. Chisolm regards them neutrally.

"Emotional intimacy is a rather broad term. Is there anything you're willing to share about what happened that might give me a better idea about what came between you?"

"Kara lied about who she was," Lena snaps. "They both knew the truth, and helped her lie about it."

"Okay that's not--"

"It is true," Lena cuts Sam off. Then she huffs. "But it doesn't matter. I let it go."

Silence answers her for a long moment before Dr. Chisolm shifts in her seat, leaning forward.

"Things have a way of leaving pieces of themselves stuck to us, even when we let them go," she says, her voice soft. "And that's okay. That's why we're all here."

None of then respond, giving the therapist plenty of room to continue.

"One of the things I like to do during the first meeting with my clients is to have all participants share one thing they're hoping to get out of this. Doing so gives me the opportunity to learn where to steer some of our conversations, and gives my clients some insight to the big roadblocks their partners have already identified."

Lena looks away, reluctant to proceed but unwilling to say so. Chisolm doesn't seem to notice, or if she does she pays it no mind.

"So how does that sound? Alex, would you like to start?"

Alex shrugs. "I just want my family back. All of it."

It sounds so simple, the way it spills from her lips as though its the most obvious thing in the world. And it almost would be, except for the fact that that 'all of it' means Kara too, present and prominent.

The thought turns Lena's stomach.

"So that includes your sister too," Chisolm echoes Lena's thoughts. "Before we continue, Alex, do you think she'd be willing to join a session or two, should the need arise?"

A scoff pulls from Lena's throat. "That didn't take long, did it?"

All eyes swivel to her.

"Lena," Chisolm says patiently, "can you describe what you're feeling right now?"

"Yeah, I'm feeling anger. And spite. I knew this was a stupid idea."

"How so?"

"The whole reason any of this even happened is because I thought my marriage was one where we'd always come first, to each other. But Sam and Alex both chose to prioritize Kara's trust over mine." She scoffs again. "And here we are. Half way through our first counseling session to FIX our marriage, here she is being invited right back in."

Lena glares into her lap, unwilling to risk meeting Alex's gaze, or even Sam's. When she finally lifts her chin, she barely meets Chisolm's gaze before looking away.

"All right," the doctor accepts readily. "Thank you, Lena. Kara doesn't have to join us. But we will need to address the effect she's had on your relationship, and in some cases speaking with the individual in question can be beneficial. Obviously, however, we can table that for another visit."

Lena shrugs it off.

"Would you like to go next, Lena?"

"No." Her hearts is already pounding with having said too much. Too much she can't reel back in.

Chisolm doesn't push it. "Sam?"

Sam, who's been quiet until now, takes only a moment to steel herself.

"I want to be able to touch you again, Lena."

The confession comes soft as a whisper, and whips Lena's head around so fast her neck spasms. A jolt shudders through her chest at the sight of the tears in Sam's eyes.

"It's like there's these bristles, that lift when I get even a little close, like you can't stand for us to be near you. And you are so tactile, Lena, it's always been part of how we communicated, but now... I don't know how to connect to you without it."

That was it.

Lena hasn't noticed. She's been alone for so long, even having Ruby to cuddle with feels like her cup's overflowing. She almost reaches out to grasp Sam's hand right there in the office, but she sits frozen, stunned by the admission.

"Thank you, Sam." The doctor the turns once more to Lena. "Lena? Is there anything you'd like to share?"

"I want my trust to be precious," she blurts, still staring at Sam. "Every time it's broken I'm asked to trust again and this was the one time I swore to myself I wouldn't. I couldn't."

Sam takes a shuddering breath. "But you said--"

"I choose you. Because I do. I love you both, and there won't be anyone else for me. But I'm still extending more trust that hasn't been earned."

Silence answers her. Not even Chisolm tries to break it.

"I gave you everything," she grinds out, swallowing thickly. The day they'd traded vows, Lena had packed all her trust into her heart and given it to both of them.

"And it meant less to you than Kara. So why, WHY should I do that again?"

Sam doesn't have an answer. Neither does Alex.

Honestly, Lena doesn't either. But she's here, and she's trying, and that has to count for something. Doesn't it?

Lena rubs her arm self-consciously-- and startles herself a little when her fingers travel too far down and slip over the stump of her arm. Shit. Every single time...

Tears burn behind her eyes, and she closes them tightly to keep them at bay.

"Thank you, Lena," Chisolm says softly. "All of you."

Lena shifts away from Sam, facing front once more.

"Tensions can be high during the first visit, and a lot of people find that this is the first place they've been honest in a long time, which can of coirse be overwhelming. And we're almost out of time, so when you go home tonight I want you to be conscious that things are raw, and to be patient with each other. Do you think you guys can do that?"

All three of them nod mutely.

"Great. Now, I do have one more item I'd like to address. Lena."

Lena looks up, bracing for the reprimand she was sure would follow.

"You've recently had an extremely traumatizing experience."

"It's been six months," Lena points out. It's hardly new anymore.

Dr. Chisolm tilts her head. "Yes," she allows, "but four of those six months have been devoted to healing, and getting you well enough to go home. That's a 24/7 job: that doesn't give you much time to process."

Lena opens her mouth to protest, but the therapist lifts her hand.

"I'm not saying it might affect what happens in this room, I'm saying it WILL. This kind of trauma-- especially when it results in physical disability-- affects your entire life, including your relationships."

Great. So, they'll just wait for her to snap then.

"I mention this, because I think it would be helpful to you to seek trauma counseling as well, outside of what we do here in this room. If you truly want to succeed here, you have to be able help yourself too."

Chisolm pauses, ducking her head slightly in an attempt to meet her gaze. Lena stubbornly looks away.

"How does that sound?"

Lena shrugs noncommitally. "Fine."

With a nod, Dr. Chisolm closes her notepad. "And that's our time for today. If you're ready to schedule your next appointment, you can talk to Wendy at the front desk...."

The doctor's voice fades to a ringing in Lena's ears. Without another word, she shoves to her feet and bolts.

She doesn't look back.

[nickeless]

I’ve been pretty blessed so far in my life that I haven’t really had to deal with death of a loved one too often. In my life I’ve only lost two family members and I’ve been lucky enough to not lose any close friends.

When I was young my great aunt passed away. My sister and I were very close to her. I was only maybe seven or eight when she passed, but I can still remember the exact moment my mom told me she was in the hospital. At the time it was just me and my mom. My sister was still living with my dad. We were living in Fox Chase apartments at the time and I was in my mom room jumping on her bed watching tv. My mom came in with a worried look on her face and she broke the news to me. I don’t think I really understood the full extent of going on, but I remember seeing my moms face and I instantly became sad.

I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t remember going to the hospital. I don’t remember if she passed right away or if I got to see her again. I don’t remember her funeral. I don’t remember that I had to go to counseling because I had a hard time dealing with the loss. I don’t even remember having a hard time with it.

I do remember how she smelled. I remember that she was the one who taught me how to Đọc kinh (pray in Vietnamese). I remember the way her Thịt kho tasted. I remember that the reason I love the smell of moth balls is because her house always smelled like them.

I wouldn’t have to deal with death again until my early 20′s when my grandpa on my mom’s side passed. To be honest, I wasn’t very close to my grandpa. I rarely saw him and we never really talked when I did. I was sad for sure, but more so sad for my family. My uncles, my cousins that were close to him, my mom. I was sad for them and about the fact that I didn’t know how to comfort them. All I could do was be there. Then one Wednesday a couple of weeks ago I get a phone call from my uncle at 4 in the morning. I didn’t wake up to it. Then my dad calls me a little later and I half woke up, but my dad calls me at random times all the time so I thought nothing of it and decided I would call him back after I woke up. Then my mom calls me. The fact that she’s calling me this early I already knew something was wrong. When she answered the phone my heart dropped. When she told me about your passing, I broke. I didn’t know I could sob so hard. I don’t know how long I was kneeling at the foot of my bed crying in disbelief. I’ve never felt such a deep level of despair, I just couldn’t grasp the idea that you were gone. 

When the tears finally stopped and I could breath again, I just sat there. I called my family members, they all insisted that I either go to my uncles or go to work to stay busy. I couldn’t call your brothers, I couldn’t imagine the pain they were going through and I know that I wasn’t strong enough to handle it. My uncle had a class and my aunt was at work, so I decided to go to work. I couldn’t focus, I randomly had mini break downs. So I left after only a few hours of being there. I had no idea what to do. So I went to church. I went to the chapel, sat in the back and just cried. I remember my cousin posting something about how when we had a scare with her brother and his surgery she went to the same chapel and cried, and others who happened to be there just sat next to her and held her hand while she cried. I wanted that. I wanted someone to just sit with me, with out any questions, let me cry and just hold my hand. But no one ever did. I guess that’s the difference between seeing a young girl and a grown man crying. Everyone just avoided me as I sat in the back trying my best to not disturb their prayers. I prayed and I cried and I felt so alone for hours.

I got no comfort sitting there praying. I was lost. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. How was I supposed to feel? I didn’t want to be alone, but I don’t want to be around anyone. I called a couple of my friends, but what was I supposed to say? I called my friend Jon Jon to see if he wanted to grab some coffee, but he was having lunch with a friend. He invited me to lunch but I declined, and we decided to meet up after his lunch. So with no where to go I just sat there in my car. I felt numb, alone. I knew everyone in my family was trying to be strong and put on a brave face, and I wanted to do that as well. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how to process my emotions. I didn’t know how to handle the emptiness I felt. After some time Jon Jon finished his lunch, we met up and grabbed some coffee. I told him what was going on and as I did I just broke down again. There are only a handful of people who I’ve ever cried in front of. That didn’t help.

That night I picked up my aunt, took her to my uncle’s house and we just sat together and talked. None of it felt real, I still couldn’t come to terms with the fact that all of this was actually happening. I told my aunt about how I just talked to you that Saturday. How you wanted to go see a movie the day before but I was busy, and how you wanted to get dinner on Sunday but I was busy. I felt so guilty. On the night you passed I was literally down the street from your apartment Chris. I should have been there for you. I fucking always talk about how much I love my family and how lucky I am to have such an amazing one, but I constantly get caught up in my own shit and take for granted what I’ve been given. I didn’t even get to see you again. I was right fucking there. I could have walked to your house. I should have come over. I should have invited you out. I should have told you how much I love you. Growing up always feeling like an outcast, you always made me feel like I was your brother. You stood up for me, and you were the first person to say I’m proud of you. I felt like such a failure in the family’s eyes, a huge disappointment. But you were the first to see how hard I was working, and how proud I was of myself for what I’ve managed to accomplish. And where was I when you needed me most, two fucking blocks from your house getting drunk.

I saw your baby brother the next day, your parents and him flew out to Houston to start the process of collecting your belongings and bring you home to Jacksonville. I held your weeping brother trying to keep it together for him, trying to be strong for him.

I wouldn’t cry again until I saw your casket. I couldn’t cry at your funeral or the many prayer sessions that were held in your name. What the fuck is wrong with me. The only time I could cry was when it was just the family and you.

Chris, I love you so much brother. You were such a bright light in all of our lives and your passing is a great loss to humankind. I’m still lost. I still don’t know what to do or how to move forward. Being with the family laughing and crying helped. But now that I’m home and back to my every day I don’t know what to do. I miss you so much

[emptymanuscript]

The BEST Writing TED Talk

I happened to bring up Simon Sinek’s TED Talk, Start With Why, earlier today. And then ran into this, which is an edited down version, from 18 to just 5 minutes (and that’s including the TED intro). So, it seemed worth sharing again.

Though why do I say this is the best writing video when it’s obviously not about writing. Is the part about writing a book in the 18 minute version? No. That’s mostly clarification and more examples, which is the same as his book by the same name. All about business but I still recommend it for writing. Not the business of writing but the act of creative writing itself.

One of the most valuable creative writing exercises I ever got was given to me by Joshua Kane when I was briefly interned with him back in 1996. A constant problem had come up, one which most writers struggle with: that I wasn’t working. Plenty of ideas. Plenty of things I wanted to do. At that age I was ahead of the game in terms of what I knew about writing. And it didn’t make a lick of difference because you can’t do anything with nothing. 

So Josh asked me, “Why do you write?” 

And yes, even though Sinek hadn’t made this TED talk yet or written his book(s) or anything, Josh was referring to this sort of Why.

Everybody knows WHAT they write. You spit it out. And if the most important thing is people kissing, WHAT you write is a Romance. If it’s starships or neural data jacks, it’s science fiction. If there are trees and magic it’s fantasy. If there are alleys and magic it’s URBAN fantasy. OOoooh. 

How we write is more complicated. There isn’t a right answer. It’s individual. There are definite trends among vast swaths of writers. There are conflicting yet overlapping philosophies. And as William Goldman famously said, “Nobody knows anything.” We just have a lot of ‘educated’ guesses. This part actually obesses me. I would say in all honesty that this is what my Master’s Degree in the Teaching and Practice of Creative Writing is really in. They are both aspects of HOW we get from the desire, ‘I want to write a story,’ to having the object of WHAT, the product as described by Sinek: the written story. 

But notice something. We’re not getting from WHY to HOW in the way we usually talk about writing. We start with: I want to write a story with a certain feature. People tend to start there and go straight into HOW until they have WHAT they believe they wanted and then they try to sell it. And it works ok. I’m not saying there is anything wrong with that if it is working for you. 

The issue, always, is what happens when it’s not working. When I, spent months on end vaguely polishing one turd I had written and doing no other writing and so I had pretty much like 12 pages in 12 months to show for my writing for the year. Fine if I want it to be my hobby. Not fine if I want to be a writer in some kind of career fashion. Which I did. Which was why I had Jewish bullied™️ Josh into taking me on as an intern. (Don’t feel too sorry for him, he grew up in a Jewish family too, he could’ve fought that guilt if he wanted.)

And Josh, being a professional a few years senior to me, wasn’t having it. As far as he was concerned - and him being one of the people who taught me, I agree - that’s not how to be a writer. You have to produce. And so he dug up the old saw from Frank Norris: You, EM, “Don’t like to write, but like having written.”

What a stab in the heart. 

And then he asked what actually makes me like to write. Not the finished product that everybody wants and almost no one produces, that’s the result, but the thing that makes me want to take the action of producing. WHY do you write? 

‘Is it because you value being an intellectual and are insecure about it and need something that will indisputably prove to EVERYBODY that you’ve got the chops.’ Which is kinda both going right for the jugular and pretty accurate so I started to nod and he cuts me off. “You can’t have that one. I came up with that one. It’s mine now. You have to come up with your own.” 

‘Is it because you were bullied in school and you hate all of them and you want revenge for the rest of eternitiy by putting them in fiction and doing worse to them?” And you know that kinda sounded pretty good to me, too, so I’m tipping my head forward when he shakes his and cuts me off. “No, you can’t have that one. It’s mine now. You have to come up with yours. You can’t have mine.” 

And there were other equally as insightful, painful, and annoying statements. As much as Josh pissed me off that time in New York, that question has proven one of the most valuable bits of writing work I’ve ever done. And as frustrating as it was, it was worth the insight. Because Josh was right. As Sinek mentions in the video, the answer is more emotional that logical. It’s something deep down and hard to just whip out and have at hand. It’s fuzzy, which is why everyone avoids it or takes a cheap and easy answer. Too much work and if you haven’t done it, it’s hard to see the value. 

It took me YEARS to answer that question. Must have been about 7. Now I work profoundly slowly, so probably better to think of those as dog years. It doesn’t have to take you years or even many months but an easy answer is probably the wrong answer, so it is going to take you more than a day or a weekend unless you are exceptionally self aware in the way that most writers just aren’t because it tends to interfere with the process. And, I will say, that although I got close to the answer, I finally FOUND it more than figured it out.

Because this is something that is fairly deep into the preverbal area, it can be easier to see in reflection. Instead of you evoking it in yourself, the stars align and someone does something that you can see the reaction in yourself to and attach to, figuring it out for yourself. 

I’ve had that happen fairly intensely twice. The other time was my then girlfriend and I giving mutual friends relationship “counseling” to try and help them with what they knew. And in the moment of them getting it right, it reflected back on us, strongly enough that the other couple noticed, and i proposed about a week later. Although hard to put into words, I felt the reflection through them of WHY I wanted to marry my partner. And while I can describe it and label it and what have you, that emotion, that profound feeling of connection about how we both viewed the world was a deep emotion, a thing personally felt to a degree that words will never quite capture it correctly. That’s why you can’t use mine. My words can’t be your emotions.

Because when I tell you that my reason for WHY I write is, STORY TIME™️ those are just words. They are a short hand to describe a feeling, evoked by a series of events, that I recognize as what initiates me into the flow state. The words are so poorly matched that they are almost a lie, it’s just the best I have. Because, in 2003ish, having thought about the problem without actual resolution for many years I found it. Or it was given to me. Or I finally figured out the missing piece of the puzzle. However you want to phrase it. My friends and I were out for ice cream. We were at a concrete bench off away from everything and I was standing while the others sat for whatever reason. I don’t remember what we were talking about but something came up where I knew something about somebody involved. And I asked if they had heard about them. Lots of shakes of the head and I took deep breath to tell them. And it happened. 

There was this charge. A way of them settling down and getting comfortable. If you wanna be new agey, I felt this connection to everyone as their focus simultaneously went to their comfort and to me. It was all of us slotting into this well worn groove of common pleasurable repetition where we all knew and liked how we fit. 

And I’m all, “What was that??” and everybody laughs a little. and Findingsherlock, who got me onto tumblr in the first place, explained that they were getting comfortable because they knew it was about to get good because when I started to tell them something it was... and there Findingsherlock shrugged for lack of a better word and said: STORY TIME™️. And for me that was it. I knew it. Balls to bones as they say. That when all that shit and complication of life is peeled back, what motivates me is this precision amalgam of emotion that sits somewhere between 1) interconnecting with people 2) entertaining people so they WANT to pay attention to me 3) proving I know something you don’t - intellectuallism is a harsh thing in my family of origin - and then giving it to you as a one, two punch of self esteem boost 4) being able to observe positive reaction to me and manipulate emotions to get you to react in the positive way I want with my words 5) just flat out making you like me and being with me because of what I say.

And... none of that’s actually right. It’s just as close as I can get in words and thinking about it. It’s the feeling down under there that I would seriously make pacts with dark gods and start killing people to get. The way people talk about heroin is strangely accurate to how I would describe my dealings with STORY TIME™️, sometimes it is so euphorically amazing that selling your soul and killing your whole family to live there sounds like a great deal. Sometimes it is this bitter absence where you will just chase it even as you would rather go on a killing rampage than deal with this anymore. In fact that was a significant part of my first time in the mental hospital, I started saying that I would rather cut my hands off than keep writing, and I kept writing, and I started using knives to threaten self harm, and I kept writing. Because it has you. Whatever it is that would be your equivalent of story time, once you know it, and once you write to it, you might go painfully slow. I started planning the Knights of Day in 2006, it’s my main project in life, I have not yet finished book 2. My longest breaks have been my stays in the mental hospital. So, it’s a thing. I’m slow. But I know it and I work with it, and giving it up... can’t do it. 

BECAUSE, I know WHY I write. Because of that, everything I do in the production of my writing is fulfilling WHY I write. HOW I do things is done in order to enable WHY. WHAT I write is chosen because it fulfills my WHY. It’s a streamlined process down. And knowing it as well as I do. My ideas pop up following my WHY. I’ve trained myself to think this way. And it’s not hard because it is a self reenforcing systme. What I keep are things that feel good enough that I want to pursue them and can’t stop thinking about them. Plus it just keeps extending out. 

Oh, and STORY TIME™️ is mine. You can’t have it ;p

[schraubd]

I'm Sick of Smug-Takes on Berkeley Offering "Counseling"

Former Breitbart editor Ben Shapiro is coming to campus this week. Shapiro will be followed this month by Ann Coulter, Steve Bannon, and Milo Yiannopoulos, as part of a Berkeley "free speech week". In a long email outlining the various campus policies that would be in place to facilitate all these speeches (and as I've consistently argued, having been invited by authorized community members they do have a right to speak free of censorship or material disruption, though of course not from non-intrusive protest or criticism), Executive Vice Chancellor Paul Alivisatos mentioned that, among other things, counseling services were available for any students who felt "threatened or harassed simply because of who they are or for what they believe." And the internet went wild. I don't need to collect links -- here's an example, but they're not hard to find. Across the entire political spectrum of the mainstream media -- you know, center-left to hard-right -- there was near-uniform glee in dumping on coddling Berkeley administrators and infantile Berkeley students who need counseling just because they're hearing "ideas they disagree with." I cannot tell you how sick I am of hearing this. It's lazy, it's a cheap shot, it's intellectually incoherent, and above all it's mean-spirited. Berkeley isn't wrong here. And it's detractors are showing more about what's missing in their character than the most stereotypical Golden Bear hipster. For starters, Berkeley is a big place. It's total enrollment is over 40,000 students. These young people come from a range of backgrounds, and at any given time across that 40,000 there will be persons who are struggling, or experiencing crises, or feeling threatened, or any other permutation of personal circumstance and emotional troubles you can imagine. I've already written recently about how all of us -- self-satisfied declarations notwithstanding -- intuitively understand how certain speech can truly wound deeply, in a manner which we can all empathize with. That doesn't mean we ban it (and offering counseling doesn't "ban" anything), but it does mean that there's a genuine phenomena that we can and should attempt to address So let's be empathic. Let's imagine, amongst Berkeley's 40,000 students, that there is a student who is struggling. Maybe he's away from home for the first time and having difficulty adjusting. Maybe she feels in over her head in classes, finding that work that got her an A in high school is barely scraping a C at Berkeley. And then let's add more to it -- maybe he's just found out that he's now at imminent risk of deportation from the only country he's ever truly known. Maybe she's found out that, though she proudly served her country and is a veteran of the American armed forces, the President of the United States publicly declared her to be a burden on the US military who should never have been allowed to wear the uniform. Now let's remember who Ben Shapiro is.

Ben Shapiro thinks that trans individuals suffer from a "mental illness" and gratuitously misgenders them for the primary purpose of causing offense. He refers to DACA as President Obama's "executive amnesty". Pretty much the only reason his isn't an avowed member of the alt-right is that they happen to hate him too. He's not an intellectual. He's not one the great thinkers of the right. His oeuvre, his raison d'etre, is to be a hurtful provocateur. That's what he brings to the table.

And let's be clear: this, the above, was why Ben Shapiro was invited to Berkeley. It wasn't because he offered "a different view." And it certainly wasn't because of the intellectual candlepower he has on offer. The people who invited Ben Shapiro to UC-Berkeley did so because of, not in spite of, the hurt he will dish out to already-vulnerable members of the community. The students I outlined above -- already struggling, buffeted by political dynamics which very much are designed to dehumanize them -- now have to reckon with the reality that a non-negligible chunk of their colleagues are glad they're feeling that way. They actively want to accelerate the process. They'll go out of their way to invite speakers to reiterate and emphasize the point.

Honestly, I don't blame them if they could use a venue to talk out their feelings a bit. It strikes me as spectacularly uncharitable, a colossal failure of basic empathy, to think otherwise. Then again, what is our polity going through now but a colossal failure of basic empathy?

After the election, I made a similar comment (which I cannot find) when people again made fun of college kids who expressed deep hurt and fear upon the election of Donald Trump. This, too, was attributed to fragile millennial snowflakes who don't know how to tolerate hardship. And I remarked that the man now faced with being expelled from the country is not scared because he's frail, and the woman who was the victim of a sexual assault is not despondent because she's weak-willed. We've seemingly moved past "don't punch people who think you're subhuman" (okay) to "don't be sad that people think you're subhuman" (really?). Some are arguing that the real problem with offering counseling is that it doesn't teach the kids "resilience". First of all, I wonder what they think goes on in counseling sessions -- my strong suspicion is that they are precisely about fostering resiliency so that students are better able to cope with such annoying trivialities like "I may be torn from the only home I've ever known at any moment and a sizeable portion of what I thought was my community will cheer as they drag me off." The objection here isn't so much to lack of resilience as to the university having the temerity to try and teach it -- like objecting to wilderness training because shouldn't real men already know how to survive outdoors? Second, it is hard not to hear in this objection a deep resentment at the fact that today, even now, some people still do proactively care about the feelings of others. The argument seems to be that "fifty years ago if someone felt marginalized on a college campus nobody gave a shit. Today, some people -- including a few holding administrative positions -- do care, and for some reason that's a step backwards for society." One can hear more than a little of the typical mockery associated with using therapy of any sort -- though I admit I hadn't heard it manifest this overtly in some time -- which suggests that only persons of pathologically fragile mental composition could ever need something as lily-livered as counseling. Again, I find this argument hard to relate to, seeing as its genealogy is so thoroughly bound up in nothing more complicated than pure cruelty. Shorn of the feelings of superiority it generates, can anyone actually defend this? Others complain that students shouldn't be going to therapy in response to such speech, they should be responding in other ways -- debate, protest, donations, activism, any thing else. Of all the objections, this is the one that is the most difficult to credit. Does anyone think that the only way Berkeley students will respond to Ben Shapiro's speech is by going to counseling sessions? That Friday morning, all 40,000 of us will march into whatever center houses our mental health professionals and demand to be soothed? Of course not. Of course there will be debate, and protest, and donations, and activism. And you can bet that however such actions manifest, people will still find a way to denounce the entire response tout court -- unjustified actions like violence, yes, but also silent protest, but also waving signs, but also pure condemnatory speech (especially if that speech dares use the dreaded -ism or -phobic suffixes). Finally, let's dispense with the notion that this is all being triggered by students who can't tolerate "ideas they disagree with." For starters, it's notable that while Alivisatos' email does not in fact refer to any speakers in particular, everybody simultaneously assumed they were talking about Ben Shapiro while at the same time being aghast at how anyone could possibly need counseling after hearing Ben Shapiro. Me thinks they protest to much. But more to the point: Berkeley regularly hosts speakers who will present ideas many on campus will disagree with. This week, David Hirsh is giving a talk on "Contemporary Left Antisemitism" -- surely, many on campus would resist his conclusions. Later this term, National Review editor Reihan Salam will be speaking on immigration policy -- with no known objections or protests planned. So the problem isn't ideas people disagree with. The problem is Ben Shapiro, and Ann Coulter, and Milo Yiannopoulos. One doesn't invite them to campus because they're presenting important ideas which need to be reckoned with. There are plenty of conservatives who fit the bill, and when those conservatives show up they are typically met with little fanfare. But if you're inviting this contingent, you're doing it because you like hurting people. That's their comparative advantage, that's the thing they can offer over and above all of their competitors. It neither bothers me, nor surprises me, nor offends me, that this offends certain students. If some portion of those students are in an emotional place right now where they feel like they need counseling, I encourage them to get it. If others want to protest the speech, I support their right to do so within the parameters of the law. If still others want to attend the speech, or subject Shapiro to harsh questioning, or pen scathing op-eds in the Daily Cal, I applaud them all for it. And each of these options got pride of place in Alivistos' email. All of these are valid responses. None of them are worthy of scorn, none of them signal any deficiency in our student body. What is far more worrisome is the reaction of the so-called "adults" in the media, who have grown so fond of bashing kids-these-days that they've seemingly forgotten the need to reason, much less to empathize. via The Debate Link http://ift.tt/2xjwwVY

[seekandfindgod-blog]

Impeachment ghosts haunt McConnell and Schumer

An up-and-coming congressman is running for the Senate and railing against impeachment. A rising senator in the other party is decrying the White House “smear campaign” against the investigation.

The year was 1998 and it was President Bill Clinton who was under siege by an impeachment inquiry, just as President Donald Trump is now. At the time, Chuck Schumer was blasting the impeachment drive while Mitch McConnell called for all sides to stick to the facts.

In the intervening 21 years, Schumer and McConnell might as well have swapped talking points.

The politics of impeachment have always revolved around hypocrisy and partisanship. These days, it’s just become easier to see. YouTube readily delivers embarrassing evidence of high-profile flip-flops: videos of Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.) arguing for impeachment in the ’90s have been a staple of Democratic Twitter accounts for weeks.

Yet the political stakes couldn’t be higher for McConnell, the majority leader, and Schumer, the minority leader, if the Senate is forced to sit in judgment of Trump. He would be the first president to seek reelection after being impeached by the House, if the Senate does not remove him from office. And control of the Senate is up for grabs.

So, the scrutiny over every one of the Senate leaders’ moves will be intense. The urge to compare and contrast what they said about Clinton and what they say about Trump will be irresistible. And both men will hammer the other with whatever they can dig out from the past.

“Being served soup from 20 years ago, it never tastes the same,” said Senate Minority Whip Dick Durbin (D-Ill.), who wanted to dismiss the impeachment trial of Clinton 20 years ago but now prefers deliberation on Trump. “We all look back, it’s a different time and a different place.”

Some things are the same.

The president’s party, then as now, is livid. The process is terrible and unfair, lawmakers complain, and what the president did was bad, but not impeachable.

The opposition sees things differently: Let’s get all the facts — the allegations are breathtaking.

Today, Schumer is urging impartiality as the House impeachment inquiry ramps up. The New York Democrat said Thursday that he’s not “prejudging” the case against Trump.

“We may be like a jury,” Schumer said on the Senate floor. “But we want the facts to come out. Not some, but all. That is our responsibility — to get the facts out — all of us.”

In 1998, though, Schumer sounded like McConnell does now in bashing the House process and aligning with the president. Running for the Senate as a House member who opposed Clinton’s impeachment, Schumer actually ended up voting against Clinton’s removal from office three times, a record that may never be broken.

Schumer voted against the Clinton impeachment articles in the House Judiciary Committee, on the House floor and then again as a brand-new senator in the February 1999 Senate trial.

During his Senate campaign, the New York Democrat was repeatedly pressed on how he could be impartial as a Senate juror if he opposed impeachment in the House.

“A vote for Chuck Schumer is a vote not to impeach the president?” NBC's Lisa Myers asked in late October 1998.

“Based on the present evidence, that is correct,” Schumer replied on the "Today" show.

Schumer spokesman Justin Goodman said the quote “came after the Starr investigation had concluded and been made public for more than a month.”

“He believed then and still believes now that all of the facts must come out and then a decision can be made — in stark contrast to Republicans who are trying to impede this important fact-finding mission from moving forward,” Goodman said.

Today, McConnell is running for reelection in a Trump-loving state, vowing to block the president’s removal with his power as majority leader.

“The way that impeachment stops is a Senate majority with me as majority leader,” he said in a web ad. He’s also introduced a resolution with Graham ripping the House’s impeachment inquiry.

Yet McConnell’s decades-old statements could be used verbatim by Democrats today to justify their inquiry into allegations that Trump withheld military aid to Ukraine unless Ukrainian officials began an investigation into Joe Biden and his family.

“The president has engaged in a persistent pattern and practice of obstruction of justice. The allegations are grave, the investigation is legitimate, and ascertaining the truth — the whole truth, and nothing but the unqualified, unevasive truth — is absolutely critical,” McConnell said at the time. He also pledged to be an impartial juror.

McConnell was then chairman of the National Republican Senatorial Committee, and Clinton’s impeachment dominated Senate races, including Schumer’s race against Republican Al D’Amato, who was sitting on the fence on impeachment. Senate Republicans hoped for big gains in November 1998, dreaming of a filibuster-proof majority.

But the public soured on the GOP’s drive to oust Clinton amid Democratic attacks on independent counsel Kenneth Starr and the GOP’s handling of the impeachment process. Senate Republicans didn’t pick up any seats. McConnell shrugged off the setback, served another term as NRSC chairman and eventually became the top Senate Republican and the majority leader.

“They are very different — very different cases and different people in different times. So I haven’t drawn any lessons,” said Sen. Mike Crapo (R-Idaho), who like Schumer was a House member elected to the Senate in 1998. Crapo voted for Clinton’s impeachment in both the House and Senate.

Crapo conceded it was a “fair observation” that Republicans are making the same argument today that Democrats did in 1998. But he also echoed the current GOP line, criticizing House Democrats for holding closed-door hearings to depose witnesses on the Ukraine scandal. Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) and her lieutenants are expected to hold public hearings at some point but haven’t decided when.

“What we see right now is basically just secrecy,” Crapo said in an interview.

Democrats note Starr was gathering evidence on Clinton and the House was holding closed-door witness depositions before the impeachment inquiry was formally approved by the chamber. They also say comparisons between the two cases aren’t legitimate.

“If they were going to try to get Donald Trump on all his many, many, many extramarital affairs, I’d say, ‘Why are we spending time on that?’” said Sen. Patrick Leahy (D-Vt.). “But an extramarital affair versus withholding American military aid to get political advantage, that’s something totally different.”

Leahy reminisced of persuading then-Majority Leader Trent Lott (R-Miss.) and Minority Leader Tom Daschle (D-S.D.) to hold a closed-door, senators-only meeting in the Old Senate Chamber to hash out the process before the Clinton impeachment trial began, a rare moment of bipartisanship in a toxic political environment. Schumer and McConnell may have to do the same.

Sen. Dianne Feinstein (D-Calif.) was opposed to Clinton’s impeachment and pushed for a censure resolution instead, a proposal floated by Democrats after the Monica Lewinsky scandal broke to signal condemnation of Clinton without removing him. Feinstein said she is keeping an open mind in the Trump case.

“The issues are so different,” said Feinstein, ranking member of the Judiciary Committee. “Censure is usually used in terms of one [episode.] I think this is just beginning. We’ve got a lot of work to do. I don’t think we should rush to judgment.”

Perhaps the senator most in conflict with his past positions is Graham. He said not complying with subpoenas could be an impeachable offense 20 years ago; these days, it’s difficult to tell what could change his mind about Trump.

After he unveiled his resolution with McConnell criticizing the House over its procedures, Graham was asked how he would have responded to that in 1998.

"If we were doing this, you'd be beating the shit out of us,” Graham said. “And we would deserve it.”

Marianne LeVine contributed to this report.

Article originally published on POLITICO Magazine

source https://www.politico.com/news/2019/10/28/impeachment-mcconnell-schumer-057950

[adeelusionaldiary]

I Invented Sex | A Trelly Short

Kelly’s eyes roamed over the shopping list and back to her cart, double checking that she had everything she needed. Walking towards the check out she joined what she deemed the shortest line. As she greeted the cashier, her iPhone began ringing. Upon seeing the caller her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.  It was Tremaine, a patient of hers. She had several clients that utilized the fact that she gave out her phone number, but he had never been one of them so seeing his number worried her. Sliding the accept button she placed the phone to her ear.

 "Hello."

 His voice came out panicked and fast that Kelly couldn't make out his words.

 “Tremaine, slow down. Take a deep breath and talk to me.” 

 She heard him do exactly as requested before he spoke up, “Doc, I need to see you. I fucked up big time.”

 Fucked up? 

 She didn’t want to make him anymore angst than he already was. "Can you FaceTime me or do you need to meet in person?"

 “In person. I'm nowhere near the office. I’m actually over in the Hills.”

 “Okay, I’m out right now, but should be home shortly. I’m going to text you my address and you can meet me there. I have a home office that hardly gets used.”

 “Thank you Doc.”

 “Tremaine, I’m sure whatever you did isn’t as bad as you think it is. I’ll see you soon.”

Hanging up Kelly shot off a quick text to Tremaine before she paid for her groceries. Placing them back into her cart, she made her way to the parking lot where she quickly loaded up her Range Rover in an attempt to beat Trey to her home. She was dressed in a maxi dress and would have preferred to give off a more professional vibe.

 Twenty minutes later she pulled into her driveway, but didn’t see any sign of Tremaine. Thank God. That would give her some time change and straighten up a little bit. Getting out the vehicle she began to unload her groceries. 

 “Let me help you with that.” 

 She turned in the direction of the voice to see Tremaine walking towards her dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a white t-shirt showcasing the hard work he put in at the gym. He took the bags from her hands a long with a few more from her backseat only leaving her with two bags. 

 “Thank you.”

 Fishing her keys out her purse she walked to the front door quickly opening it so the pair could make it to the kitchen. Setting the bags down on the island she looked towards Tremaine. 

 “Can I quickly unpack some of these and then we can start?”

 He nodded and actually lent a hand having the process go by quicker. Trey followed behind her taking in the view of her home. He had never had to call an emergency session that required her immediate presence, but the current happenings of his life were bothering him. It was like a bad case of nerves he couldn’t immediately shake and that’s when he knew he needed the doctor’s professional opinion. 

 "Make yourself comfortable Tremaine.” She said as they entered the office. She immediately opened the blinds to let some light in while Trey sat down in the couch noting the differences between her actual office and her at home one. The main difference being the exposed brick wall along with the dry erase board against the blue walls. She grabbed a notepad off her desk along with a pen and sat in the arm chair directly across from him.

 “So what has you so distressed Tremaine?”

 He took a deep breath as he scrubbed a hand over his face. Silence blanketed the room, but he knew Doctor Kelly wasn’t going to rush him. She in fact was extremely patient with him which as a virtue in itself. He’d been seeing her almost 3 years and she didn’t press too hard, but managed to get the necessary information out of him. 

 “Tinea.”

 His girlfriend's name. Kelly knew about her. She’d been mentioned in several sessions and at one point Kelly had even encouraged him to bring her along to these sessions, but she knew it was something Tremaine was still struggling to come to terms with. Bringing her meant he would be more vulnerable than he already was and he wasn’t ready to show that to Tinea. 

 “Well what’s the issue Tremaine?” 

 “She wants to bring other people into the bedroom.”

 “When did she tell you this and how did she comes to terms?”

 “Literally like a couple minutes after we finished fucking she started crying and told me that bullshit.” 

 Kelly concealed the smirk that wanted to land on her lips, by turning her attention to her notepad and jotting down a few notes. Tremaine had always been vulgar. When she first started counseling him she thought he used vulgarity to get under her skin, but it really was him. He had no filter and didn’t mind telling her exactly what was happening in his sex life.

  “Well before I get on to what was said how did it make you feel?”

  “I’m fucking pissed.” Tremaine shot up form his seat and began pacing which was unusual behavior for him. 

 “Doc, I just finish laying it down on her. With the amount of orgasms, I’d given here she was pretty much floating on a cloud. After everything was done I heard her sniffling. I turned to her thinking I triggered something and maybe she didn’t feel comfortable enough to use her safe word, but I would never intentionally do that Doc.”

  “I know Tremaine.”

  “I always want to make her feel safe especially since I’ve introduced her to this lifestyle full of shit she could’ve never imagined. I told you about the time we tried bringing someone else into her bedroom. I did that shit for her, but I was miserable. I hated seeing him enjoying her, but you already know that.”

 Kelly nodded. 

 “So she starts crying and I wrapped her up in my arms trying to get down to what had upset her. She started sobbing and I could barely make it out, but once she said it I felt cold. Not gonna lie I kinda pushed her off of me and left her alone. I just don’t get why she wants to try this shit again. A part of me feels like I’m not enough for her.”

  “Tremaine I’m sure that’s not it. Have you spoken to her about the way you felt?”

  “Not really.”

  "Well she isn’t a mind reader Tremaine, and you should know this lifestyle involves very open communication. She communicated her needs for another partner and now I think it’s fair you express your concerns and hopefully you two can reach a mutual agreement."

 “I’m not ready to talk"

 “Well when you introduced her to your kinks that we previously discussed how did she take it?”

  “I think she was a little weirded out, but she wanted to try it for the sake of me and surprisingly it worked for us Doc. I’ve been in enough relationships to know some woman aren’t comfortable enough with their sexuality to embrace a kink lifestyle. I’ve brought Tinea to exclusive clubs I’m apart of. She’s watched people have group sex. Hell we’ve had spectators while in those clubs. All of that is fine, but bringing another person into the equation I don’t know.”

 “Is it another person that bothers you or another man?”

 Tremaine stopped his pacing to look at Kelly as she arched an eyebrow at him. 

 As she thought and analyzed it didn’t seem as if another person was the problem. It seemed like he was scared to relive the experience of giving Tinea to another man. She knew how much he had struggled with it the first time it happened and considering he hadn't brought Tinea to a session she was actually surprised they had managed to work it out somewhat, but now it was looking like the issues was still there.

 “Let me phrase it better. If Tinea said she wanted to bring another female into the bedroom how would you feel about it?”

 Trey plopped down back into the couch and ran a hand through his grown out hair before a sigh left his lips.

 “Better, I suppose.”

 “So basically your ego is hurt?”

 “Doc, don’t do me like that.” Trey said.

 “I’m sorry Tremaine, but you understand where I’m coming from. I’m trying to keep it professional and as unbiased as possible, but this is really simple. You don’t want another man with her. You’re being greedy where you want to have your cake and to eat it too.”

 Kelly was partially right, but Trey didn’t want to admit that. 

 “Why do you always do that?”

 “Do what?"

 “Call me Tremaine. I’ve told you numerous times to call me Trey.”

 Kelly knew he was deflecting on her latest revelation but she allowed him a pass and instead of bringing the conversation back to the issues at hand she decided to entertain Trey.

 “I just like the way Tremaine sounds. Does it bother you that I call you Tremaine? If so I ca-"

 Tremaine cut her off.

 “Nah. I kinda like it. You’re actually the only one who calls me that besides my Mumma and she only say that when she’s mad.”

 Kelly bust out into a fit of laughter.

 “Now you laughing at me?”

 “No.” She bit her lip in an attempt to stifle her laughter.  

 “This office is very different from your everyday office."

 "Yeah a little more personal, I suppose." She created the space thinking she would utilize it a lot more often, but unfortunately that wasn't the case. Not too many emergencies popped up that required her to use it.

 "Doc, can I ask you something?"

 "Sure, Tremaine."

 "What kinks do you have?" 

 She could have choked on the saliva in her mouth at his question. 

 Tapping her pen on her notepad she looked at him. 

 "Tremaine, I don’t think that’s an appropriate conversation for us to be having."

 "C'mon Doc. I pour my heart out to you every week. The least you could do is share yourself."

 "The same way Tinea wants to share herself?"

 The moment the words left her lips she instantly regretted them. Kelly always prided herself on having the utmost professionalism so for her to throw something back in his face that he was struggling with was beneath her. You could tell he felt a way with the glare he sent her way. She'd be dead on the spot if he wanted. 

 Placing her notepad down she immediately went to Tremaine's side. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but common sense told her to leave him with some space. 

 "I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean that."

 His hands were clasped together, sitting atop his legs as he bounced.

 "You just triggered something in me with that question causing me to be on the defensive side, but that still isn't an excuse."

 His eyes softened at her confession before he turned his body turned to fully face her. Kelly let out a sigh before speaking up. 

 "So kinda like Tinea and you, the last person I was with was into kink. Not as much as me but he was no newbie to the world. We discussed our hard and soft limits. Everything seemed fine but the minute we got together it just all fell apart. I think it kinda boiled down to him never being with someone like me and it kinda pushed me back a little. Even the therapist has a therapist." She confessed, surprising herself that she had let Tremaine in on that part of her life. She knew why she did it, because she felt guilty for pushing him and this was sort of her way to make amends for her rude behavior earlier. 

 Trey eyed her as he licked his lips. 

 "I promise to leave it alone if you just answer. I'm just really curious.  We can get back to our session." 

 Her lifestyle wasn’t something she was ashamed of she just felt she was blurring lines with Tremaine with all these revelations, but nonetheless she gave in to temptation.

 "Fine but after this no more questions. So I'm what you'd call a switch. I can be a dom or submissive. It depends on who I'm with and how I feel. I'm really into bondage and the occasional flogging when I need to punished. Does that answer your question?"

 Trey stared at her for a moment before nodding. 

 "So have you figured out whether or not the issue is with another man or women?" 

 "Yeah," he said getting up. "Doc, I'm out. I appreciate the help."

 She wanted to object to him leaving, but it was probably best he did. 

 "Take care of yourself Tremaine."

  A frustrated sigh left her lips as she asked herself what the fuck just happened.

 -

 Emerging from the shower Kelly dropped her towel and began to rub cocoa butter on her body. The doorbell sounded through her home startling her. She immediately took note of the time noting it was nearing midnight. Who would possibly be at her home now? Grabbing her robe, she slipped it on and fastened the belt around her frame.

 The ringing of the doorbell grew frantic causing her to move faster. Looking through the peephole she quickly opened the door.

 "Tremaine what are you doing here.? It's almost midnight. Is everything okay?"

 “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

 He grabbed hard pulling her body flush against his, before he leaned down and kissed her.

 Kelly's brain took a minute to catch up before she pushed Tremaine away from her.

 "Have you lost your damn mind?" Kelly asked.

 "I want you." 

 "No, go home to Tinea. She's probably worried sick about you."

 Kelly brought up Tinea's name hoping Tremaine would have some common sense and leave her alone.

 "You need to be punished for earlier." His eyes dark and his words menacing.

 "Go home, Tremaine!" The fear evident in her voice, not because she was scared, but because she couldn't deny how turned on she was and if they took this step forward it would be over for them, more specifically Kelly. 

 Of course she knew he was dominant because they'd discuss it in several sessions, but she'd never seen it in person and didn’t expect to. 

 She took a step back causing him to move forward with their stares locked on one another. Kelly didn’t know what he was going to and that idea scared her.

 Trey reached out managing to catch Kelly off guard and pulling the tie that kept her robe closed. Her skin glistened as her naked body greeted him.

 “Tremaine!” She shouted as she used her hands to hold her robe closed, but wasn’t doing a very good job. His height advantage caused him to still be able to see glimpses of her nude body.

 “Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll leave.”

 “Go home.” She said attempting to side step him to get to the door so she could get him out her home.

 “That’s not what I asked you to say.”

 She swallowed the lump in her throat because she wanted this, but was having problems coming to terms with that. There were too many questions and variables. Tinea wanted an open relationship while Trey was on the fence about it, but now he was here in her home, pursuing her. The plethora of emotions only confused her, but she knew she was horny and in this moment two things could fix that; the toys in her draw along with her fingers or Tremaine.

 “Lucky.”

 “What?” He asked confused as to what she was talking about.

 “The safe word is lucky.”

 She said grabbing his face and kissing him. Tremaine let her savor in the moment before he grabbed a handful of her hair pulling her away from him.

 “You’re not in control here. Get your ass on the couch.”

 Kelly walked over to the couch sitting down.

 “Nah, assume the position. You ‘bout to take this beating like a good girl.”

 Slipping out of her robe she let it drop to the floor as she got comfortable on her hands and knees on the sectional. Her body exposed to Trey as he watched her intently while licking his lips. His hand made its way down her spine causing her to arch her back. Bringing his hand down he slapped her ass, causing her to wince. Removing the belt from his jeans he snapped it causing Kelly to look back at him with worry. The belt made contact with her skin and Kelly let out a yelp.

 “I’m sorry.”

 “You’re not, but you will be.”

 Nothing was off limits for him. Everything from her ass, to her thighs to her back took a hit from the belt. When he was done with her, he admired his work in the form of the marks covering her skin.

 “Please.” Kelly begged.

 “What?”

 “I need you, to touch me.”

 He cupped her pussy allowing his hand to be encompassed in her heat.

 “That shit really turned you on, huh?” Without looking at him she knew he was smirking at what he had accomplished. She was practically dripping for him. His fingers met her wetness as  he pumped them in and out of her causing Kelly to let out a moan.

 "Did you learn your lesson?"

 "Yes." 

 He could feel her walls clenching around his fingers. 

 "Oh my god, Im gonna cum." She warned causing his fingers to come to a stop.

 She looked back at him with one question why. It was bad enough he had punished her and now he was going to sexually frustrate her too. Bringing his fingers to her mouth she licked them clean as he removed a condom from his pocket. Dropping his pants along with his boxer brief, he sheathed himself before entering Kelly from behind. 

 A sigh left his lips as her walls welcomed him. He slowly started stroking her and her cries of pain became ones of pleasure, before he slapped her ass again causing her body to shudder.

 “Fuck.” Kelly said. “I’m sorry.” She whined.

 His fingers dug into her hips as his strokes increased in speed as he pounded into her. Surprisingly, Kelly managed to throw her sore ass back matching him stroke for stroke. Her screams muffled, but the one that stood out was the sound of her name barely being able to leave his lips as she came hard, milking him for his own orgasm. He collapsed next to her on the sectional. Her breathing heavy as she looked at him with hooded eyes. Their bodies still connected. 

 “Are you okay? Do you need me to rub you down with anything?”

 Even if they weren’t together he still wanted to make sure she was good. After all, that was essential to any BDSM relationship. 

 “I’m fine. A little pain, but nothing I can’t handle.” She said with a light chuckle.

 They just laid there in silence and Trey should have probably gotten up and made his exit, but he couldn’t. Not without getting what he wanted off his chest. 

 “Doc, I want you to join us."