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dysphxtric · 3 years ago

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Mental Illness - My Mental Health Story

TW: Depression, Anxiety, Self harm, Suicide, Sexual Harassment

“You should smile more.”

“It could be worse.”

“Just don’t think about it.”

These were the phrases I heard throughout all of my elementary and high school years. There was never a time when my peers and teachers, would not mention some bizarre, ignorant statement revolving around mental health. Not to mention, my family also contributed heavily to the stigmatization of mental health issues. Essentially, my family approached the subject of mental health with extreme hesitation, they refused to talk about how it affects people of all age, gender, ethical background (etc.) Every time I would say “I’m feeling lost” my family would automatically dismiss my frantic worries and it was not any different when I went to school. My peers would continuously remind me that my pain was not valid and that I need to stop being so sensitive. My primary parental figures, my mother and brother did not have the adequate knowledge or tools to be able to hold space for me. I would frequently hear my mom say, “I could understand someone suffering from PTSD feeling upset or sad but you’re so young and healthy honey, you have nothing to worry about” or the old classic “Someone else has it worse than you”. Whether I was at home or at school, I heard the same ignorant statements spewing out from what felt like everyone. And I could never comprehend what was the point of these falsely “encouraging” statements and why profusely use them? These kinds of statements do not uplift, nor do they empower those struggling with mental health issues, if anything it makes it extremely debilitating when your emotions are not acknowledged nor validated. One cannot expect to simply brush away another person’s emotion, thought or feeling as though it means nothing.

With that being said, growing up, I lived in a dysfunctional household alongside my mother, my older brother, and my grandmother. My mother would always be juggling work, schooling, and her dating life. My brother was very reluctant about staying home so he would always vanish after school, hang out with friends, party hard and engage with various street substances. Now my grandmother? It was not long after she immigrated that she began to immerse herself within the Jehovah’s Witnesses ideology and “religiously” strayed away from us as my mother likes to say. My mother was never fond of religious practices that were not “orthodox”. My grandmother wanted to indoctrinate my mom, brother, and I into joining her religious little club but failed which resulted in countless fights, yelling matches, and multiple dents left in our walls. The back and forth with the yelling was what scared me most in my childhood even if it was over something as small as not closing the cabinet door. I think it was around this time period I experienced violence/ trauma at home and truth be told I was extremely stressed and anxious all the time as a kid. My mother would cover the punched indents by taking magazines and sticking pages onto the indent. Often times my stomach would turn as I looked at the pages covering the area where my brother punched the wall with brutal force. Moreover, I felt impending sadness because all I ever wanted was for everyone in my family to be able coexist and not argue. I was trying to keep the peace between everyone, yet I was always the one that got caught in the middle of everything whether I liked it or not. I would get blamed a lot for trying to mend things for everyone. Even though all I wanted was the best for all my family members.

Fast forward to my pre-teen/ teenage years. By this point, my brother and grandmother were no longer living under the same roof as my mother and I. My brother was living with his ex-girlfriend while working as a security guard meanwhile my grandmother was living in her own little subsidized apartment preaching the word of Jehovah. At that particular time, my mother and I lived in a marvellous urban semi-detached house in a peaceful neighbourhood. My mother’s boyfriend had moved in with us and for the most part I was really happy because at least it was not just me and her.

My mother’s boyfriend lived with us while I was going to school. He was a really nice, caring and warm-hearted individual although I could never understand why my mother argued with him so much. I once told him “You should propose to her, I can see you two together forever” to which he replied with a welcoming smile.

But eventually just like with all good things, there comes an end. The inevitable breakup my mom went through was very bitter and I had to be there for her. Afterall, I was technically the only child that was around to emotionally comfort her. Ironically, the breakup occurred during the time I was being bullied in school. And it was difficult to be fully present for my mother while dealing with a lot of negativity at school. I had been experiencing cyber bullying on MSN by a bunch of peers calling me “weird”, “ugly” and “different”. To make matters worse, the group of kids that bullied me online ended up following me everywhere I went for recess which posed as a big obstacle for my well being. I had to eat inside the portables when teachers weren’t around or inside the girl’s bathroom stall just to avoid being teased. I never felt like I had a safe space to myself where I could be vulnerable and open up. Not to mention, it was a difficult time and there was practically no one I could confide in. I didn’t have a social circle of supportive friends, after all I was an antisocial person. Fear washed over me as I worried about disclosing my unpleasant experience to my mother because she was already dealing with so much, the heartbreak, the bills, work problems (etc.), it was then and there that I decided to lie instead of telling the truth. Ultimately, lying became my cooping mechanism to deal with the ongoing pain.

I kept up the lying for a long time in order to make it seem like everything was okay. I lied to everyone from family members to school peers to the teaching staff to principals to counselors.

For the longest time, lying sheltered me from all sorts of unnecessary questions. No one could really tell whether I was truthful or disloyal because I was able to make it sound believable. When I was a teenager, I continued to go down the same destructive path by being dishonest with myself and others. Many times, the thought of suicide crossed my mind and when I started to think about it and plan/coordinate the intricate details it did not hit me that something was very wrong, and I needed urgent help. A big part of the problem was that I was so used to downplaying my pain, given my family circumstance and stigmatization I experienced growing up with. There is no denying that I would engage in negative self talk convincing myself that I deserved the pain and suffering for not being likeable enough or for not being smart enough.

Sometimes I think that is the thing… people do not understand that I lied because that was what I was required to do in order to survive my childhood. I, myself do not tolerate lying and I think it is a form of betrayal and if I were to be completely honest, I would have NEVER lied to my mom had it been safe for me to express myself authentically in my household.

I did not live in a household where it was safe to speak my mind freely and disagree with my mother. Disagreeing was always the last thing I wanted to do, disagreeing meant I got the belt, my devices would get confiscated or that I was going to get grounded. They say, “Honesty is the best policy” and I do not disagree however, it is not as black and white as one may think. In my situation, lying was not only an adaptive coping mechanism but it became a survival mechanism to keep me safe from harm/threat.

I did not have very much individuality growing up. I felt as though having an opinion of my own was bad. In order to perpetuate this fixated mindset that I had, my mother constantly deemed certain attributed behaviours or thoughts as “good” or “bad”. So, say you were upset about a recent breakup with your partner, my mother would scoff and say, “You know life isn’t just about love right?” and play it like it means nothing to the person affected by the situation.

The first time I ever felt depressed was when I was 13. At that age I did not understand why I was feeling what I was feeling. All I knew was that there was something wrong with me. It did not help when I was being picked on by my classmates telling me “Go die”, “You belong in a ditch ugly bitch.”

The moment when things started getting out of hand was when I was first started my Art and Family Studies class in the same semester. In both classes I was placed into groups amongst other students. In Family Studies I had to be in a collaborative group that would divide responsibilities and tasks accordingly. When it came to cooking, my group consisted of four snobby, rich yet immature peers who were unwilling to help and contribute in any shape or form, I had to become the bigger person and sure enough I took all the responsibilities on myself. Though, it was not a smart move. But I was super shy and felt anxious to do anything different least to say speak up and advocate for myself, so I did what I had to do which was prepare meals, clean, and wash the dishes. At the end of the day, none of my peers thanked me, the only thank you I got was getting groped while washing the dishes and getting laughed at.

After what happened I ran to my best friend in tears to tell her what happened just to find her say “It’s not that bad, you’ll be fine” I felt like my blood was going to boil and I was about to start fuming. I stood thinking “Huh, that is so weird, is this how you comfort a person after being sexually harassed?”

Not to sound all grim but that experience showed me that no one really cared about me. No one cared that I got groped or how I felt in that moment. Let alone not even my “best friend” who was supposed to fulfill her role and be there for me. All I wanted was comfort and to be heard out. I could not even tell my mother about this experience until I turned 21 because of how ashamed I felt carrying around that experience and not having the ability to open up and mourn what happened that day and to be able to heal that damaged part of myself. I carried that incident with me for 7 years in silence because I was scared of being honest.

That specific experience was very detrimental to my mental health. Everything began to spiral out of control, I sprawled into a dark depressive state. I began to have intense panic attacks, insomnia, forgetfulness (etc.) After a certain duration of time, I had thoughts of suicide lingering at the back of my head. I questioned my worth, my identity, my culture, my everything.

The bullying and name calling persisted and became so intense that I ended up missing weeks of school time. Some of the boys in my Art class found it funny to make fun of my last name and call me “Prostitute”.

One day in the early springtime, my Art teacher noticed the marks on my wrists as I was painting and had not said anything until I made it to my last period class. I was called down to the guidance counselors office and was interrogated with questions.

“It has come to our concern that one of the staff members noticed cuts on your arms.”

I sat in silence trying hard to contain my anxiety.

“Are you struggling with depression or low mood? Is everything okay at home?”

It came to the point when I got so tired of lying about my pain that I admitted “Yes, I am struggling, I need help”. I dived into the bullying occurrences, the cat calling, my low grades, my self-esteem, the groping, my home situation (etc). After that, I was told that my mother would have to be called down to the school for “safety” reasons even though my counselor promised not to disclose any personal information to my mother. My greatest fear was that I did not want my mom to know that something was wrong.

Of course, my mom came to my school. She was told everything that had happened. I met her at the counselor’s office just to find her wailing in distress “You are such an embarrassment” and “Your counselor told me what you did, how could you do this?”. When the counselor gave us resources for help, my mother grabbed the papers and shoved them into the trash, got up and yanked me out the office.

The next three days that followed, my mother withdrew into her room not saying a word to me. I felt really uneasy and upset. She had her right to be alone but locking herself away from me and avoiding communication altogether? Didn’t make much sense.

I felt extremely guilty for not opening up to my mother sooner. But instead of choosing to be compassionate and caring she chose to resort to anger. She furiously blamed me for being “quiet” and “not trustful” which all landed on my shoulders again. It was “my” fault I thought.

Bottling this up resulted in a full-blown mental breakdown. I could not focus or concentrate because of everything building up. It came to the point where my mom had to choose between living in a toxic community or starting fresh elsewhere.

And even though my mother kept subjecting me to her harmful stigmatizations, the transition from my old school to my new one helped me greatly. When we moved away, I gradually started to feel better emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Very quickly, I ended up adapting to my new high school where I finally made friends.

One thing I cannot deny is that there definitely was a silver lining to all of this. Although I went through severe bullying and torment at school and home, I managed to reclaim my power and through that I discovered my inner peace after being extracted from my toxic high school. The new school that I ended up attending completely changed me and inspired me to become a more authentic version of myself. It was almost as though I did a complete 180°

My new peers and teachers were enthusiastic, open-minded and caring. The new community I was surrounding myself in was a very positive one that broke down stigmas and encouraged deep understanding and acceptance. My mind was blown when I found that it was easier to conversate with girls and guys at my new school, I was gradually becoming confident and more vocal, and I liked the feeling of not hiding myself away from the world. It felt rejuvenating to finally be heard and seen by others.

Slowly but surely, I began to partake in various activities at my school. I joined the Poetry Club which I would have never considered joining had I stayed back in my old school due to fear of how I was perceived. Ultimately, I started caring and nurturing myself more. My new friends supported me, and teachers began to openly listen to my stories and encouraged me to write. When I started writing, I realized that I could use this medium to cope with my depression and anxiety. The acknowledgment made a major difference in my life like never before.

If it were not for the transition from my old high school, I would have not made progress in developing into the woman I am today. I know that I am not my pain, I am not my mistakes.

Do I still struggle and have bad days? Yes, of course. Just like any human being I have my days when I am not feeling the greatest however, I am more open to learning about how to engage with my mind, body and soul in order to soothe myself during turbulent times. I still have that inner critic however, I have been engaging with activities such as bike riding, painting, drawing, and reading to help occupy my mind which as a result has reduced the time that I spend ruminating. Occupying myself has worked magic, I am now able to reduce and control how much time I spend self-loathing, criticizing, and judging myself. Rather than judging every thought, I’ve learned to slow down and observe.

If you stuck along until the end of my story, I want to thank you for reading through my experience. My hope is that my story can shed some light on the myths and stigmas surrounding mental health, especially within the Eastern European community. I want you all to know that you are ALL valid and I wanted to be able to share my story so that my readers know that they are not alone.

#mental health #mental health awareness #depression #mdd #mood disorder #anxiety #gad #my story #hope #bullying #narcissistic parent #end the stigma #recovery #fyp

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i-write-shakespeare-not-disney · 5 years ago

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Director’s Commentary- Fragile Hearts, not being ready for that next step

My commentary is in bold. Slight nsfw warning. Pretty tame but the scene is there, so read at your discretion.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “No, it's okay, love. I just… just don't want to get too carried away.”

“Is that for yourself or for me?”

Hunk brushed his nose against hers. “You. I know… I know you said you haven't done anything. And you went through some shitty people….” He touched her face lightly and twirled a strand of hair that fell forward around his finger. “It's not something I want to trigger or rush or-” At this point, Hunk does feel absolutely certain that he wants to go through with this whenever Pidge is ready. It’s up to her to decide when they do or don’t. (In his mind)

Pidge leaned in to kiss him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She pulled back and buried her face in the crook of his neck. “I trust you. I feel safe with you.” She pulled away to look him in the eyes. “Ever since I got back on Earth, I haven't felt safe around any guys. Especially after what happened in my friend's dorm…. Based off of my own experience. It was alluded to before, but since this is commentary, I can clarify- basically she got felt up and froze at a friend’s dorm. But with Lance and Matt, I feel okay. And with you?” She grabbed his hands and intertwined them with hers. “I feel so safe with you. I don't feel afraid of anything when I'm with you.” She kissed his hands and rested her cheek against one. “I know you'd never hurt me.”

Hunk smiled at her and kissed her again. “Well if it's alright with you… I don't really want to do this on my living room floor.” Pidge laughed and nodded in agreement.

She stood up so he could stand too. Then he scooped her up in his arms, making her shriek and laugh as she clung to him. Fun time and laughs <3 true love

He carried her to the bedroom and laid her slowly on the bed. Pidge's heart was pounding with what the night had decided to surprise her with. She didn't believe in the whole concept of her worth laying in her virginity. She'd never been religious enough to identify with that. But that didn't mean it wasn't important.

Sex was something intimate and vulnerable to her. She wanted her first time to matter and of course she wanted it to be special. She was still nervous, though. Hunk was her best friend. She loved him with all her heart. He knew her better than anyone. But everything would still be new, and not knowing what to expect… that scared her. I just like being clear in stories that virginity and sex can mean whatever you want it to. It can be fun, it can be unimportant, it can be sacred, etc. I try not to make it seem like a life-changing thing or like something that holds a person’s worth because I’m still struggling to get rid of that mindset and guilt because that’s what I was taught for so long and I don’t think it’s fair. It can be important to you (sex or virginity) without defining your self-worth

Hunk had returned to kissing her. A kiss not unlike all their other kisses when they were alone. Slow. Gentle. Soothing.

One hand held him up, the other rubbed soothing circles against her side, over her shirt.

Pidge took his hand and led him under her shirt, letting his hand splay across her stomach. He traced his fingertips there, not quite tickling, but still lightly enough to give her goosebumps. His breaths turned shallow. At the moment, a reader would think it’s from being turned on and about to have sex. But really this it about when Hunk’s panic sets in.

He kissed her neck again and this time Pidge arched up into him. Heat pooled in her stomach, between her legs, and she felt her heart pound louder in her ears. His hand trailed up just under her bra and he hesitated.

“Okay?” he asked with a shaky voice. again his shaky voice is a pointer to the panic he’s feeling and wants to hide. She nodded and his finger traced the top edges of the cup. Skin she had never let anyone touch. She shivered, her breaths trembling as her toes curled.

Her shirt was hiked up as far as it could go, but oddly enough she didn't feel as self-conscious as she thought she would. Her skin was pale, with obvious tan lines with the recent spring and summer sun. Freckles everywhere. Her stomach wasn't flat no matter how often she told herself she'd start working out again. And then the scars. Long, white, jagged lines that had faded only slightly over time. Pidge listing her “defects” but still feeling comfortable says a lot about how much trust she placed in Hunk.

Hunk's knee nudged her legs apart and she gasped when he settled himself between them. He was breathing heavily a sound that was loud over the hammering of her heart in the quiet room. He’s freaking the fuck out. But Pidge was absorbed in her own nervousness and had the assumption that Hunk wanted this and was just waiting on her to be ready. Which was the original feeling, but... trauma man. Pidge was grateful for the slowness of it all. He pulled his hand away to settle on the mattress and burrowed his face against her shoulder. His beard tickled, but before Pidge could comment, he scooped his arms around her and she realized he was shaking.

She stilled and moved her hands to his face, insisting on getting him to look at her.

“Hey, what is it?”

“Nothing,” he whispered. But she recognized that look in his eyes. That distant look like he wasn't fully there, the furrow of his eyebrows. His lower lip trembled and his breaths hadn't slowed down. “I'm okay.” As a guy, Hunk feels like he has to be okay. Guys love sex, he should be okay. Well, no. That’s not how it works. Trauma is trauma regardless of gender. At this moment, Hunk couldn’t stop thinking of the other times and the way he was basically coerced into sex through guilt or just plain insistence and having his gender used against him. It’s nothing Pidge did, it’s just that those are the only experiences he had, and all he had to go off of. And it sucks because it leaves him feeling dirty and even though he wasn’t coerced here, to him, if he already agreed then he has to do it. More explanation later.

“Hunk. We can stop. You can tell me if you want to stop.” CONSENT. GUYS SHOULD BE ABLE TO GIVE CONSENT TOO! Just like girls should be able to say stop or no whether they already said yes, whether they’re in the middle of sex, or whatever, the same goes for guys.

He sighed and settled over her, his arms around her, holding her between himself and the bed. He rested his head on her chest and she settled for running her fingers through his hair.

She could still feel the slight tremors of his body. His voice was small when he spoke. “But it's you. I love you, and-” Hunk feels frustrated because he thinks he shouldn’t feel this way because he knows sex with Pidge would be different. But again, the trauma happens and has its effects.

“And we don't need to do this for me to believe that. I know you love me. And you always make me feel loved. But you've had your own bad history with this, and I understand if you want to wait more. Besides, I was kind of nervous too.” She ran her fingers along his tattooed arm and smiled. “We've got time. We're not in a war that's gonna put us in danger. I'm not on the other side of the country anymore.”

He turned to bury his face in her chest. She was flat enough that it was still a chaste gesture, and for once, she didn't feel so self-conscious about small boobs. He didn’t speak again until he’d stopped hyperventilating. THEY FIT SO WELL TOGETHER YKNOW

“I love you,” he said, muffled by her bunched up shirt. “But… I think I do need to stop.” Acceptance. Acknowledging he’s not ready, and realizing he’s allowed to say so.

“Okay,” she said. “I love you too.” She followed the swirl of black ink in his skin. “Can you tell me about your tattoos again?” This is Pidge’s way of leading Hunk into an easy topic of conversation without demanding explanations if Hunk doesn’t want to talk about them.

#director's commentary

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bisiji3 · 4 years ago

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Abortion is also called interruption of pregnancy, induced abortion,

or Intentional termination of pregnancy.

The act of removing or causing the death of the fetus,

in China,

people generally don’t discuss anything about bioethical issues such as abortion.

Many people have voluntary abortion in the context of the one-child policy,

or are forced to obtain abortion by relevant authorities.

In many countries (especially in Western countries), abortion is very controversial.

The main issues are about morality, religion and female's physical autonomy.

From a Buddhist viewpoint,

abortion is equivalent to killing an Arhat.

Arhats are the Buddhist practitioners of Theravada Buddhism.

They cut off all desires

in order to purify themselves and obtain the fruits of karma.

Because the fetus is in the abdomen,

it makes everything impossible to connect with the evil.

The fetus is considered as a completely pure life,

that’s why the Buddha includes the killing of a fetus as the five felonies in Buddhism,

which is the heaviest crime violating the Buddha dharma,

and the criminal must have eternal suffering in hell.

Those who have abortions will suffer not only in hell after death,

but severe illness and shortened life as karma during the lifetime.

Indeed,

many women cannot get rid of physical and psychological trauma after the abortion.

Abortion often becomes an indelible scar in life.

Some people get all kinds of diseases after abortion.

Even if they might not be sick,

their guilt and pain,

or the suspicious feelings

are comparable to the torment of hell (Master Xin Wu)

The negative karma of abortion:

Fertility difficulties.

Discord between wife and husband.

Inexplicable fight and quarrel.

It becomes easier for both people to lose their minds,

or even marital breakdown occurs.

Children are not filial.

Children scream and cry without any reason.

Always hear a voice saying,

‘’Go to hell!’’

This is the voice from the life of another dimensional space and time.

Poor health

with various diseases

which are hard to get cured.

Physically and mentally painful.

Work doesn’t go well.

No luck in making money.

The loss of good fortune.

The eminent monk's instructions for the karma of abortion.

Master Xin Wu stated: the common consequences of abortion include

Infertility

Miscarriage

Stillbirth

Ectopic pregnancy

Bleeding and infection

Exhaustion

Shock and coma

Uterine perforation

Peritonitis

Intense pain

Loss of body organs

Insomnia

Anorexia

Reduced work capacity

Very nervous

Breast cancer

If the fetus holds a secret grudge,

after the reincarnation,

it will revenge in various sorts of way,

such as killing, wounding, cheating, robbing, insulting...

People often get murdered, injured or suddenly lost control of their consciousness

or have the desire to kill someone else accidentally or inexplicably,

it’s all because of the karma.

Khenpo Sodargye: Abortion is almost as five kinds of evil acts leading to rebirth in the unremitting hell.

People in ancient times are more innocent.

Natural fertilized.

They also love their family and flesh and blood.

People seldomly had abortion or committed infanticide.

According to the text on Buddhist scriptures,

killing the fetus is almost equivalent to committing five kinds of evil acts leading to rebirth in the unremitting hell.

The burden and worry of people in modern society became heavier and heavier.

People don’t follow the instructions of the ancient sages anymore.

They don’t know restrain selfish desires.

They are full of evil ideas,

and complicated social problems.

Mater Lu Hui: Abortion is killing

For the pregnancy less than 49 days,

when the abortion is made, it is equivalent to the inferior homicide.

For the pregnancy of more than 49 days,

And when the abortion is made, it is equivalent to superior homicide.

Those who take the five precepts or bodhisattva precepts are considered as breaking the fundamental precept.

This is a serious killing.

Be careful.

Don’t have any abortion!

Spirits that are reborn as the children of their parent

mean that their destiny is tightly connected.

If the mother has been pregnant for several months

and tries to use induced abortion to remove the child,

that child might become an infant spirit

staying with their parents

until their destiny with their parents comes to an end that they will go to reincarnation.

Induced abortion is to end a life that will have been born.

It will make a bad bond.

And it will have a bad influence on parents themselves!

Master Xuan Hua: Abortion and intractable diseases

I would like to give a piece of advice to everyone.

Keep the morality of husband and wife relationship.

Don't divorce.

Take good care of your children,

and make the family happy.

And the country will become peaceful accordingly.

In addition, I want to persuade everyone not to have any abortion.

Think about it.

A life that hasn’t yet been born

became the revengeful spirit asking for people’s life.

Desperate ghosts everywhere,

do you think the society will be peaceful?

These ghosts need people who are not greedy and had religious practice to achieve the reincarnation.

It is hard to get rid of infant ghosts.

Extremely difficult.

Sins and karma are everywhere.

Can you say you want a peaceful life in this situation?

The problem of abortion is very serious.

So many intractable diseases in the world today

are mainly because of abortion.

The unborn life might think: You made me die so early,

so I won't make your life easier.

Therefore,

that’s the reason why we have so many intractable diseases.

According to the history of abortion,

before 1550 B.C.,

we’ve known that the earliest abortion was performed in the ancient Egypt from the most ancient medical book, Ebers Papyrus.

The abortion in China began in the Han Dynasty according to the historical records.

And there were three forms of abortion techniques.

After Tang and Sung Dynasty

due to the pressure of population growth,

abortion has become widespread in some regions,

leading to the publicization and professionalization of abortion.

But because of the traditional idea of reproductivity and anti-abortion,

we’ve been looked down on the technology,

and it has never been perfect.

Thus, the human being has paid the blood price for a long period of time.

Abortion has been a controversially social phenomenon since ancient times.

As an objective fact,

it always exists in our lives.

And it has been recorded in a book of the Han Dynasty…

in the Volume 97 "The Story of Yuan Hou" of "Han Shu":

"During the rule of Emperor Cheng of Han,

the Empress Zhao Feiyan and her sister Zhao Hede have been favored by the emperor for more than ten years, without any children.

To always be favored by the emperor,

they forced the palace servants to get pregnant and made them have abortion – they put people who got pregnant to death and make those pregnant women drink the poison for the removal of children. "

The physical side effects of abortion are as below:

It may cause menstrual disorders.

A few patients have irregular cycles,

prolonged menstrual periods,

and most patients have increased menstrual bleeding after abortion.

It may also cause cervical adhesions or intrauterine adhesions.

Cervical adhesions could result in hematometra,

causing infection of the endometrial cavity.

It might cause habitual abortion in the future.

More abortions are performed, so the greater possibility of abortion,

and cause lifelong infertility.

Uterine perforation: the more the number of weeks of pregnancy

the higher the risk is, and the more miscarriages may occur.

The chance of perforation increases as well,

People with abnormal position and shape of uterus, or previously operated uterus (caesarean section or myomectomy), have a greater chance of perforation.

Cervical or endometrial mucus: when performing an induced abortion,

if the doctor’s performance is too careless,

It is likely to cause injury and inflammation of the cervix or lining,

And it is possible to cause postoperative adhesions of cervix or endometrium, and menstrual abnormalities as well.

If people have amenorrhea or extremely light menstrual blood flow,

those belonging to the severs cases will have problems such infertility in the future.

Cervical trauma: during the process of induced abortion,

if you are not careful enough,

and the cervical dilation happens too fast,

it may cause damage to the cervix,

and make miscarriage easy to happen during the pregnancy in the future.

It happens more often for women who are pregnant for the first time or have not given birth.

Incomplete miscarriage: if the operation is incomplete,

a small amount of fetal tissue might remain in the uterus.

It may affect uterine contraction and cause continuous bleeding, adhesions, infection, etc.

In this case, it is better to do another operation to carefully remove the remaining tissue.

Abnormal position or shape of the uterus

is easier to cause this kind of sequela.

Bacterial infection: If the tool is not completely disinfected,

or the operator didn’t pay attention to the aseptic process,

it may cause intrauterine infection,

or even continue to infect the fallopian tube and pelvic cavity.

In severe cases, it may cause ectopic pregnancy or infertility in the future

Psychological impact

Abortion makes people feel guilty,

have suicidal impulse,

withdraw,

regret,

lose confidence,

have weaker self-esteem,

become hostile and angry,

feel desperate and helpless,

feel hateful to people related to abortion,

end the relationship with their partner,

loss libido,

unable to forgive themselves,

and cause psychological disorders such as nightmares.

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spamzineglasgow · 5 years ago

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(ESSAY) Thinking With Vahni Capildeo’s ‘Odyssey Calling’, by Azad Ashim Sharma

In this essay, Azad Ashim Sharma voyages the fraught expanse of colonial legacy, migration and racism explored in Vahni Capildeo’s stunning new pamphlet from Sad Press, Odyssey Calling (2020). Addressing the poems through close reading and reference to critical histories and cultural expression, from Windrush to Greek myth to Stormzy, Sharma shows how Capildeo’s work, while plugged into the reverberations of historical traumas and harms, also feels into the base/bassline of a possible future, building a living intensity through and against post-Brexit Britain.

> I recently attended a conference at the Institute of Contemporary Art in London called ‘Thinking Art’ which closed with a performance-lecture by Ayesha Hameed. Hameed took the audience through videos and lyrical thoughts to Barbados and her research into the Plantationocene – a theory that looks at Climate Change from the perspective of the slave-plantation. In the questions after, Hameed discussed how electronic music had added another dimension to this long project, and described how the baseline pulled at her organs and connected her with the ground, with the roots, with history. The last words of Vahni Capildeo’s recent Chapbook Odyssey Calling (Sad Press, 2020) are: indigo blue baseline (p.34). Since its publication Odyssey Calling has pulled at my organs. In what follows I want to think with the energy and spirit of this new collection, to feel the pull of its baseline, and understand what rhythms of contemporary life Capildeo attends do.

> Capildeo’s collection of poems and musings on some of their recent creative experiments captures a moment in our fraught times that warrants witnessing, demands listening, attends to the contemporary expressions of racism whilst conjuring a ‘humming brain-cave [that] you can step into’ (OC, p.2). This pamphlet offers itself to its reader as ‘a magic gift’ which ‘create[s] active silence[s]’ from which one can contemplate a true experience of our moment (Ibid). This humming or active silence is exactly what the baseline is, a low rumble, the sound of the sub, the undercommons, a play on ‘white noise’ as ‘Azure Noise’ (p.3). It’s a sound that laps at the body bringing it into grounding and into a liquiform murmur. Azure noise is the sound that Lewis Gordon has in mind when he reflects on ‘our willingness to become ancestors’ and ‘join a stream of accountability through descendants’ (Melancholia Africana Foreword, p. xi). It is the sound of gratitude as much as it is our riotous cry against the erasure of our history. That azure-noise is the sound of this ‘brain-cave’ implies an echo, a reverberation, an openness and willingness to hear and to summon the spirits, of those who have passed on, those who have been killed before their time, and those to whom we are responsible.

> What I mean precisely by this moment is what has been described by Maya Goodfellow as a ‘hostile environment’ in which the lives of those of migrant descent and newly arrived migrants are made unbearable, untenable, unliveable. As a direct consequence of the 2014 and 2019 Immigration Acts, what we are now witnessing in the UK from the deportation of Windrush citizens and the still on-going search for justice for Grenfell, the absurdities of Prevent, is a space in which people of colour are being left to destitution. We are those people called funny tinge, cockroach, burden, the swarm of supposed illegality that is threatening the economy. What is missed from all of this right-wing brouhaha is, of course, history. A history that is being obfuscated by the charlatans in Westminster who – aside from a minority of MPs – are in cahoots with these violent Acts and the legalisation of state enforced racist policy. It is an environment in which performances by Black British artists such as Stormzy and Dave are described as ‘racist’ for pointing out the very real concerns, experiences, and frustrations of communities who are essentially criminalised by the Tory Regime.

> What is so ‘scandalous’ about what has happened to the Windrush generation (if scandal is the right word for the deportation and death of citizens), is their misrecognition as other than citizens in the first place. This confusion between the various labels of immigrant, migrant, citizen, refugee, etc, appear in the poem ‘Odyssey Response’:

Sometimes, words, you launch in many lovely languages: yet, before you begin to fly, you are misrecognized, like an owl entering a superstitious person’s open-plan room being beaten to death, Athena’s wise bird struck down, bloody feathers everywhere, a soft body a futile piñata releasing clouds. (p.7)

The link between migration and birds is a common theme to this pamphlet’s thrust into the heart of the contemporary moment. But before the bird (migrant) is able to fly, misrecognition as a pest or an unwarranted guest leads to its demise: beaten to death, in someone else’s room. Capildeo’s use of the word ‘superstitious’ to describe the person doing this beating is marvellous. It precisely calls to the fore the grandiose whimsy of English nationalism, the sheer fiction it relies upon, the myth of its superiority and uniqueness. Furthermore the image of the piñata made me think of the right-wingers in this country like blindfolded children, striking at an imagined enemy, in the hope of sugary reward. Of course the bloody reality in this scene releases the opposite, the stark death of the ‘wise bird’. If the owl here represents the citizen-as-migrant, the wisdom this person contains is only released by their death, as if something as final as death was required to attend to the life and history of the journey that was over before it began. Bifo’s work on Breathing defines poetry as a metaphor for the ways in which we can escape the suffocation (of language and of our own capacity to breathe) by a landscape that has been invaded by nationalism, racism, and religious fundamentalism (p.9-10 Breathing Bifo). The accented slippery assonance of ‘superstititious’ is, to my mind, exactly what Bifo has in mind when he refers to poetry’s ‘excess of semiotic exchange’ that ‘can reactivate breathing’. It is the ‘breathiest’ moment in this saga of the wise bird’s demise, a hissing-lampooning of the fundamentalisms of post-Brexit Britain and its racist policy.

> And this brings me to something I think is curious in Capildeo’s poems, their evocation of a specific history. In the poem ‘Windrush Reflections’ we encounter history as a narrative, a narrative that contains the kernels of truth that are not taught in schools in the UK, namely the history of why the Windrush generation should never have been ‘sent back’. Capildeo delves into the heart of the matter:

…post-war Britain already was home by birthright: documentation was not a prize or a promise for this generation born under the far-fetched Union Jack (p.16-17)

This argument is familiar to those of us who have read and know our history. The experience of migration for many formerly colonised peoples was one of welcome in a Britain that was rebuilding after the devastation of WW2, a time when there was no need for ‘documentation’ because it was guaranteed by our status as ‘members of the Commonwealth’. The argument here, presented with increasing force through line breaks speaks truth to power; it is ‘birthright’ in the sense of the right to be born and to live, the right to thrive and have one’s rights respected, that are absolutely called into question by the hostile environment in today’s UK. To recall this history is to assert the right for Rights, of recognition, of representation, and of equality. It is against the hostility of the Union Jack that Capildeo writes, with a willingness to educate as well as to critique. It’s a stylistic mark of a lot of cultural production in the UK today from the music of Lowkey and Akala to Capildeo’s work which seeks to encourage a transformation of consciousness through the reactivation of anti-racist politics. Such work always bears the marks of history, and more often than not, is positioned on the right side of history.

> I also want to turn back to the poem ‘Odyssey Response’ as I think one of the great achievements of this collection of poems is its reimagining of the relationship between the histories of colonialism and migration that define a contemporary creolised UK and the old ‘classical’ relationship between poetry, myth, and epic. What Capildeo achieves by addressing the Odyssey as well as Windrush simultaneously is a Spivakian sense of the ‘ab-use’ or ‘use from below’ of the Enlightenment. Capildeo recasts the images of the Odyssey as that of Windrush, caught between the Scylla of Priti Patel and the Charybdis of social erasure. By recasting the migrant -both living and (socially) dead- as an Odyssean figure, a Spirit and Time traveller, Capildeo makes the request of them ‘if you see Columbus, shoot on sight’. This bullet that travels through spirit and time abuses the relationship with the epic, the odyssey is now the story of migration and not a classical text held above the historical experiences of Windrush as a kind of cultural prison. This conceptualisation of Odysseus in the plural moves against ‘the song of yourself simplified on the news’ (p.12) and delineates a space (or sound-space) where ‘words, take wing’ and ‘fly commonly among all people / who share vulnerability on a trembling earth’ (p.7). This abuse of the Odyssey raises our attention to ‘the uneven diachrony of global contemporaneity’ and is a supply, empowering gesture marking another fine addition to Capildeo’s important oeuvre.

> Where politics is revealing its true fascist face, poetry and by extension contemporary Grime and UK Rap are leading the way as a force for change, for consciousness, and for a deeper connection with histories both of colonisation and of the present. The most overt display of this has been Roger Robinson winning the T. S. Eliot prize for a collection of verse that engages in this precise moment we find ourselves in. Around the time of that announcement, the global poetry community collectively grieved for Kamau Brathwaite who, we learned, had joined the ancestors. In Brathwaite’s Middle Passages, which I re-read as soon as I heard of his passing, I encountered the lines ‘There was a land not long/ago where it was other-/wise” (p.88). That land may be the future we are working collectively towards, poetically and educationally through poetry, which I think captures something of the essence of what I am thinking with when I think with Odyssey Calling. In revealing and accessing that land, we return to the future.

Odyssey Calling is out now and available to order via Sad Press.

Text: Azad Ashim Sharma

Publsihed:

#poetry #poem #essay #essays #poetry essays #Vahni Capildeo #migration #Odyssey Calling #the Odyssey #Sad Press #Azad Ashim Sharma

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iansoakparanormalelimination · 7 years ago

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My Paranormal Life: The Bog Creature

My life has been turned upside down and backwards many times, so many times in fact that I wonder why the twists seem to take the shape that it has so repetitively. With the last several years culminating in several life changes that started when I was a child, introspection set in and I began to really sift through the years seeking answers. Or at the very least some kind of clues. Nearly going blind will do that to you, nearly dying several times didn't seem to be the ticket.But those are tales for another time.The differences in my life from others I know has been so dramatic that in the growing darkness of my sight I began to try to piece together something. Was I always different or was this difference pushed onto me? Or was I always different and then made MORESO?Going back into my memories the differences begin right away. No one else I know can remember their first steps, getting diapers changed, the distaste for the feel of plastic pants over their underpants as they are potty trained. The first feel and silence of being sat in a depression of snow at 10 or 11 months. I could read well before entering Kindergarten because of my mother's teachings, since she labeled everything with the name of the thing in our shared bedroom, even my crib. Yes, I can clearly remember those times, even the abuses my parents and elder siblings sent my way, though those didn't ramp in intensity until after I was back home and turned 6 years old. Forgive me, I'm getting slightly ahead of myself but with reason, as you'll eventually read.Oh, and my blindness that I avoided, which you've doubtlessly been asking yourself about? Trauma Induced Cataracts from concussive impacts to my head from beatings and car accidents...no, not when I was driving, these happened when I was a child and before the law and normal use of seat belts stepped in to protect us from ourselves. and our parents.Now, needless to say this is all completely true. I know you'll all wonder if this is the case, if it's true, can I provide you with as much documentation as you need that won't be compromising, etc? I could, but that would make my life somewhat less private, but the information is available. Even my Doctor's information on the implants in my eyes so I can see can be screenshot and put up if you need convincing.But why am I telling you these things about my vision? Simple really...something didn't like the idea that I could SEE them. Really see them.As I am a child of two nations born in the US, this means a large amount of cultural background goes into the sum of my parts. With a Cuban father and mother from England, you can see what an amazing contrast there would be between the two parts of my family. The differences are so vast with one half of the family being very spiritual, Santeria being a large part of the religious makeup of the Cuban side. On the other is the celtic influence of my mother's family, with deep ties to the old faiths of the islands of the United Kingdom, all the way back to old religions of pagan and druids.As a baby I never knew how protected I was by my tias(that's aunts in Spanish) and their diligence to keep the house we lived in safe from the other world they knew was there, and feared...terrifically in fact. Constant blessings, use of camphor, holy water and cleansing with incense happened all the time. These kept my dreams untroubled and I feared the dark only because I could not see.Eventually, we moved and the home I would grow up in did not have ANY of those benefits. I began to see things in the darkness most easily. Aside from feeling things when I was near something spiritually active at a distance, I could see things, too. See what? Indistinct shapes, swirling patterns of movement as of fog or ether and something causing eddies in it just out of sight. But sometimes I saw more....much more.Take for example my tio Mickey and his wife, my tia Olga. As a little child we'd go there all the time because tia Olga was my godmother. Her mother, forgive me I do not recall her name, lived with them and had her own room. She was very old and not in the best of health, but she had an aura about her that said she was kindly and wished she could do more when my brother, sister and I came to visit than just sit in her room or lie in bed. Sometimes she was too exhausted to get out of bed and we had to play quietly on the other side of the house on the covered porch.I had a habit of wandering off and going places I was told not to go, following feelings that seemed to draw me on that were tied to my gut around the level of diaphragm. Inf act sometimes I would wander blocks away from home or to parks, scaring my family silly. I would go to tia Olga's mother's room and as I'd walk in, a man standing next to her bed would look up and smile most of the time. My memory of him is as hazy now as it is of her, but I remember dark but warm eyes, steely gray hair swept back and slicked down to keep it neat with a light blue guayabera. He was thick in the upper body, muscular but not overly so. I couldn't see his lower body since he was on the opposite side of the bed. She would look away from him to me, following his gaze to see me standing in the doorway."Hola, señora." I said."Ay!" my tio Mickey would say from up the hallway to get my attention, and I'd turn to look at him as he and his big dog, Duke, came towards me. I look back to apologize for bothering her, my mother's demand for proper English manners you see, and the man was gone. There was no place for him to go I should point out. And no one else lived there since my cousin, Michael, had moved out some years before. Keep in mind I think these events happened when I was 4, I'm pretty sure of it as my cousin's wedding had been the year before this when I was three.No one could ever tell me who that was, no one wanted to even mention it. The fact is it only started whispers between adults about the events, fearfully whispered discussions amongst them. Discussions I was not allowed to even think of eavesdropping on.It wasn't long after this that my tia Olga's mother passed on. I never found out who the man was in the room with her, but I am assuming it was someone very close to her for the simple fact I never felt menaced by what I saw and the room felt brighter after she passed, as if her illness or frail body had trapped her light. And once it was free the room fairly scintillated from its passing touch. Funny to think that years later when I brought my girlfriend(who would eventually become my wife) to visit tia Olga in her sickbed that it was in that very room. No, she was not there looking over her daughter, but the room was still bright with the light she'd left behind.A parting gift to ease her daughter's pains.Not all I saw was friendly as I'm certain you're wondering at this point if everything I saw was benevolent or kindly. As I'd said before the protection afforded us was lost when we moved as my mother never let my aunts do their ministrations again. We were given these tiny bags with a bead and a rosary medallion inside to wear under our clothes against our skin, pinned to our clothing with safety pins, to ward off evil. Because of the thing I mentioned, and a considerable many more brevity doesn't allow me to mention, I was given one more than my brother and sister. One of my patron saint, Joan of Arc. No, I'm not a female, but there is no Saint Sean. That's my name, by the way. Sean....same spelling as Sean Connery for whom I was told, jokingly or not, to be named after. Joan in French(she was French after all) is Jeanne. That's pronounced the same way as Jean of Jean Luc Picard fame for the Trek Nerds amongst you. Which as you can easily hear sounds a lot like Sean, a name that none of my cuban relations could easily say except my cousin, who was raised in the US.Forgive me for all this preface, but I thought I'd give you some idea of the events and history before the "Big Event".My mother's relations had come to visit us singly or in combinations for a little while, and I do believe I even got to see my Great Aunt Lily more than once in the US. My mother's father, Grandad, had been setting aside money since she'd left home to have her come home, either to stay or for a visit, and this money he'd made from quitting smoking. Funny enough, he'd been saving so long that the amount had grown high enough for us to all come visit them over the Summer. My father had to work so he couldn't come with us, his job was very demanding. Our "Talismans" given to us by the Cuban side of the family were not allowed to come with us and remained in a box back home, despite loud protestations. My mother was most insistent on that as she was embarrassed by them.We got our passports and in June of the year Star Wars IV A New Hope came out. So we were literally flying to UK less than a month after its initial release and I had to miss the phenomenon of the Summer that it was in 1977, but its impact was felt all over England in merchandising that tantalized me in the form of bubblegum cards with stills from the movie on them.My time in England was, to put it lightly, not boring.Why, you might ask? Whether it was walking everywhere or taking buses or trains, we were dragged to every moor, castle, monument, palace, and place of interest my mother could think of to see. This in direct contrast to the part of Los Angeles where we'd lived that requires a car and a long trip to get anywhere meaningful...it was a shock to say the very least about it one can say. All of this while traveling between the homes of my Grandad and Nanny(that's my grandmother if you hadn't guessed), my Aunt Sonia and my Aunt Celia in various places around England.From Heathrow we were driven out of the city to my Aunt Sonia's home and outfitted the next day with cagoules and wellies. For anyone not familiar, those are rainproof jackets that cover to the thigh and waterproof calf height rubber boots. For you see we had been impelled to come because that year since the previous 2 years had been a "Drought" and rain had been scarce, but 1977 was the end of the drought and we saw 3 sunny days all Summer long as nature dumped 3 years worth of water on England to make up for her laxness.Sonia's home was new and the neighborhood she and her family lived in was newly urbanized portions north of London that once just been rolling hills and forests. I slept well there, felt nothing and nothing ever happened. The same could not be said of Celia's or my grandparent's homes.Celia had an old home that was more than a century old and with much history, in a portion of England known for minor nobles living, and dying, nearby in their mansions. My grandparents flat was in the middle of a rebuilt portion of London, in an area that had been annihilated during the Bombing of London.When we first went to stay with Celia it was a bit of a shock. Upon first stepping through the front door and removing my wellies, I noticed the air was thick...and cold. To the left of the large front door was a toilet behind a closed door under a large staircase with a banister. My eyes were drawn to it as we were lead inside by my aunt, distracted with talking to my mother about her coming wedding. Another reason for our presence, so my mother could be there for her younger sister's wedding.The cold stopped as we got to the third stair and turned right on the small landing and proceeded up the stairs. Now the air was just thick and unwelcoming. We were shown to our room we'd be sleeping in, we children. It was across the hall from Celia's room and next to my mother's room. I kept looking at the door to my aunt's room, a pulsing sensation in my ears and pressing on my chest. So distracted was I, that I didn't even notice I was being asked something by my mother as she ushered me into our room to unpack.Celia smiled at me as she opened the door to her room, something about getting into her regular clothing now that she was not traveling anymore that day. I looked past her into the room with eyes wide and the feeling of dread growing. She saw my curiosity."What is it, Sean?" she asked me she looked over her shoulder into the room. Past her I could see her bed and nothing else. I looked back at her as she entered the room and then walked out of sight to the right towards what I would later learn was the walk in closet. Doing this she crossed my view of the bed and when it was clear again I saw something that chilled me to the marrow and the pressure came back enough to make me gasp.There, in the bed, now sat an old woman in a sleeping cap and nightgown that looked like something from the 18th century. Her hair was grey and tied up into the cap, her skin was parched and wrinkled but she couldn't have been older than 70. I apologize I cannot be more descriptive than that, not only was it 4 decades ago I was terrified. As I write this the terror is fresh in my breast and my heart is hammering just as it did then. The woman was sitting in the bed looking in the direction that Celia had walk out my field of view, then slowly she turned to look at the doorway. It seemed at the time she was turning her head at the sound of my gasp. Her eyes were angry, unwelcoming and accusing of some misdeed I was being blamed for.I've included a link to something vaguely similar to what I saw. Keep in mind, it's not the same but it can give you a rough impression of what I saw.At that moment my sister and mother walked past, breaking my line of sight as they walked past to go downstairs to get the rest of the suitcases to unpack. I stood frozen, my brother asking me what was wrong as they walked by. After they passed the old woman was nowhere to be seen.I told no adult, nor my sister, as I remembered the response seeing things like this had gotten me in the past at home. I confided in my brother only, and he'd told me he hadn't seen anything. He proceeded to tell my mother and sister all about all I'd said and all the future events. And yes, she looked real. Like any person you see on the street looks. Solid and alive. That's how a great deal of the spirits I see look, or so I have learned. They appear as they did in life...rarely as how they died unless it was violent or traumatic. This was something I would learn much later but I mention it here in case you're wondering.Needless to say, I always kept my eyes averted from her room so I'd never see that woman again, even refusing to use the upstairs bathroom as I'd have to pass her and risk seeing or feeling her again.My grandparents flat had no oppressive feel to it, but there was a ghost all the same. A figure would walk into the bedroom where my brother and I slept, look around and then leave. He was dressed in a strange helmet shaped like a brimmed soup bowl with a chinstrap and a strange heavy jacket with leather buckles that looked water resistant. I could never see his feet as it was always too dark in the room. As the man entered he always seemed to bring a light with him, as if he glowed mildly. Otherwise I would not have been able to see much of him in the pitch dark of the middle of the night. I have no idea if I woke each time he came, but when I did awake it was usually prefaced by the feeling that I thought my mother had just walked in to check up on my brother and I, which she did now and again.I'm including a link to a picture of what the man looks like that walked through the home at night looked like.One thing I forgot to mention was my mother's morbidity when it came to graveyards. She has been tracing our family tree for ages, and this meant we were usually dragged to find headstones with her maiden name on them. One particular graveyard near my Grandad's flat was apparently where my great grandparents were buried. This graveyard was never empty of people walking through it and looking around. We'd be there many times, clearing the weeds and bracken from the shared grave of my great grandparents and placing flowers before I asked my mother why so many people were milling about. Her answer was:"I don't know Sean.....what people?" she asked as she looked around, finally paying attention to what I asked her. As the youngest in the family I'm rarely listened to and almost everything I said was dismissed or outright ignored. Never before had I wished my mother had ignored my question.I looked up at all the people who were walking amongst the graves and pointed at them. Specifically I pointed at a girl with reddish hair tied up in a pink ribbon that was wearing a light sweater and a dress that came to her knees. Remember when I said we saw three sunny days that summer in England? This was not one of them. We were in our rain gear, this girl and all the others were not. They were all in different attire. Some looked dressy such as suits and dresses, while others were dressed casually. Some looked like they were dressed in the current clothing styles, some were considerably older. I had not noticed it before that moment. Further, not a single one of them even had an umbrella or rain gear of any note to ward off the pattering rain I could hear making noise against the plastic cagoule hood. And though the rain was not falling heavily, it was falling around us sufficiently to turn a sweater completely sodden in minutes.Suddenly breathless, I realized two things:Ghosts can appear in the daylight outside. Something as a child I'd assumed was a "safe" time I would not have to worry about running into these things I was quickly becoming terrified of. And these ghosts had suddenly become aware of me.All of them.As if they were discomfited at scaring me, they all turned to look at me with impassive expressions on their faces, except for the girl I pointed at, and then each of them turned away and faded from sight. It was almost as if they had pulled a screen in front of themselves or stepped from one room to another by changing the focus of their attention. The girl with the reddish hair and the pink ribbon? She didn't disappear, instead she smiled and stayed fairly close listening to our conversations and watching, all in a completely non-threatening manner. No one seemed to notice her or see her throughout our time there, which I was eager to cut as short as possible.Threatening or not, I was leery of her and unwilling to let her close, always keeping my mother between us. I have no idea who she was and I was too scared to find out or even try to talk to her.Just two things I must mention about this graveyard not directly related to the ghosts or spirits I saw there:Firstly, the church that stood before it was where my Aunt Celia was married that summer. Secondly, this was where my Grandad was buried when he died of massive heart attack in his flat in August just after my mother's birthday. And no, I never saw him again. His spirit, despite staying in the flat many more days, never came to me. Nor, might I add, did the man in the helmet ever appear again to me.I'm sure most of this seems innocuous and far from dangerous to the reader, but you have to see it from the point of view of a 5 year old child. Not only that, you have to understand that before this I'd never encountered so many and so often. Only had I ever seen things swirling away, or faces peaking out my closet. But there was much more to be seen in England....ever so much more.For instance, the area along the Thames where the beheadings of many condemned folks that had stayed their last days in the Tower of London gave me nightmares throughout my time there. Things I'd rather never recount or remember. Things that still leave me shaking whenever I see the Tower of London in pictures or film. Rooms filled with ancient torture devices at Windsor Castle and other museums gave brief flashes of things that made me sit up in my bed at night drenched in sweat for years. Darker things did occur during my stay in the UK, but let me finish with the "Event" that seemed to mark the end of things as they had been, and none of the events eclipsed it.Though we stayed with the relations I mentioned and never went to stay with my uncle(Billy), we did however get to visit some distant relations. Distant in both lineage and in mileage. One set was in Scotland and was not spiritually noteworthy except to say that it felt as safe as if I was back in my old home, as though something protecting me. I would later discover that the reason for this was that the family was said to be protected by a few spirits and an "Elemental". For those of you good with a search engine you might discover my family name in Scotland from just the clues I have given you here.But the scariest experience I had was visiting second or third cousins of my mother's, Glynis and Roy. Once again I apologize for not knowing exactly. They are a nice couple with a home that had a past they had no clear answers for. At my aunt's wedding we were told by my aunt Celia about the "Ghost of the Bed". It was an antagonistic spirit that menaced only adult males that slept in the bedroom, not allowing them to sleep, shaking them, waking them with shrieking, attacking them and other more painful events. They'd look into the history of the house and it went back about two hundred years, it being one of the old homes in Wales with a history rich and mostly lost through time. Of course, Roy had only been told these things and had never tried to sleep there himself. A friend of his had tried and left in the middle of the night, never to return.No one stepped forward with more information as to why the spirit did what it did, whether it was male or female, or what had brought its darkness into the home in the first place. All this was recounted by Celia with dark glee, as she looked on the paranormal I would later find out as a fan of Hammer Horror films looks on schlocky movies as something to be sometimes laughed at and sometime horrified by. A non-believer and mundane in every sense of the word, who would later run experiments on haunted locations with me as a guinea pig on her many visits throughout my childhood.Terrified at what I could end up seeing, and now thoroughly exhausted from lack of sleep and decent food. But that's a story for another time. Suffice to say, the words "Cuisine" and "English" to not belong sitting back to back and are as unrelated as any two words can be. Want to know why Harry Potter is always eating candy and treats in the movies? Can't ever go wrong with English sweets and candy.The trip to Wales was long and arduous as we had to stay on the train for several hours and a few train changes and a bus ride. Before it was all over I had been menaced by my sister and brother with the idea of the ghost in the house...ghosts they didn't believe in or could see. Menaced with the idea of being put in the bedroom I was so scared of sleeping in. You know how that is, how children are."We're going to put you in there, Sean! We're going to make you sleep upstairs with the ghost!" they'd torment me, then wail like ghosts, holding their hands in grasping poses like a walking revenant out for human blood.I'd wail and run, scared out of my wits already at the very knowledge I was going to be near it. Certain in fact, despite my mother's claims they wouldn't, that they'd do it all the same and make me sleep in that accursed room.Well human endurance can only go so far when living on egg and chips, fish and salad and saveloy. I passed out on the last bus despite trying to stay awake in order to make sure I was able to make certain I was not put in the wrong room. My siblings had a nasty habit once they knew about the ghosts I could see of locking me in closets just to hear me shrieking in the darkness...darkness that was sometimes not void of...others. I was scared that they would force me into the room and make me face it as they had threatened.My fears were in vain, they never did go through with their threats.I awoke, as children do, slowly and softly to find myself in a bed already despite the fact i could tell by the ambient light that it was still daylight. And it was also sunny outside, one of the three days I mentioned. I was covered in a thick blanket that felt almost as heavy as one of those lead coats they throw on you when you get X-rays at the dentists office. I was warm and comfortable for several seconds before I realized where I was, then terror blossomed in my chest and my heart began to hammer against my little ribcage. I sat up, struggling under the weight of the blanket I now saw was doubled up and made of very heavy material. Don't ask, I have no idea what the material was or if it was a comforter. All I recall is that it was heavy and warm.Sitting up, I look around me at the room. The bed was old and I could hear the springs shift as I did. The headboard was metal, rather like the kind you see in old movies of hospitals, but it was larger and wider. It seemed so large to me at the time, disproportionately big for a child of my small stature. To my right was a window with the pulldown shade drawn from the lintel to within an inch of the sill. I could tell the window was open because of the way the shade moved slightly now and then from air flowing around it, causing the sun that was coming in to vary in intensity. Under the window was a low chest of drawers made of dark stained wood, it looked antique and sturdy. To my left was a tall dresser that was at least 4 feet high but with no mirror on it, also made of dark stained wood. That made me feel frightened for some reason, the lack of a mirror. Don't ask me why.Directly beside the bed on my left was a nightstand made of lighter wood with a single drawer in it. Set atop it was a glass of water and a couple of Welsh Cakes next to the glass. My stomach rumbled at the sight of them and as I reached for my first, I heard a sound and looked at the door for the first time which was just in front of the foot of the bed.The sound of my family, downstairs, laughing loudly at something. It seemed to come up to my as if mocking me, teasing me. Almost like I was put here on purpose to test me, to torture me and expose me to my fears. Because after all, to them it was not real. It was explained away as imagination how many times by my mother since coming to England? I'd long lost count. And I could hear my brother and sister laughing at something, the low voice of Roy interjecting something and then another burst of laughter.Well, I thought, I'll show them. I'll get away. I'll call them all stupid and mean for trying to scare me and laughing about it! Always picking on me, the littlest in the family. The butt of all their insults and tortures! How many times had they locked me in a closet with things reaching for me from the dark? Or in a room with a ghost that could see me as well as I could see it, all in the name of helping me get over my "fears"? So many times!Tears had been tracing down my face as I thought of this, but now they intensified from drops to streams that blurred my sight as my horror and feeling of betrayal intensified. My cheeks were soaked and stung slightly from the hot, salty tears.I moved to get up but paused... I felt it then. Through my whole body I felt it...like suddenly I was deep under water. The pressure was intense and almost like a nightmare in intensity. Like drowning out of water, sinking deeper and deeper every second, the crushing feeling growing tighter and tighter about me. Pressing on my little chest, my shoulders creaked as they were forced into my body and my wrists were crushed into my stomach, almost as if a gigantic hand was gripping me. Looking back now I have no idea how I survived.I tried to move, but my arms could not defeat whatever it was that held me. Another chorus of laughter from under the door drew my attention downward and I could see the gap beneath the door with light from the hallway illuminated a small patch of the wooden carpet and the edge of the rug that the bed sat on. Fighting to draw enough breath to scream for my mother, all I could do was sip the air a little at a time into my lungs and let it out. I tried making noise, little gasps of "Help!" "Mommy!" and calling for my sister and brother...but looking back they couldn't have been louder than a whimper. They were far from where I was and downstairs...and they would probably ignore me anyway as they usually did. I felt betrayed as well as terrified beyond comprehension...but it wasn't even close to what I was was in for.A sound, distant, but persistent and strange reached my ears then in the silence of the room. It didn't echo, it seemed as though the sound was sucked away as soon as each sound finished. It grew steadily louder, and by that I could tell it was getting closer. The grip hadn't lessened on me and in fact began to push DOWN so my little legs were bent at painful angles on the bed. The springs squeaked in response to my downward pressure into the bed and I heard my mother say:"I think I heard Sean upstairs, I'll check on him later. Going to step out for a cigarette...." and it trailed off as she must have gone outside, and the sound of a door opening and closing...then silence. They had all stepped outside, I could now hear the sounds of my brother and sister laughing distantly from the slightly open window to my right.My right hip protested the pain of being crushed in the semi-sitting position with my right leg splayed out to the right and my left extended in front of me. The noise I'd heard, now seemingly emboldened at being alone in the house, grew louder. I could finally tell at last what it sounded like...it was like a groan, only it sounded like a person groaning while inhaling rather than exhaling. And it didn't stop this time, it was inhaling and making the sound, getting louder and louder, closer, but I couldn't see from where. My eye were now rolling around in my eye sockets searching every corner of the room to see if i could find the source of the sound, all the while my mind was crying for my mother, my tears now soaking through the neck of my polo shirt in front of my chest.The groan stopped for an instant, then began again, louder this time and I sensed it was very near. I looked down at the doorway, something had attracted my attention despite the new, burning pain in my chest. What attracted my gaze was the light from under the doorway which was slowly...going...out. It was being blotted out as if by a shadow of something moving over the source from the left of the door to cover the light. Eventually the light was absorbed by a solid line of shadow, and I knew it could not have been a person.A person could not make those sounds.A person could not make this kind of completely eclipsing shadow over the light. There would be a shape of feet or legs or something in the light.The sound was now just outside the wooden door, louder than before, and something more. It was not a single groaning. It was the sound of several people. NO! It was a chorus of them, and it sounded now almost like a painful gasping into air starved lungs, only it never paused to finish taking the perpetual inward breath! The groan didn't sound like it stemmed from pain, no. It sounded almost like an engine getting going, as if it was drawing something it wanted into it. The louder it got, the more I hurt at the pressure of the crushing sensation.As I watched the shadow over the light was taken away as something DARKER began to slide under the door. I know what you're thinking. Darker than the shadow? Darker than a lack of light? YES! Darker! And fuller! I could see an amorphous mass sliding under the door that was darker than midnight and as it entered the room, the sunlight that came in around the shade in the window grew dimmer! The pressure on my chest surged angrily as I was suddenly flung back in the bed and banged my head against the slatted metal headboard, which in turn smashed the wall. The sound of it, though it should have been loud, was like a muffled clunk even to me! As if the sound had been sucked away, or muffled underwater, or with a pillow! Take your pick of metaphor, I'm sure you get what I mean.My head, now dazed from the collision, was too loopy and weak from lack of oxygen to appreciate the reality I could now breathe. All thoughts of escape had long gone and all I wanted was my mother to come rescue me. To drive it off and protect me, to enfold me in her arms. But I realized that would not happen. Despite her promises, she'd put me here or allowed me to be put here. Either way she didn't really care about me.Blearily turning may gaze downward I watched the foot of the bed for signs of it as I prayed,"Let me die fast so it can't touch me or take me! Please...just let me die!" I was so scared all my limbs had gone cold from shock.The groaning started at an all new intensity, revving upwards in the chorus of sound and my eyes grew wide in terror as the dark mass now surged upwards into the air as if standing! And it didn't stop! It stood, and spread out as if oozing into the air, sucking the warmth and oxygen from the room, the light growing dimmer and darker as I laid there numbly, panting in ultimate terror. My thighs grew hot as my urine burst free into my jeans and ran out of my pants and onto the bedding. The groaning changed to an almost overjoyed, triumphant tone and it spread to the left and right like bat wings...reaching around to engulf me in its wicked, hungry, embrace."please, please, please, please..." I realized I was panting, begging as my tears blurred my vision, the mass moved up the bed and the "wings" oozed in slowly to engulf me. All I heard was the groaning, it filled my ears then and seemed to crawl into my head and echo there. A fresh wave of tears made it so all I saw was the blur and the cold feeling in all my limbs, my head propped at a strange angle against the headboard, forcing me to watch as it closed in.The anticipation of its icy touch on my already cold skin repulsed me and I began to shiver uncontrollably. Then, just before I knew it was going to touch me, my vision cleared slightly and I could see it was about to touch my shoulders and embrace me. The noise it made surged one last time, bestial sounds of the predator about to make a kill......but it was all suddenly blotted out by the intense, white hot agony on top of my head! A burning, watery feeling far more intense than if you ever get a shower of hot water in the tub, and it was only happening to the top of my head. Wave upon wave of heat! An agony like the top of my head had just been ripped open with a welding torch or a blow torch, only it didn't fade! And the room was suddenly filled with a blinding white light, so bright my eyes had automatically drawn to slits to protect them!The whole room was filled with it, except for the stygian patch of nightmare before me on the bed. It had halted in mid reach and was now illuminated completely, I could somehow tell it was in pain.Now I could see it entirely, and I wish to heavens I never did. The thing was made up of the images of faces and bodies! All black against black but easily discernible! All caught mid scream, or wail, or groan, or some position of pain and writhing. Contorted in agony, moving slowly within the mass, undulating to the tune of their own trapped misfortune. All molded together into a thin sheet of ultimate darkness, pressed into a fabric of utter damnation! This thing wanted me to become a part of it! Don't ask me how I know, I just KNOW! And though what was in it may have once been human and had the potential for love and mercy, all that was left was the desire to add more to its flock of tortured souls. I have realized since then that the faces I saw, the darkness that it was, it was all merely a covering for the real force behind it. The thing hiding behind the curtain of souls.The light in the room intensified and the burn to my scalp lessened at last, allowing me to move slightly. The mass lept off the bed and seems to be sucked under the door, all the while thrashing left and right as it drew in it's "wings" to remove them from the reach of the light. It passed into the hallway, the groaning sound receding as sounds from outside and light returned to the room. I could hear my siblings playing and my mother talking to Glynis about something..No idea what it was but it felt so good to hear it no matter what it was.The light was dimming finally and I looked around the room to see where it as coming from, weakly swiveling my head around to try and glimpse the source. But I was against the wall, nothing should have been able to be behind me and that is exactly where it always seemed to be. Always behind and above me, always out of sight.My strength, what little the light had imparted, was flooding out of me rapidly. The thing was gone, I wanted to escape, get out of the room! Now! Reaching my right arm to the left egde of the bed I tried to grab on and pull myself out of bed. I failed as the last of the light and the burning sensation fled me, I tumbled out of bed and headed to the floor.I don't remember hitting the floor.In fact, I don't remember anything that happened for the next three days.My next memories were that I was in Sonia's little green jalopy, heading away from train station in her town and on our way to her house.It took a long time to piece together the story, but here's what I know. They think I'd fallen out of bed after peeing in it that first day. I had gotten up, cleaned myself up and my mother found me half clothed trying to change the sheets. They'd fed us supper, I ate hearty of the wonderful food Glynis had cooked then we'd gone to bed. Through it all I acted normallyThat ws but I remembered none of it. Perhaps it was shock. What I do remember is eating the Welsh Cakes. Glynis made them herself. Even made me a stack to eat. That my brother didn't like them and my sister was trying to stay in shape for gymnastics meant I had all I wanted.You can say I'm delusional, or that I'm not sane. You can say anything you like. I was never more scared than I was that day, that was because I was a little boy, but I know what I saw.In case you're wondering, did "It" stay in that house? No, in fact Glynis and Roy said that after we were there, during a visit to the US before moving to new Zealand, someone across the street had died and they figured it had gone to follow the person. Roy slept in the room once to make sure and nothing had happened. I had a different take on things but never spoke to them of what I knew. Wasn't worthwhile telling them the thing followed me and made my life hell, guilt never solved anything.I don't know what it was, I don't care to name it. Give it a name if you need one, I could care less.What I do care about is that from that day on my life was different. It couldn't get to me, so my family turned dark. I don't know if it was the thing that wouldn't let people sleep or not in the tale we were told, I also don't care. What I care about was that my family went from being what it had been to cruel and often times vicious. After we came home the darkness got to my father. I know this because he beat me until I was unable to keep control of my bodily function, even gave me a concussion......all on Christmas Day in 1977. Merry Christmas. The reason? Because I accidentally opened the wrong present.Car accidents followed, also. My father began to drive angry, regularly. I nearly went through a windshield with a full backpack on at age 9, the only thing stopping me was the fact the window wasn't made to shatter. 1970s construction...gotta love it. My mother began to regularly deal out damage to me because my siblings would blame me for things they wanted to see me punished for. And my siblings began to use me as a whipping boy when they were upset. As they explained it, and I am quoting my sister directly here:"Just coming into a room with you in it makes me want to...just hit you, Sean. Find something heavy and WHAM!" to this my brother quickly agreed with her.It made me feel worthless and I withdrew from their presence as much as I could. This seemed to make them more antagonistic, my brother acted as if he were always being egged on to find anything he could easily get away with hitting me in the head with. This even included putting a metal nut on his finger and lashing out at my head when no one was looking., especially the top of my head. Complaining to my mother was useless. I always received a tongue lashing to the effect that either it wasn't serious what was being done or a shout at my brother to stop it. No further punishment to dissuade such behavior was ever meted out.The only solace I had in this time came from my Cuban Grandfather. Papacito. He would protect me, when I was near him I was safest from all of them. Naturally, this dark thing made sure he was gone as soon as possible. My parents divorced suddenly, and my mother drove off my aunts and grandparents. Despite the fact they lived next door to us, she found a way to make them move.After that point the cataracts started to form, and though I could see the spiritual things somewhat as dim outlines I could not see them as clearly as before. No longer did they look like normal people. You see "It" didn't want me to see so easily anymore and it figured out how to reach me. At least that's what I think.Now I have ocular implants and I can see as any of you can see....mostly. Couple more laser treatments. No more cataracts. My ability to see ghosts seems as it was when I was 5.I know this because I was shopping one day after the first surgery and my left eye was unbandaged two days prior. A little girl ran past me giggling and knocked over produce as I watched, then ran through a cart loaded with produce as if it wasn't there. The person stocking the produce, a dour looking hispanic lady, never looked up to follow her. She only humphed in annoyance and picked up the peppers,putting them back where they belonged. I asked if she saw the girl and she gave me a puzzled look.You may be wondering does misfortune still follow me, are my steps dogged by this thing? No. It's gone now.And with good reason, I might add.But that, as they say, is another story.`

#paranormal stories #paranormal #metaphysical #psychic #Ghost #poltergeist #wraith #aura #ghosts #spirits #creepy #true story

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angrycollectordaze-me-blog · 6 years ago

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北美作业代写：The Sorrows of Young Werther

下面为大家整理一篇优秀的essay代写范文- The Sorrows of Young Werther，供大家参考学习，这篇论文讨论了《少年维特之烦恼》。在歌德的小说《少年维特之烦恼》中，剧情都围绕着维特与绿蒂的爱情这条情节主线，不仅展示了社会生活的广阔画面，还体现了狂飙突进时期德国青年维特敏感、脆弱的人格及其悲剧的一生。维特的形象蕴含了十八世纪下半叶德国社会的现实和时代启蒙儿的矛盾，体现的是一代人的共性。

Victor's character is special, with the sensitivity, vulnerability, fantasy, passion and sentimentality of the period of violent outburst. "Vittellian life", not only belongs to vitter alone, but is the common face of a generation of young people in the society and literature at that time. It is a common life state of young people in Germany and Europe in the 18th century.

"The sorrows of young werther" around the victor and she love the plot of the main line, shows the broad picture of social life, reflects the surge period German young werther sensitive, fragile, fantasy, passion, sad the personality and the tragedy of life.

Goethe's young werther has the typical era color of the "surge movement" and the sensitive, fragile and emotional personality. "Character is destiny". Victor's tragic fate is closely related to his character.

Victor's character is radical and enthusiastic, which is reflected in the spirit of fighting against all restraints and self-expansion. In victor's day, "nature" was a hot topic. As early as in the middle of the eighteenth century, Rousseau witnessed since the private ownership, human creation of wealth and the spiritual civilization inhibited the development of the people, the greed and desire of people make people gradually deviated from the natural, simple and good nature. He believed that the best state of human beings is the state of nature. Therefore, he stressed that people must "follow nature" and called for "return to nature". Victor is the shadow of young Goethe is advocated a Lord, advocated to Goethe experienced a bourgeois culture, accept the advanced ideas, with outstanding talents, lofty sentiments, bold and unrestrained passion, ambitious, a new outlook on life and values, representing the German educated youth generation of awakening.

Victor is a heart that has been shaken from its foundations.

He is a romantic psychological confidant, a sentimental and fragile fantasy tragic image. Victor on the natural infinite admire, incisively and vividly, not only the young Goethe's own world view, religion, society, morality, aesthetics, etc., and more importantly, is tortuous reflects the new bourgeoisie reformers claim to the reality. Because, take measure of the scale of the "nature", the social system, religious belief, legal, moral, education, culture and life custom and so on, which do not is desirable, which do not can survive. His pursuit was an illusion, but in essence he was sentimental. He has a strong sentimental sentiment, he blindly emphasizes the feelings of the heart, love nature, love freedom, love true temperament, love beautiful fantasy. Victor is a warm pure, brilliant young, personality similar young Goethe, but we can see that he is much more feeling, more gentle, more weak, his emotions too slender, character too fragile, his good and bad of the world or the light and the dark, is the reflection of his own heart, destined to his pessimistic personality root, such a fragile heart can't be forever in this hard world.

Victor's character is not his character alone, but the radical and sentimental feelings Shared by his generation.

Victor pursuit of freedom and equality status, sentimental fragile personality and love longings and contradiction between the social hierarchy, caused his life tragedy, the final victor had to use their own way to seek their own reality.

Lottie is not just victor's lover, she is almost the embodiment of his ideal, the beauty representative. Not only was he his lover, but he had become the object and refuge of his soul. His love for her is hot, ecstasy, yet somewhat deviation from the true meaning of love, this is an irrational and abnormal love, is not the final result of the destruction of others, is to destroy them. It was not so much that he loved her as he loved himself, trying to prove his worth by conquering the opposite sex. Because of this, in the face of rational barriers, the heart of victor will produce such complex entanglements and deep pain. When he realized that he could not be accepted by Patty, victor chose reality. When reality turned him down, he went back to her, and the fact that he didn't have a loved one made victor even crazier. When she announced the disillusionment of his dream, victor all hope in life, the passion of youth, the courage of life is destroyed, and only to an extreme way -- suicide to show resistance of reality.

18 th-century Germany, the spirit of youth and life are under severe oppression and devastation, anguish, eager to get rid of feudal bondage, but lack the strength to fight again, can't see a way out, widespread negative and decadent sentiment. Although victor began to wake up, his spirit was still marked by The Times and classes -- the limitations and weakness of the new bourgeoisie in the struggle against feudalism. He was angry and resentful of reality and unwilling to live in the dark. Irritability, anxiety, into the pain and anxiety, for the social total despair, finally decided to use at the expense of their lives, the feudal system of the sin to the strongest condemnation and protests, he found himself no way out, no longer have any hope for the future, in this way, the unreasonable system of feudal society, the old order, habits and prejudices and pressure took the life of a wunderkind. German bourgeoisie cannot change reality according to the class interests, Goethe even declared that "filled with indignation, desperate, thinking that life now that couldn't be dragged down, from the earth, to succeed in one's scheme. This morbid emotion makes them more vulnerable to the vulgar social reality. After experiencing a series of setbacks, victor felt that his dream was very illusory and could not be realized in reality, so he chose to fight with death.

Victor is for freedom and equality. He is for self-esteem. He was a passionate, independent man who did not want to be bound by any rules and regulations. Victor used his career development to get rid of the emotional trauma caused by his love disappointment, so he went to the embassy to show his intelligence. But the German society is meanness, those constrained rigid, everywhere conformism, mere common courtesy, minister of do STH unconventional or unorthodox victor is very antipathy, those people around chasing level status. The humiliated victor was so angry that it was no wonder he lamented: "what annoys me most is the plight of the citizens." Feudal class to attempt to always keep their vested interests, advocating that approaches are different, the feudal hierarchy as the norm and cannot be changed, in such a society, hold the bourgeoisie to achieve its "personality liberation", "emotional freedom" and "all-round development of human nature" of the ideal. Victor was a self-conscious civic youth, unwilling to be submissive and submissive to others. Goethe once said victor said, "look at 'victor era we will find that it has nothing to do with the general process of world culture, and is associated with each person's individual career, people are born with instinct freely, but must adapt yourself to the narrow limits of the world" ups and downs.

Victor's death was both a social responsibility and a class limitation. Yang wuneng said, "the discrimination and oppression of the aristocracy once made victor angry and wanted to" pick up and Pierce his chest to express his depression ". So, dislike of civil society and disappointment, more to his harrowing experience, really 'end of life's journey,' "as luna child in to commemorate the one hundredth anniversary of Goethe's death as a report" near the end of Goethe's life, he has begun to see that the bourgeois social development brought about by the internal contradictions "" victor" more reveals the conflicts between social reality and personality. It is in this contradiction that victor, and all the progressive youth of his generation, are troubled and depressed. As Engels said: "victor established one of the greatest critical achievements", victor's image contained in the second half of the 18th century German society the contradiction between the reality and the age of enlightenment, and is by no means a person's characteristics, but embodies the commonness of generation.

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les-bi-katamari · 7 years ago

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SESSION 8

Bodies remaining around us: kid, two other bodies, one Herald corpse, one mook corpse, one undryad corpse. Bodies dragged into forest: sneak, two Heralds.

Brianne examines the Herald corpse. Lots of places where it’s shifted, transformed. Happened after death; not wounds, but its flesh struggling to keep up with its metamorphosis. Torso hollowed, less internal organs; ribcage grotesquely grown to accomodate muscles. Along spine and forelimbs, rows of metallic spikes growing out of it. These spikes are similar to the smaller spikes used for the dryad, but NOT the larger one, which was more intricate, shaped, gold inlay. Abyssal runes on them. (Note: the corpses in Ulthar’s tower did not have a big spike, only the Herald spikes.) Brianne reads the script: an abyssal prayer “We purify the weak, and rise in glory.” They all say the same thing. No discernable tool marks.

Brianne gets Ghorza to rip one of the spikes out, dripping with ichor. She then cuts it open to discover its bones are now the same metallic substance as the spikes. The bones are ALSO etched with Abyssal; it appears to say something else, but the ribs appear to be in the middle of something. She recruits ghorza again to help flay the flesh from its bones; Brianne fucks up during the autopsy and something bursts, releasing a nauseating scent of decay. She pukes (away from the body).

We eventually manage to peel off enough flesh from bone to get the gist. It reads like a religious text - mentions of Galaias, [her return from… entrapment? Somewhere.] The Herald is a walking unholy text, with prophecies etched into its bones. [With Primeval Awareness, Brianne detects more undead are in Mielikki’s Arbor, and six more suddenly appear there.]

Finally we go back inside to reunite with the cuddlepile.

Meanwhile, inside: Cadence is tending to Apphia’s near-mortal wounds, cleaning her etc. Kelsey anxiously asks if Apphia’s titties will be okay.

Megs, the only one who’s not preoccupied, talks to Juna alone. It turns out she knows the living bruiser, Valden Bray. (Gwen: “Can I roll insight to see if they fucked?” - Megs actually does but gets a 6 :P ). When she realizes he was one of the ones snooping in the barn, she charges in, grabs him by the collar, and demands an explanation while dangling him in the air.

He says he got mixed up in some bad shit, he needs food for his family and can’t lumberjack, so he signed up with the castle, but then it got ‘weird.’ He repeats that he was looking for the lens, sent on behalf of ‘someone above Brandt’.

Juna: “And so what, you were going to kill my family?! My parents, my siblings? Give me one good reason I shouldn’t burn you from the inside out!” (Kelsey: “Roll insight to see if they fucked!”) There’s another couple of the Vardanes, tall teenage boy and shorter girl, and Apphia and Cadence coming down now. Apphia DOES roll, and determines that they have made out but not fucked. Ghorza and Brianne come in now too. “I can’t believe this sniveling bastard sold out my family!”

He agrees to talk more; Juna lets him down, then decks him in the face again. He mentions the sneak was all about the ‘cause’ - says the people ‘holed up in Castle Aldessein’ are all weirdos. Mentions Martin, the bruiser we killed in the barn - Ghorza interjects “I think if you search your memory you’ll find he was killed by the zombies.” He mentions the margravine was more or less forced to leave by Brandt et al. The weirdos are part of some kind of cult, “Harbingers of the Dark Sun.”

Some of the group know of this cult - the cult of Cyric, triple-crowned king, god of lies and murder, whose followers are sometimes known for controlling the undead, binding them under their will. (Gwen: “Do you think someone would really do that? Just put on hats and tell lies?”)

Valden says there were services held in the dungeons at night. Carm was really into it. Carm and Nemeth run the show there. Brandt is a pawn they installed; Nemeth tells him what her superior wants and he makes it happen. The cult is everywhere - in all the marches and Isvanir - communicating with each other, keeping tabs on our movements, etc. The Margravine is being poisoned to keep her weak but alive.

Nemeth is apparently a tiefling too. Gold eyes, red hair, dark skin, horns, tail. Quiet, keeps to herself; doesn’t interact with the grunts much (Brandt does that). Looks like a warrior? Talks mostly to Brandt, Carm, the lieutenants sometimes.

Carm - the worst of all of them. Extremely creepy. Human. Keeps tabs on everyone. REAL into Cyric. Slight, pale, sandy brown hair, blue eyes. Coldest stare. Carm overheard another grunt talking about not being into Cyric; he disappeared and the altar got more bone decorations.

Cassath and Dresna - lieutenants. “Mostly just into each other” - no insight check needed, they’re fucking all the time; they’re probably fucking right now. Cassath is a high elf, from Isvanir. Light, short, messy brown hair. And she’s a witch? Scarred, burned hands (from acid). Cruel, but not really into Cyric. Dresna - half-orc, short black hair. She’s sneaky and creepy. Not as cruel as Carm, not really into Cyric; just there for Cassath.

Apphia knows of Cassath - an exiled criminal, from the slums where the Tarjanir refugees were. Ran a illicit alchemist shop, made acids. Made a lot of mayhem, was sentenced to be executed many years ago.

Ghorza knew of Dresna - she was in Vassarein’s army. Perennial bad example for the troops; didn’t play well with others. Robbed the armory and vanished.

Only one other person of importance, who Owen told us about, was the greasy, light-figured, shifty-looking guy who would swing by occasionally to deliver reports and talk to Nemeth and Brandt. No one who matched the description of Gulden, or the one Ulthor fought at the ruins.

Correspondence to Isvanir - maybe upstairs in the keep?

Albrecht - former castle guard. Erik knows him, recommends we talk to him. Dancing Dryad inn. Left when the cult took over.

Helene wants to get the family out of here, to safety. We decide that - after we burn the bodies - we’ll take the Vardanes into town and get them room in the inn. And Valden, we guess. Then we’ll rest up for the night.

We burn the Mortens (neighbors) and the herald and Martin (the bruiser). (Burned body count is up to 19).

We can now read some more of the remaining bones of the Herald, now that the flesh is burned up. [Brianne has heard some of these prophecies in her dream. Galaias returns under a sky of blood, upon a road of bone. She was sealed away on the Material Plane millenia ago. ‘From the ranks of her enemies, a spiteful soul will draw her forth.’]

Juna has a gift for Ghorza and Apphia, before we leave - she gives them a Ring of Necrotic Resistance and a Ring of Protection, and heartfelt hugs. It’s really gay!

We go into town - Cadence has shifted into a horse, and Megs and the kid ride her. Apphia is in the cart, being held in Juna’s strong arms. She gets the Cloak of Comforting.

Brianne, Apphia, Helene, Juna, and the kids check into the inn. Meanwhile, Eric takes Ghorza and Valden with to go find Albrecht. We’re rounding up a posse to save the people in the outskirts! Cadence stays a horse. She takes off on a run with Megs on her back.

The cost of putting up the Vardanes is 114. We split that five ways.

We find a stoic elven man with dark skin nursing a drink. Albrecht is Erik’s ex bf for sure. He perks up slightly when he sees Erik. He explains the situation with the undead attack. Albrecht toys with a dagger while looking at Valden, who admits he’s shit. Albrecht says he’ll round up his men. He also says he’ll put Valden to work helping to fix things once.

We discuss tactics on how to fight the things, that they should run away from the undryads if they see one. Ghorza tells Albrecht they’ll try to rescue the Margravine and reinstate her, which he fervently hopes they do.

Meanwhile, Cadence and Megs are out looking for flowers. They… find some weeds. They then try to go to Ghorza’s moms’ bakery, but forget it’s in a different city. Luckily, Megs has fantastic Investigation and finds an awesome bakery, and they get lots of pastries. They also get nice meals and wine to bring back to the party? So cute!

Imp: “And you brought us weed! Can I roll for how dank it is?”

Kelsey: “She needs to ride back in on me, looking dashing as fuck on the noble steed-” Lin: “Roll Charisma.” (Cadence rolls an 8, but at least Megs manages to roll a 22). Lin: “Peasant girls look out their windows, sighing, a merchant woman leans out of her booth and gives Megs the nod.”

Cadence fucks up and turns back before Meg dismounts, which spoils the effect a bit. Cadence druidcrafts the weeds into lovely flowers.

Ghorza gives Cadence a big hug and spins her around, and Cadence smiles for the first time that day. They share with the Vardanes too, and Juna hugs them as well. Megs redemption arc complete!

Lise and Armand - the Vardane kids. Lisse is like 7, Armande is 14.

We prepare to rest for the night. (Brianne buys our rooms. (It’s gay).) Tomorrow we storm the castle dungeons! Valden’s gonna be leading us in; we’ll put up the ruse that we’re on their side and Megs is bringing in the lens. Apphia will have the actual lens, and will show Valden the real lens as proof that we’ve had it all along. Then she’ll hide it on her person, and make an illusory copy.

Apphia and Brianne go out to get Apphia a new top, although Juna had Mending’d her shirt. Shopping episode~! After Brianne helps her find one, Apphia decides to get her a super soft nice cloak… OF BILLOWING! It’s all super gay. As they walk back, Brianne brushes her hand against hers, and Apphia takes her hand and swings their arms as they walk back.

Cadence, with a few drinks in her, finally shares her nightmares (or, trauma flashbacks) - a unicorn which was an Exarch(?) of Mielikki was corrupted into a undryad-like beast, and chased her out of the arbor. We have a big group hug.

Brianne: “If I’m super gay for Apphia, does that make me an Apphiest?”

Megan: “If Brianne wants to have the gay panic long rest, she can bunk with apphia.”

End of session, and day 3.

#recap #day 3

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