#the sometimes ugly messiness of the recovery process

[malachi-walker]

Some Really Heavy Thoughts on the Relationship Between Scorpia and Catra

Fair warning, guys: I'm gonna get into some deeply personal stuff involving abuse recovery and past mistakes here. I will not be making excuses for Catra or her treatment of Scorpia, but well... Let's just say there's a reason why their relationship has always me wince. Because it touches on some stuff that is likely relevant to a lot of ex-abuse victims.

This entire meta stems from an epiphany I had while discussing with @johannas-motivational-insults how I have a really hard time writing Scorpia, and me trying to pinpoint what exactly makes me so uncomfortable working with her or looking at her relationship with Catra in detail.

Let me back up a bit. We all love Scorpia. She's a big cuddly sweetheart without a mean bone in her body. She's fantastic, a bright point in the overall suckage that is the Horde, and she gives GREAT hugs. So why does their relationship bother me so much?

Well... It's because I've been there once before in my own life. And it's one of my deepest regrets, so seeing that play out on screen and instinctively knowing where this is going fucking sucks.

Personal stuff under the cut.

We've already covered Scorpia being a good kid. That said, I feel like a lot of people just flanderize her into being this perfect wonderful friend who wholly accepts Catra (and conversely either woobify Catra or make her a horrible monster who doesn't appreciate a good thing) but... the truth is a lot more nuanced than that.

Scorpia doesn't wholly accept Catra because in order to truly accept someone you have to see them for who they really are, warts and all, and Scorpia doesn't. She idealizes Catra and either ignores or downplays her very real flaws and problems, and tries to excuse any actions she commits that don't live up to that constructed image, which is of course what she confronts in s4 (and I’m proud of her for that.) It's not done with any ill intent, but it's still not a good thing in any relationship; romantic, platonic, familial, any kind.

Here's where things get real personal. Also, I wanna specify that I am not forcing myself to talk about this, even though it still hurts in a lot of ways. Though I am probably gonna bring this up with my therapist when I next see her.

I've mentioned before in previous meta that I am an ex-child abuse victim who followed a very similar trajectory to Catra once I got out of that situation. I was angry, I was hurt, and I was ADAMANT that nobody get close to me again and fully prepared to lash out as much as I needed in order to make that happen. Occasionally people would slip through my guard anyway, but on the whole I was very successful at that goal and torpedoed a lot of bridges back in those days.

And as much as it kills me to admit it... I had my own Scorpia too.

Her name was Amy, and I met her in my freshman year of high school after I ended up in a private school for the “gifted and talented” (which ended up being its own mistake, but that's a story for another day.)

To put this entire situation into perspective: at the time I was struggling to process and cope with my abuse, I had just been misdiagnosed with major depression after an entire year of contemplating suicide, and I had been put on a ridiculously high dosage of the antidepressant Wellbutrin--literally the highest dosage they could legally give an adolescent without the risk of seizures--which cranked my rage up to a constant underlying simmer and also gave me horrific fucking nightmares, to the point that for about a year and a half I was consistently only getting two hours of sleep because I was waking up screaming nearly every night. This is not me making excuses for being such a dick, but I do try to keep in mind that younger me was dealing with an absolute shitshow when passing judgment on myself. I was trying to survive a situation that absolutely no one was equipped to handle at all of 14 years old.

And then here comes Amy.

Amy was one of those people who was relentlessly optimistic to an almost suspicious degree (more on that later.) The kind of person who will reply to any statement of "I'm having a bad [x]" with generic look-on-the-bright-side platitudes and a big smile without actually addressing anything you said. She was also one of those people who was aggressively Christian, not in a mean way, but in an "it was her answer for literally everything" way, which given that I was struggling with my own faith at the time was practically a recipe for disaster.

But for whatever reason, this girl latched onto me, no matter how much I tried to get her to do otherwise.

I wanna note that I wasn't wholly devoid of friends at the time; my best friend, Michael (who is still my best friend/bro to this day) had also gotten into the school along with me, but the rest of our friend group hadn't and those relationships drifted apart in the ensuing years, which only served to compound the underlying issues. And I will always be thankful that the guy was able to roll with the punches and stick by me even through my absolute worst, but it was also pretty irritating having to switch between my bro who understands me even if he didn’t always agree to my much tenser interactions with Amy. So back to her.

Basically, this girl just kinda inserts herself into my life, refuses to take a hint or back off, and any time I try to talk about my issues or get her to understand a little and make an actual connection, I'm met with the overwhelming feeling of "You're not really seeing me. You're not listening." So I responded by being a fucking bitch. I would ignore her, make fun of her, treat her like a third wheel, etc. In hindsight, it was a dick move, but at the time it made sense to me. I genuinely felt like it was her fault for never listening to me in the first place, so I justified it by telling myself I was just paying her back in kind.

I lost touch with Amy after I was kicked out of school at the tail end of freshman year due to a Wellbutrin-induced rage episode (nobody got hurt, but my attitude at the time was so consistently extreme that the school administration literally had an inch thick dossier on my behavior and what the other kids thought of me, so that incident was just what they needed to justify kicking me out.) Afterwards, my parents made the decision to relocate to another town since my expulsion meant I would be banned from going back into school for a full year unless we changed systems--and even then I was required to go into a continuation school to prove I had been rehabilitated, but I digress. Point is that I was uprooted from that environment and I didn't bother keeping in touch.

I actually found out years later from a friend who went to that same high school--though we didn't actually become friends until after my expulsion--that the reason why Amy was the way she was is that in the year prior to meeting me, her mother had committed suicide and she had been the one to discover her body. So in hindsight, her entire deal made sense: she was trying to survive in the only way she knew how and cope with a situation no one should ever have to, same as me.

But that didn't mean we were able to connect. The great tragedy of that situation, and the thing I regret the most about it, is that we were just two horribly damaged kids that were utterly incapable of actually seeing each other as we were at the time. And it ultimately wasn't anybody's fault, which ironically makes it even harder to accept.

I regret the way I treated her. I wish I could have made her life a little better, and I still hope and pray she got the help she needed elsewhere.

That's what makes Scorptra so incredibly tragic to me as well. Scorpia is a good-hearted person who does genuinely care for Catra, but she also willfully blinds herself to the things Catra is dealing with and her relentless optimism often just ends up rubbing salt in the wounds. Catra is wrong to treat Scorpia so badly, but I also fully understand those feelings of resentment and anger you develop towards someone when they consistently refuse to see you as you are, because I've been there. And that's also why I've always had a hard time with Scorptra romantically (though if you ship it, good for you! I honestly wish I could), because those issues have always been present in their relationship and made it unsustainable from the very beginning.

Something was always destined to break between them. And that's what makes it so damn hard for me to write Scorpia as a character, because in many ways she reminds me of one of the things I regret the most in my life: how I treated someone else who had the best intentions horribly when I was at my absolute worst. These days I try to be kind to my past self as part of the healing process, but when I think of my actions in that year it is really fucking hard. I don't like to think about it, even though I know I feel like I need to (which is also why this meta exists.)

Neither Scorpia or Catra were at fault for the fact that they couldn't see each other properly: it was just a really bad case of wrong place, wrong time. And that's what makes it hurt.

Also, if you made it this far, I'm sorry this was so depressing. Please have a happy cat and scorpion to hopefully feel a little better. Also huge shoutout to @yesbpdcatra for encouraging me to get this out there. You're the best, fam.

[3416]

I'm sorry but grief and addiction are not the same and carlos surely had lost someone in his life to know what grief is so don't make carlos so stupid for not understanding what tk feels in that one scene and that scene needed to show that yes carlos can't help with addiction but in other aspects he is still there and not some cooper. Also do you really think it's healthy for rl to be so unbalanced where one person shuts the other?! Don't say carlos is selfish if you won't mention how selfish tk is bc he isn't not letting carlos in for exactly same reasons carlos wants to be there for tk. And stop saying if others have different opinion it's bc they romanticize tarlos. No, everyone has their own experience and every opinion is valid but thing sure without communication rl won't last and that's the road tarlos stepped in bc tk isn't talking to carlos.

grief and addiction aren't the same, but they're intrinsically linked for tk bc his mom had such a hand in why he's on the road to recovery, and the show's taken plenty of time to show that. carlos still has both his parents.. he CAN'T know what it's like to lose one of them, and honestly, in the words of tk, thank god he doesn't know about that either. this isn't the struggle olympics, they aren't competing for who has it worse in general, but right now, tk's struggle is greater and more life threatening, and it baffles me that just bc the episode was from carlos' pov... some people are forgetting what legitimately has just happened to tk. the episode was explicitly about how carlos, who wants to help and be a support to tk, has to realize none of this process is about him or his preconceived notions about how to handle crises like this.. and in order to REALLY be tk's support and tk's person, he needs to let tk take the reins and confide in the right settings and let tk try to keep up with his normal life in a way that feels regular, without those ugly and messy feelings seeping into every aspect of his life. tk was SO communicative this episode, about where he was going and what he was doing and what happened in his meetings/things cooper enlightened him about... just because it wasn't about these terrible feelings and urges doesn't mean he wasn't letting carlos into the process. i know you just want to be stubborn, so you won't listen to this, but this episode was legitimately beautiful in that it was about accepting the fact that you can't be everything for the person you love the most and that's okay and that's healthy. everyone is an individual at the end of the day, and loving each other is work, and your self worth doesn't hinge on your ability to fix your partner's problems bc there's just sometimes things that need outside help.

[in-arlathan]

Throwaway Thursday

Since I missed WIP Wednesday, I decided to do something different this week and actually share a bit of writing I tossed into the garbage.

But first: Thank you @noire-pandora, @sinsbymanka, @johaeryslavellan and @mogwaei for the tags. I loved seeing your WIPs on my dash! They were all so good! T_T

Leaving more tags for next week for @elveny, @barbex, @serial-chillr, @faerieavalon, @musetta3, @juliafied, @dreadfutures, @hollyand-writes, @starsandskies, @emerald-amidst-gold.

But on to the material I threw away!

____

So, there are quite a few scenes that didn't make it into the final version of "The Rebel's Ascension". Most of them were written out of order while I was still in the first draft because I couldn't wait to get to them. More often than not, though, these scenes no longer fit within the story once I actually got around to writing the previous chapter. It broke my heart but I cut those scenes and stored them elsewhere for safekeeping.

There is one scene, however, that I really liked and that would have fit into the story. I cut it because I felt like it would blow up an already insanely long chapter and take away from the impact the previous scene had. And since it was part of a flashback, I saw no reason to stuff it into another chapter. It was supposed to go into Chapter 11, "Bloody Blessings", right after the first battle with the dwarves. Solas had been wounded during the fight and I wanted to show his recovery afterwards.

I'm going to share this one scene now. And I will leave in all my weird typos and the brackets in which I summarize descriptive paragraphs (when I can't be bothered to write them) for everyone's enjoyment, hehe. My process is so messy sometimes!

The sunlight stung in Solas’s eyes when he finally woke. Its brightness sent a white-hot pain that threatened to spill his skulking two. He squinted and tried to cover his face with his hands, only to realize that one of them was missing.

So it wasn’t a dream, he thought bitterly.

He tried to sift through what little he remembered. He had been in the midst of battle, despair and fear of death clawing at his guts. There had been light and a loud roar and then… nothing. No sound, no sensations. Just darkness whispering to him.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Anaris said.

Geldauran’s brother sat on a stool beside Solas’s bed, regarding him intently. The simple robes of the elvhen were covered with bloodstains that stood in stark contrast to his jade green eyes. His auburn hair tied back in braids to keep it from falling into his eyes while he worked.

“Anaris!” Solas breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s so good to see you.”

The other man’s brows furrowed in surprise.

(SOLAS LOOKS AROUND; DESCRIPTION, OTHER ELVHEN IN NEED)

“Am I��?”

“In the Halls of Healing, yes.” Anaris turned to the bedside table and picked up a bowl he’d placed there. He took the pestle within and began stirring vigorously. “The All-Mother herself delivered you here once the battle was over.”

“Did we win?”

Anaris huffed, mildly amused. “Of course we won,” he said. “You think you’d still be here if it were otherwise?”

Solas breathed another sigh of relief. Not only had they fought back the tide of enemies that had come to wipe the People from the face of the Earth, the Halls of Healing were still intact. Which meant that Arlathan itself was still intact, still safe.

“You should thank Falon’Din,” Anaris said. “His spell captured part of you in a pre-stage of uthenera. You’d be dead without him.”

“I will,” Solas muttered and tried to push up into a sitting position.

“Woah!” Anaris exclaimed and rushed to help him. “Take it easy.”

Solas nodded faintly, the world spinning around him for a moment. He closed his eyes and waited for the feeling to fade again. When he opened them again, his gaze fell upon his wounded arm. Or what was left of it. The axe had cut through bone and flesh right above his elbow, leaving only a stump behind.

“Looks ugly, I know,” Anaris said. “It will take a lot of time and effort to grow it back. But first, you must recover your strength. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

[seriously-really-soft]

Jumin with a fat MC

a/n: hello! i hope you all know that you’re wonderful and deserve to love yourself just as you are right now. i love jumin with all of my being and i thought it was important to put out there that yes, he loves you as you are and finds you absolutely breathtaking. my inbox is open to chat if you’d like, and if you like commenting please feel free to do so

Jumin’s heart is so big and he has so much love to give, I have no doubt in my mind that this man absolutely cherishes you. He’s always telling you how beautiful you are and the cuddle sessions are heavenly because he just wants to be closer to you in every way possible. He’ll nuzzle his nose against yours and sometimes he runs his finger over your cheek and tucks your hair behind your ear when he kisses you - he’s just so soft :((((. If you struggle with your relationship with food, he is going to be so active in helping you heal from insecurities, I feel like he would encourage you to try out a variety of meals to find out what you like and he’ll even learn to make your favorites along the way. He’s always there to tell you that it’s okay to enjoy things, that you deserve to feel happy and loved as you are.

He loves having routines and sleepovers with you. I know he said he’ll take things slow in his route, but knowing him he is probably going to miss seeing you so much :((((( so he’s always open to having sleepovers with you (doesn’t matter whose home it’s taking place in) and he even has period supplies, your favorite snacks, and he keeps cute sheet masks in stock for when you come over (he likes feeling your hands on his face when you adjust the mask on him plus he enjoys vibing with you as you both relax). He gets so happy at the thought of being under the same roof as you and thinks you look cute when you’re all messy, unashamed, and comfortable in the morning.

He gets so soft seeing your adorable tummy rest against your thighs and squish however it wants, and the intricate patterns of stretch marks are exquisite in his eyes. When he sees you happy and at peace with your body, not afraid to take up space and believing in your own goodness, his heart swells with joy and he’s not afraid of becoming a puddle of mush in front of you - he loves you and he’s so proud of it. He thinks you look so ethereal when you wear something you feel good in - Jumin’s a complete you enthusiast, and I'm pretty sure that he’s down for photoshoots (whether professional or done by the two of you) and art of you.

Jumin wants to hear anything and everything you have to say, and he would feel so honored to have your trust if or when you open up to him about insecurities, fatphobia, your experiences and struggles, etc. he never wants you to feel bad about your body or any other part of yourself, and he’s quick to shut down any and all hate comments you may receive. He’s proud of you every step of the way in your journey to loving yourself, and he holds deep admiration for how warm and compassionate you are, and how encouraging you are for others to accept themselves.

Ummmm your body is literally the most beautiful thing Jumin’s ever seen; the inherent cuteness of cellulite sorta blows his mind because we all know Jumin’s a sucker for cute things. I also think he would totally be the person to shower new cellulite, stretch marks, beauty spots, etc with love. He’ll help apply moisturizers to the dry skin you can get around new stretch marks and he would hate to see you in pain when your thighs rub uncomfortably together. The folds of your back are elegant beyond belief, and he really is going to behold all of you with so much love and awe in his eyes. Every touch and gaze between you two is special.

Insecure about sagging breasts? Feeling frustrated at the way your body looks? Jumin’s heart would break seeing you be mean to yourself in any way because you mean so much to him and gave him so much to live for. He would let you know that change is a normal part of being alive and that there is nothing wrong or ugly or disgusting or too much about the way you look. He’ll tell you that so much more goes into looking at someone you love than cameras, opinions, or numbers could ever hope to capture - he loves all of you and never will he think of you as less than or that he’s missing out on something better. You’re so special and wonderful in your own way, and nobody can take that away from you no matter how hard they try. There is nothing better or more precious to him than you, you are all that he could ever want.

He wants to be the best partner/fiance/husband he can be for you, and he’s totally supportive of you even when you feel like you just don’t have the energy to care.  He knows recovery/healing is not a linear process, and he’s always going to be there to help pick you up and get you through the good and the bad days.

[generallynerdy]

Delinquents (Peter Parker X Reader)

ENDGAME SPOILERS - DONT SAY I DIDNT WARN YOU

Summary: The first halfway decent guy in the galaxy (Y/N) has met happens to be a disaster of a human being, Peter Parker. Unfortunately, both of their guardians are more than a little protective of them.

Requested by & Anon: Can you write a Peter Parker x reader where they meet in the final battle in Endgame and she’s, like, Captain Marvel’s sidekick/second-in-command, so Carol is protective of her?

Key: (Y/N) - your name, (L/N) - last name Warnings: mentioned kidnapping, mentioned memory loss, mentioned forced military service, battles, injuries, stitches, injuries being stitched, cursing definitely Word Count: 2,135

Note: i...had too much fun with this. Pls give me more carol and tony and peter and

    “So...they decided to find the stones and bring back past Thanos-- all without telling you?” (Y/N) questioned.

    Her mentor, Carol Danvers, sighed. “Yep, that’s about it.”

    Their conversation seemed relaxed, but the two were soaring through space in modified Kree uniforms, decorated in red, blue, and gold. Carol used the suit’s built in helmet only to communicate with (Y/N), who had to have her suit fully on for space travel.

Unlike Carol, (Y/N) had no special powers. She was simply a well-trained human being that had been taken by the Kree after she had a run-in with Skrulls. She couldn’t remember a thing of her old life, much like Carol had experienced a while back. When they met, Carol couldn’t help taking the girl under her wing.

So, there they were, mentor and apprentice, racing to the aid of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.

“Approaching the compound,” Carol said suddenly. “Get your gear ready, kiddo.”

    “I thought I was First Lieutenant,” (Y/N) teased.

    Carol snorted. “That’s Monica. You’re Second Lieutenant and you know it.” They shared a laugh before she went serious. “I’ll take down the ship, you find the other Captain and see what you can do.”

    “Yes, ma’am,” she said instantly.

    They approached the compound sight and zoomed into the fight. Carol went for the ship, as she said, while (Y/N) flew down, using suit modifications that had been made for her, and looked for Captain Rogers.

    “Danvers, we could use the assist,” a man said.

She spotted the man of red, white, and blue and landed in front of him, knowing instantly that she was in the right place.

    “Captain Rogers?” (Y/N) asked, standing tall with her shoulders back.

    “Yeah,” he said with a tilt of his head. “Who’s asking?”

    “First Lieutenant (Y/N) (L/N), sir,” she replied, giving a good and proper salute. “Captain Danvers has me at your service.”

    He blinked a few times before smiling a little. “Good to meet you, Lieutenant. You’re a little young, huh?”

    “I was a Lieutenant with the Kree,” she shrugged. “It’s just kind of an in-joke now, since Carol saved me. Anyway, how can I be of help?”

    Rogers nodded and gestured down the field. “One of ours is carrying the stones.We gotta get them safely to an ugly brown van farther that way and send ‘em back to the right year.”

    “Got it,” (Y/N) nodded before pressing a hand to her wrist. “Captain, you got that?”

    “Loud and clear,” Carol replied over the comms. “Does their carrier happen to be a kid with a mess of brown hair?”

    Rogers snorted a little. “That’s him.”

    “That’s him. I’m on my way.”

    With that, (Y/N) flew off again, wind whipping through her hair as she did. She observed the ground below her as she soared, searching for the kid with messy hair, as Carol had described. She saw him a good distance from the central force of the battle, but he was headed right toward it, as he was supposed to. As she descended to meet him, she watched him get knocked off his feet and fall into the dirt.

    “You okay?” (Y/N) asked, rushing over and reaching out a hand to help pull him up.

    When he was on his feet again, he nodded slightly, looking at her with slight wonder in his eyes. “Yeah-- yeah, I’m good.”

    “I’m (Y/N),” she introduced. As soon as she did, Carol landed next to her with a rumble of the ground. “She’s Carol.”

    The boy fumbled for words. “I’m, uh, I’m Peter-- Peter Parker.”

    “Hi, Peter Parker,” Carol grinned dorkily. “You got something for us?”

    Peter almost shyly passed her the new gauntlet with the stones in it before glancing over at the masses of aliens headed right for them. “Dunno how you’re gonna get it through there alone.”

    “Don’t worry,” said a voice. “She’s not.”

    Both Peter and (Y/N) were in awe when an entire troop of badass women joined them, weapons tightly in their hands, if they had any. Despite this near army of reinforcements, Carol frowned and looked to her second-in-command.

    “C’mon,” she said. “I need back-up.”

    (Y/N) raised an eyebrow and glanced at the other women pointedly, but was ignored when Carol took her arm and dragged her forward. Without another word, they were thrown into the battle, barely given a moment to breathe, much less speak.

    “Really!?” (Y/N) shouted to her as they flew through the crowds, taking a shot now and then. “The first normal looking, half decent guy we meet and you get protective now?”

    “Shut up, Lieutenant, and focus on not dying!”

    (Y/N) sighed. “I hate you.”

    Carol scoffed, gauntlet tight in her arms. “Please,” she said. “You love me.”

    Post Endgame, as Dr Strange had become fond of calling it, Carol instructed (Y/N) to head to the medbay and take care of herself, seeing as she’d been pretty beat up in the battle. But who wasn’t, to be frank?

    After a close call with Tony, everyone was shaken. Carol and (Y/N) had barely put together a makeshift device using his suit’s built-in nano technology and their own old Kree rigs on their suits to heal his arm. He’d almost died in his wife’s arms. Luckily, the two were too quick for that.

    Peter was particularly shaken by Tony’s near death. When the man gasped for breath for the first time in a good minute, the boy instantly hugged the life out of (Y/N), thanking her through sobs.

    Seeing as the compound had been destroyed, there was an emergency aid center set up in the remnants of the battlefield. Those who weren’t as badly hurt could travel home with the help of the wizards. Some of the closer members of the Avengers travelled to the new temporary Avengers base-- which was actually old. Avengers Tower was back in business.

    (Y/N) sauntered into the medbay with minor injuries, glancing into recovery rooms as she passed them. Most of them were full of patients who had needed emergency attention, but in the fifth room down, she found a very different person there.

    Peter Parker glanced at her briefly, but drew his attention back to the needle in his hand. He was attempting to stitch up a head wound by himself, using only a mirror on a metal tray by his recovery bed. He was failing miserably. When he missed his mark and gasped in pain, (Y/N) stepped into the room.

    “Let me help,” she said, approaching.

    Without letting him protest, though he seemed too tired to do so, she took the needle and began to stitch himself up herself. Peter had to look up at an odd angle to let her reach his cut, but it gave him the perfect view of (Y/N)’s face as she worked; furrowed eyebrows, bitten lip. She was entirely focused on him.

    He had barely muttered a thanks before the work was halfway done.

    “So, Peter Parker,” (Y/N) hummed as she continued, “What’s your story?”

    “I don’t-- I don’t really have one,” he muttered.

    The girl chuckled. “I doubt that. Everybody has a story.”

    “Well...I was bitten by a radioactive spider. So I have super strength and can stick to walls.” He told his story as bluntly as he could. “I made a webbing solution and a costume and became Spider-Man, I guess. Then, Mr. Stark made me a suit and let me join the Avengers-- more or less.”

    (Y/N) stopped for a second, processing his tale. “Huh,” she said. “I thought I was weird.”

    “Yeah?” He asked with a small smile. “What’s, uh, what’s your story?”

    “I ran into these aliens when I was little,” she started. “The Skrull. The Kree fought them off and couldn’t wipe my memories of them, so they kidnapped me and turned me into a soldier. I got to First Lieutenant before Carol found me and freed me. I’ve been with her ever since, ‘cause I can’t remember my life on Earth.”

    “Wow,” Peter whispered, grimacing slightly as the stitches stung him. “That’s…”

    (Y/N) laughed. “Crazy, I know.”

    “Not that crazy,” he said in an attempt to make her feel better. “We just beat up a humanoid plum with a bunch of wizards and superheroes.”

    She burst into giggles at that, as did he. Her laughter only egged him on and by the time his stitches were in, (Y/N) was red in the face from laughing. This Peter kid was pretty hilarious and he thought she was great. Nobody ever thought he was that funny.

    “You’re pretty cool,” he muttered as she went to clean up around his now fully stitched cut. “For somebody who was a soldier in an alien army.”

    (Y/N) grinned and shook her head, wiping at his forehead with a damp cloth. “And you’re pretty cool for a high school boy.”

    She took the cloth and went to put it away, turning away from Peter. He took a deep breath and bit his lip, probably about to regret what he was going to say. That said, he was gonna do it anyway.

    “So, uh, I know this probably the worst time ever,” he said. “But do you wanna get something to eat sometime? With me? I dunno, maybe downtown or something or--”

    “I’m not exactly familiar with Earth customs anymore,” she interrupted, smiling to herself before turning back around. “But are you asking me on a date?”

    Peter swallowed. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, if you want to…”

    (Y/N) gave him a big smile, unable to keep it back at his nervous demeanor. “I’d like that.”

    “You-- you would? Really?”

    “Definitely,” she nodded. “But I’ll have to escape Carol first. She’s...really protective.”

    He laughed a little, nerves finally starting to wear off. “Tell me about it,” he agreed. “I think Mr. Stark would lock me in my room for the rest of my life if he could.”

    “Speak of the devil…” (Y/N) suddenly whispered.

    They could hear shouting down the hall. From the entrance of the medbay, echoes of two distinct voices reached their ears; one of a very pissy Captain and a less-than-pleased genius. Their parents were essentially arguing. What they didn’t realise was that each of their kids was listening in.

    “You keep your Spiderling away from my kid,” Carol huffed.

    Tony sputtered. “Yeah, well, keep your space soldier away from my kid.”

    “Did you hear that?” Peter gasped, drawing (Y/N)’s attention to him. “He called me his kid!”

    She grinned at his pure reaction before glancing out in the hall. She saw them in power stances, completely focused on each other. Smiling to herself, she shrunk back into the recovery room and looked over at her companion.

    “Maybe we should go on that date right now,” she suggested.

    Peter stammered. “Wh-- what? Like right-- Like right now? Right now?”

    “Yeah,” (Y/N) laughed. “Before they inevitably separate us for who knows how long. You in?”

    “Oh, I’m definitely in,” he said with a shy smile.

    She grinned proudly. “Good, ‘cause I have a terrible, terrible idea. But it’s gonna be hilarious in, like, 5 years.”

    “You know what?” Carol huffed. “I’m gonna go get my ‘space soldier’ and we’re gonna leave.”

    “Good!” Tony exclaimed as she began to walk away from him and toward the recovery rooms. “Good riddance! You keep her away from my kid, you hear? He’s been traumatized by aliens enough!”

    Carol scoffed and shouted back. “She’s human, genius!” She turned away to look into the recovery room and grab her kid, but realised it was empty. “Shit.”

    Tony walked up at her lack of argument and looked into the room, having the same realisation. “If she took my boy, I swear to god--!”

    “WOOHOO!”

    Both heroes whipped around at the exclamation, staring out the massive windows in the tower to see their two wards having the time of the lives. Peter was fully clothed in his Spider-Man gear and had a string of web attached to (Y/N)’s feet as she used her formerly Kree space suit to fly down the street. She pulled him along, laughing her ass off at his mutual amusement.

    Meanwhile, their guardians were fuming.

    ��PETER PARKER, YOU JUVENILE DELINQUENT--!”

    “YOU ARE SO GROUNDED, YOU LITTLE SHIT!”

    But she and Peter ignored their exclamations.

    “Where to, Spider-Man?” She shouted down at him, a silly grin on her face.

    He laughed, though it was muffled by the heavy wind. “I know a great shawarma place downtown!”

    “What’s shawarma?” (Y/N) asked, tilting her head.

    “You haven’t had shawarma!?” Peter gasped, almost offended before laughing loudly. “Oh, we are gonna have so much fun!”

Masterlist

[one-abuse-survivor]

hi, i was wondering if you had any advice. i moved out of my terrible situation (yay!) & now my days are lighter & so much easier. i have actually seen an improvement in my behaviour & attitude & even self esteem. but i realised i have been avoiding anything trauma-related out of fear of all those ugly emotions. my nightmares have gotten more frequent & i’ve started having flashbacks (which are not what i thought & definitely not fun). i want to see a therapist but can’t at the moment. (1)

i’m aware i’m still an overflowing fountain of unhealthy coping mechanisms and unresolved trauma but once i start thinking abt those things it’s hard to put it ‘back in the box’ and carry on. i know work has to be put into recovery & that it’s hard & awkward & messy, but i can’t do it alone & i know it’ll just fester if i shove it away and ignore it. i’m quite literally between a rock and a hard place. literally any words at all (even just acknowledgement lmao) will be appreciated, ty 💓😌 (2)

–

Hi, nonnie! First of all, I’m so proud of you for getting out of that situation and for all the improvement you’ve made, and you should be hella proud too 😊

Yeah, recovery is… hard, to say the very least. I’ve been on it for one and a half years now, and there are certain things that I still battle with everyday, things that I must have brought up to my therapist a thousand times, and things I haven’t brought up yet at all because I’m so scared I’ll have to face them if I do. But I can tell you a few things that I’ve learnt!

- Go step by step, one step at a time. When I first brought up a thousand different PTSD symptoms and unhealthy coping mechanisms to my therapist, the first thing she told me is, we can’t possibly fix this all at once, so let’s start with the most pressing issue – you can’t keep skipping meals. Which was a thing I did. So we started there; literally just with me telling myself I can’t keep skipping meals anymore every time I wanted to. This doesn’t mean I haven’t skipped a meal in one and a half years because of my PTSD, but it does mean that the days I do skip meals are now catalogued as bad days. Recovery has bad days, and during those, sometimes I still skip a meal, but now all of these days are separate from every other single day. I’m not a person who skips meals anymore. I’m a person who sometimes has bad days and struggles a bit more to eat. 

- And that applies to every other one of your symptoms. They’re not going to magically disappear one by one, but they can stop being a part of you and become just a part of the bad days you have sometimes, separate from the rest of your life. 

- How to achieve this?

- I don’t understand/remember every single step I’ve taken in my recovery process, but one thing I can tell you is that it’s okay not to think about it. It’s okay not to want to go back to all those ugly emotions. Right now, if I started making a mental list of instances where my mother abused me, I would have an anxiety attack. So I don’t. I’ve talked about this with my therapist, a while ago when I asked her what she thought of exposure therapy methods, and she told me that we already torture ourselves enough with our memories for her to put us back in that situation. It’s okay not to want to go back to those feelings. It’s okay to keep on living your life, create a routine for yourself, make friends and lead a lifestyle that doesn’t include your past trauma. You’re not avoiding anything by moving on! And if you’re worried that you’re burying things that you should probably face, I’m here to say that, in my experience, this is something that you’ll need a therapist’s help with. So there’s no shame in not knowing how to start to face these tings by yourself! As you said, you can’t do it alone!

- Which brings me to my next point: you need people in your life. When you go through trauma it’s normal to isolate yourself, to lose people along the way and lose opportunities to meet new people and to avoid social interation with the people you do know because of anxiety, fear, feeling different, not having experience… During recovery, it’s important that you slowly expose yourself to these tiny life events. Just, the next time a classmate or co-worker or a friend asks you to go for a coffee, or to watch a movie sometime, and you feel like you’d say yes if it wasn’t for fear/lack of experience/anxiety… say yes. (Don’t say yes out of obligation, though, or to do things that you don’t enjoy with people you dislike! This is about you being more and more comfortable having a normal life, not about you pushing yourself to do things/be around people that make you uncomfortable). So even if you don’t face all these giant things that are turning and turning in your mind… do face the tiny things that you feel are like small walls separating you from the rest of the world. Start with the walls that feel easiest to climb. (THIS is the kind of exposure therapy my therapist advocates for! Slowly daring to face things in life that our first insticts tell us we should avoid).

- Reward yourself when you do well, and be kind to yourself when you don’t do so well. Try to train all the voices that say bad things about you to instead say things like “today I did that chore that I’d been postponing! Yay me! I deserve some chocolate.” “Today I couldn’t do this chore! It’s not because I’m lazy; there is a reason behind my struggle. It means I’m not feeling my best right now. I’m going to rest/distract myself/do an easier chore/shower/do whatever I need to do to take care of myself right now (yes, that includes eating that chocolate too) and I’ll try again tomorrow.”

- Try not to spend too much time alone with your thoughts. Read, go out with friends, watch shows you like… fill your day and your mind with things that don’t leave you with hours ahead for you to dwell on your thoughts. Basically this takes me back to that previous point; create a routine, find things and people you like, try new things from time to time. My therapist said spending too much time alone with my thoughts only serves to trigger myself when I could be using that time to do something fun or something I need to do instead!

- It usually takes me from one to two days to completely recover from a flashback. Luckily they don’t happen so often now, because one can’t keep taking days off when they’re continuous. That being said… when you have a flashback, be kind with yourself. Drink water. Take the day slowly. Write “rest” on your to-do list so that literally one of the things for you to do that day is to just rest. Just lie in bed with your phone for a few hours. Ta-da! A to-do thing completed. Sleep plenty. Also, you know when you’re crying and people ask you if you want to talk, or if you want to go somewhere else, and instinctively you know if the answer is ‘yes’ or ‘no’? This happens to me at least; when I’m in pain, it’s like instinct takes over and I don’t need to wonder what I need–my body just tells me. Similarly, when I have a flashback, both during and after it happens it’s like my body is just asking me for things I need. Cover your face, don’t let anyone touch you, stop every noise around you are some of the common ones. And afterwards, it’s usually more like be home alone, lay in bed in the dark, don’t go out, drink water. My advice is to listen to your body. Yes, even if our trauma tells us to stay home it’s important that we jump the small walls; but having a flashback leaves you very vulnerable, and things that are usually tolerable and even enjoyable can turn into a living nightmare; from sounds and lights to having to sit through three hours of lectures to having to talk to people. So when you have a flashback, for a day, avoiding these things if you feel like it’s the best option is okay. 

That’s all I can think of right now! I hope some of this helps you at least a little bit and I hope that you are having a good day today 💗 And please, remember that your comfort and safety always come before my advice; if something I said doesn’t feel right, don’t feel like you have to do it. I’m just one person with one experience, after all! (Also if anyone reading this has their own advice, you’re more than welcome to add it to the post 😊) 

Sending you a big big hug and lots of encouragement!

[unityghost]

Infection

Over on fanfiction.net, Willows Dancing in the Wind made the following suggestion:

"I would like to see more Dean and Gabriel interaction. Maybe Dean having to wake Gabriel up from a nightmare and he's the only one home to comfort him. I'd like to see them bond over Hell."

I'm adding this as part 12 of Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels, even though most of the story focuses on Dean's treatment of Gabriel. It's part of the same story line, so why not include it in the series?

Most of my regular readers are here for for the Sabriel hurt/comfort. And that's what's coming next. For those of you who are like, “Coolio but let’s just stick with what we’re really here to read,” thanks for sticking with me!

Gabriel had fallen asleep at the table.

 Dean found him when he entered the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. He wasn’t surprised. Even with a fair portion of grace back in action, Gabriel was exhausted at least ninety percent of the time and functioned poorly without rest. In any case, sleep and nutrition accelerated the replenishment process. Most likely, by Castiel’s estimates, Gabriel would have had to spend an extra month or so recovering from Asmodeus sucking him dry.

 So here he was, face planted on the table between his arms. Next to his head was a half-drunk mug of coffee and an unwrapped granola bar.

 Well, Dean thought, opening the fridge as quietly as he could, at least Gabriel had tried to eat.

 Dean sniffed at the deli drawer to make sure he was still more likely to die from ghouls slurping out his insides through a straw than by slimy roast beef, then fished out some cheese and grabbed a bottle of mayonnaise from one of the side shelves. He hoped he could find at least one clean plate in the cupboard.

 “Stop.”

 Crap, he’d been too loud.

 Dean turned. “Sorry man, I - ”

 But Gabriel was still unconscious. He’d shifted so that his face was turned to the side.

 Dean watched him carefully. Gabriel moaned softly. “Stop,” he mumbled again.

 Dean set the mayonnaise back on the shelf. “Gabe.”

Gabriel flinched in his sleep.

“Gabe,” Dean repeated, louder this time.

Gabriel jerked awake and shot upright. He didn’t spot Dean right away but still looked panicked once he did. 

“Gabriel,” said Dean, “Everything okay?”

Gabriel’s breathing was tight and rapid. “Dean?”

“Just me.” He could see how badly Gabriel was trembling. “This was a bad one, huh?”

“Dean, where’s Sam?”

A pause. “He went out.”

Gabriel turned chalk-white.

“He’s with Cas,” Dean explained. “They’re just getting a bite to eat.”

Gabriel shook more violently. “Okay.”

Dean moved over to the table and took a seat beside him. “Want me to make you a fresh cup of coffee?”

Gabriel’s eyes fell on the half-empty mug. “How long have I been asleep?”

“When’d you decide to pass out in here?”

Gabriel considered. “2:00? 2:30? I was planning on having lunch.

Dean glanced at the untouched granola. “And lunch was a Quaker bar.”

Gabriel shrugged 

“You’ve been out for an hour and a half,” Dean told him. “So how about that coffee?”

“No. No thanks. Sick to my stomach.”

“Same old routine, huh? Glass of water, then.”

“I can’t right now.”

But Dean went to the sink and filled a glass anyway, then set it in front of Gabriel. “If you change your mind.”

Gabriel stared at the glass. “Thanks.”

Dean resettled himself next to Gabriel. “It’s a gross feeling, I know. The whole nightmare game. Truth is I’d rather face down an entire army of Michaels than go through that every night like I used to.”

Gabriel offered no response.

“Listen,” Dean went on, “I’m not Sam, but I know how to do this.”

Gabriel looked at him.

“You know how many years of experience I have trying to hold someone together? Doesn’t always work, but I ain’t a new pledge.”

Gabriel had calmed down a little, not quite as tense as he had been a few moments before. “You probably don’t want to watch the show.”

“I can guarantee you I’ve put on better performances.”

“Trust me, it gets ugly.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s uglier if you’re alone.

“Dean, I don’t expect - ”

“Hey. It’s all good. We don’t have to talk if you don’t wanna talk; I can just sit here, give you … moral support.”

Gabriel sighed. “It’s your funeral.”

“So can you think of anything that’d …” Dean made vague gestures with his hands. “... help?”

“Well, you’re not mad or freaked out, so don’t worry about extra credit.”

“What are the extra credit options?”

“You could write a paper on how much of a disaster I am. Sam can grade it.”

“Pass.”

“You’re not a sympathy puker, are you?”

“Who do you think was the one to clean up after a preschool-aged Sam, huh?”

“I just wanted to make sure you have the credentials for this job.” Gabriel paused. “You know that’s what Sam called it? His ‘job’?”

“I think it’s more than that to him.”

“Why? Just …” Gabriel struggled for the right words. “Why?”

Dean considered. “No offense, but if you’d seen yourself when you first got here, you’d probably understand.”

Gabriel gave a hollow laugh. “I wouldn’t have touched me with a ten-foot pole.”

“What can I say? Sam is … you know, sometimes I wonder why he stuck with hunting. The kid used to catch spiders in cups and take them outside. He sees someone like you and just …”

Gabriel smiled. “Catches me in a cup and puts me outside?”

“Nah, man, he wanted to hold onto you.”

“That was a strange decision.”

“I don’t know Gabriel, he just cares.”

“Yeah, okay, but - I mean, Cas I can sort of get. He’s my brother and maybe he feels like he has to do something. But Sam? Dean, I’m the most irritating bitch of an archangel in all of Dad’s creation.”

“Right, I forgot how much more fun it is to watch Lucifer and Michael corrupt the integrity of existence itself than to pick you up off the floor once in a while.”

Gabriel slumped in his chair. “It drives me nuts that your brother’s so good at both.”

“I’d like to say he learned it from me, but I’ve gotten more out of watching him than I’d ever be able to come up with on my own.”

“Yeah, well …” Gabriel ran both hands through his hair. “Shit.”

Dean watched him carefully. “Gabe, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Takes me a little while is all.”

“You wanna tell me about it?”

Gabriel groaned, still holding his head. “I just - this always ends messy. I don’t even remember what I say to Sam most of the time; all I know is there’s never any pride left to spare.”

“I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want, but I don’t think it is.”

“Mm. Yeah. I guess not.”

They sat in silence for a while. Gabriel kept his head lowered and his eyes fixed on the table.

Dean was surprised when Gabriel was the first to speak. “Asmodeus did so much to hurt me. Even if I manage to catch a break from thinking about one form of torture, there’s another right behind it. And angels aren’t supposed to dream. When we do it’s … it’s so real.”

“I don’t think that’s unique to angels,” Dean told him.

Gabriel lifted his head. “I can’t wait for all this to be over. These nightmares, they’re screwing me up so bad.”

“You just gotta wait for your grace to come back and then take it from there.”

Gabriel looked desperate. “I don’t know how to wait this out. It’s taking too long.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “You’re an archangel and six months feels like a long time to you?”

“Yes! I mean, look at Sam! He’s fine. He has his bad days but he’s so …so not like me. And you, too. You both went through the same thing I did and you’re human. You’re the ones who are supposed to have low expectations.”

Dean’s expression soured. “Thanks, Gabriel. Look, I think you’re missing a few pieces here. One, Sam doesn’t just have ‘bad days.’ He’d never let you witness it, but sometimes the resemblance between you guys is creepy. Two, you were in the pit for a long-ass time, longer than me or Sam. And three, I’m not the role model you should be looking to when it comes to making a healthy recovery. I was in there for less than a century and sometimes I can’t see three feet ahead because someone looked at me funny. Cut yourself a break.”

Gabriel squirmed. “But I can’t tell there’s anything wrong with you! I could settle for just being able to pretend.”

“Bad idea. I know archangels probably don’t have livers, but - ”

“Sam keeps reminding me it’s going to take longer than I think it should,” Gabriel continued. “Tell me, Dean: if you guys are still as damaged as you say, how is it that you function? How do you … how do you just keep going without falling apart again and again?”

Dean looked down at his hands. “If I knew, I’d pass along my wisdom.”

“Dean, you’re both so much stronger than I am.”

“No.”

“You are. I’m not trying to host a pity-party; I’m giving the facts.” 

“Gabe - ” Dean turned back to him. “Beating the crap out of yourself isn’t gonna do anything except pull you backwards. You were in Hell. You were screwed over in the worst way. And the only person who’s mad at you for the fallout is you. Me and Sam … we don’t like seeing you like this. The most you should’ve gotten for being such a jerk to us before is maybe a solid half hour of me yelling at you. But this? What you actually wound up with? I wouldn’t have ever wished that on you. I wouldn’t send anyone to Hell unless they were part of the administration. It sucks down there, Gabriel. It sucks and we just want to help.”

He watched as Gabriel’s eyes filled with tears. Normally, Dean would have frozen up, but he’d been expecting things to go south sooner or later. He had known that the situation would become, as Gabriel put it, “ugly.”

“Dean,” Gabriel croaked, “I spill my guts to your brother even though I know better, and no matter how many times I let him take care of me, I still haven’t - haven’t told him even half of what  Asmodeus did to me - and hardly anything about what Asmodeus made me do. I can’t. If Sam let me talk about that stuff, everything would change. You’d all look at me differently. You wouldn’t want to room with me. There’s so much I - ” He turned away, and the last words came out as a sob. “So much I can’t tell any of you.”

“Hey,” Dean replied softly, wondering if it was better to reach out or give him space. “If there’s stuff you don’t want to say, you don’t have to say it. If you keep it to yourself just because you think those are the rules, you’ve gotta let one of us try to change your mind.”

“Have you - ” Gabriel’s head was lowered towards his lap, his eyes squeezed shut. “Did Sam ever tell you anything? Any of what I confessed to him?”

“No. I don’t think he’d do something like that.”

“But you know the kinds of things they do in Hell.” Gabriel shuddered, then opened his eyes. “You know how they ... everything that they ...”

“Of course I do,” Dean said gently.

“So some of it ... you might be able to guess.”

Dean grimaced. “I think it might be more than just ‘some.’”

“But how do you know when it’s cool to talk about it? What if people really do start seeing you like ... like what you already know you are?”

“Okay, look.” Dean shifted his chair so that he was facing Gabriel. “I’m not exactly an over-sharer myself, but Sam and Cas have never, ever given me crap for bringing up the worst. Including the torture that I carried out with my own two hands. And when I was in Hell, everything happened to me - and whatever happened to me, I did to the newbies over and over and over again. And Sam? When he was in Hell, that kid saw the dark. There’s still mountains of crap he won’t tell me no matter how hard I push. The truth is that if anyone’s permanently messed up, it’s him.” Dean’s softened his tone. “Just like you said, I know what they do down there. I know, and so does Sam. Now, I don’t know exactly what you went through for all that time, but a solid fifty percent of it is bound to be familiar. If anyone’s gonna judge you for what happened, it ain’t us.”

For almost a full minute, Gabriel simply stared at him, eyes bright with fear. Dean decided to ride the silence out, to let Gabriel take control of the conversation.

When Gabriel finally spoke, his voice trembled. “What if you three do everything to help and it doesn’t work? What if it’s a waste of your time? Dean, I - ” He clenched his fists, face crumpling again. “I don’t think I’m going to get better.”

“Hey, you know us. We’re stubborn sons of bitches and we don’t give up easy. For better or worse, you’re gonna have to live with that.”

Gabriel went on crying, trying to choke it down.

Dean pushed the glass of water towards him. “All right, drink some of that. It’ll only do you good.”

Gabriel shook his head, eyes locked shut again.

“Come on, Gabe, you know it’ll help.”

“I can’t,” Gabriel rasped. “Dean, I feel really sick.”

“I promise this is the best thing for that.”

“No!”

“Okay. Okay. Then let’s get you lying down or something. You’re exhausted and you need to be somewhere you can take it easy.” Dean got to his feet and carefully touched Gabriel’s shoulder to signal that he should rise too. Gabriel didn’t flinch at the contact. “Let’s go; I’ll stay with you until Sam gets back.”

With a strangled sob, Gabriel stood up. He moved a little unevenly as they made their way down the hall, but mostly because he was still shivering, not because he couldn’t balance.

They arrived at Gabriel’s room and Dean ushered him inside, leaving the door open so that Sam could hear them when he arrived home. Gabriel lay on his side and curled up, turning his tear-streaked face away from Dean.

“Take off your shoes; get comfortable,” Dean instructed. “Just relax, Gabe; it’s gonna be fine. You wanna talk, we’ll talk; you wanna lie there and just not think about anything, that’s okay too.”

“I can’t not think about it,” Gabriel whispered. “The dream.”

“But you don’t want to say what it was.”

“It’s no different from what I usually dream about. That’s the problem. Everything is the same and it shocks my whole system no matter how many times I see it. I thought maybe I’d get inured to it after a while, but I - I didn’t.” He hesitated before adding, “I keep dreaming that he comes here. Not even that he manages to get past the warding, but that he rings the doorbell and one of you lets him in. I scream; I always end up clinging to Sam, trying to get him to help me, just - just begging for one of you to reconsider, and then Asmodeus grabs me  and I can’t breathe and - ”

“All right, all right. Try to calm down. Here, let’s talk about something different, okay? Something to keep your mind off that asshat. What else d’you want to talk about?”

Gabriel rolled over so that he was lying on his back, looking up at Dean. “There’s nothing else. There’s only him. That’s all I am now, Dean. He took everything away.”

“No, that’s not true, come on.”

“It is. I can’t be distracted. Sam’s tried that, and it never works. It hasn’t done any good, not even once.”

“Okay, so then what else might help?”

“Nothing helps. It just doesn’t. I have to wait it out.”

“All right.” Dean sat down on the bed. “We’ll wait it out together, okay?”

There was a long moment of silence during which Dean simply sat still and Gabriel hugged himself, shaking. When Gabriel failed to speak, Dean took the initiative. “You doing okay?”

“Just scared,” Gabriel muttered.

“Nothing to be scared of.”

“I know, I know - I’m trying.”

“Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. If you’re afraid, then you’re afraid. It’ll pass, like you said.”

“Hey, can you, uh ... can you get the wastebasket for me? I think I might throw up.”

“Sure thing.” Dean moved it next to the bed, within Gabriel’s immediate reach. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“Don’t get excited.” A beat, then: “You said you know what it’s like. And so you know it won’t go away. You’re still there. The feeling infects everything.”

“Yeah, I do know.”

“Sometimes I ... I look at Sam and even he doesn’t seem safe anymore. It’s like I can taste the dream at the back of my throat.”

“I get it, man. I really do.”

Gabriel closed his eyes. “This is too much.”

“Just ride it out, Gabe.”

Gabriel suddenly jerked upright, panicked. “Dean - ”

Dean picked up the wastebasket and gave it to him. Gabriel dry-heaved, struggling for breath.

“Hey,” said Dean, “You want me to touch you or no?”

Gabriel whimpered. “Help.”

Dean inched nearer and rested a hand on Gabriel’s back. “You’re doing good.”

Gabriel gagged, bringing up the half-cup of coffee he’d managed before falling asleep, as well as whatever Sam had coaxed into him that morning.

Dean was so intent on trying to ground Gabriel that he didn’t notice his brother and Castiel in the doorway.

“Oh god!” Sam sprinted over to them. Gabriel, too sick to raise his head, didn’t seem to notice. “Dean, what happened to him?”

“Just a shitty nap.” Keeping his hand in place, Dean glanced over at Cas. “You two have a good time?”

Castiel’s eyes were fixed on Gabriel. “Better than yours, I’d imagine.”

Sam looked on in horror as Gabriel continued to vomit. “Dean, why didn’t you call me?”

“Because we were okay.”

“You call this okay?”

“Come on, it isn’t like you’re seeing anything new. You were out and I was here and we were fine.”

Sam moved nearer and bent down to examine Gabriel. “Gabriel?”

Gabriel was pale and shaking. He stared down into the wastebasket for a few seconds before throwing up again.

“He’s bad,” Sam whispered.

“I think he’s almost done.” Dean peered more closely at Gabriel’s face. Gabriel spat into the wastebasket and raised his eyes to meet Dean’s. “See, look at that.”

“Gabriel?” Sam pried the wastebasket from his hands and put it on the floor. “Hey, Gabriel, what happened?”

Gabriel coughed weakly. “Why the hell are you acting so surprised?”

“Guess I shouldn’t’ve left you alone, huh?”

“Jesus Christ, Sammy, he wasn’t alone,” Dean protested.

Sam sat down on Gabriel’s other side. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Gabriel waved him away. “I can survive two hours without you.”

Maybe Dean was imagining it, but he thought Sam looked almost hurt.

“Dean,” said Castiel, “You shouldn’t hesitate to let one of us know if something feels out of your depth.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Cas. What do you guys think I am, a Vulcan?”

“A Klingon,” Sam admitted.

“Okay, Sam, you know what?” Still resting his hand on Gabriel’s back, he met Sam’s gaze. “First of all, why’d you leave if you thought I’d only make things worse? And second, if anyone should be writing a half-assed letter of recommendation, it’s definitely not you.”

Sam closed his eyes in frustration. “This isn’t the same thing.”

“No, Sam, he has a point,” Castiel broke in. “When children learn to play the piano for the first time and all they know is ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ ... it isn’t as though they forget which keys can be used to form a different melody.”

“Well,” said Dean, “I just lost twenty years’ worth of testosterone, but I appreciate the new attitude.”

“Will you stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Gabriel snapped. “Sam, leave your brother alone. Cas, give Dean his testosterone back. And Dean, if these two eventually decide I’m worth consulting, you won’t need that letter of recommendation.”

Sam glanced between Dean and Gabriel.

“Stop worrying so much,” Dean told him. “I’m not made of stone.”

“I think you may have underestimated your brother, Sam,” Cas agreed.

Sam looked at Castiel, then back at Gabriel. “Did I, Gabe?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel replied, “It looks like you did. Man, are you both annoying.” But he leaned into Sam’s body and hugged him.

“Okay.” Sam returned the embrace. “Sorry, I ... I guess you just looked pretty wrecked when I came in.”

“That’s because I am a wreck.” Gabriel pulled away. “How is that news?”

“In any case,” said Castiel, “You must feel worn out. It sounds like it’s been a long afternoon.”

“Yeah.” Gabriel laid his head on Dean’s shoulder, failing to notice Sam’s look of astonishment. “Feels like I can hardly move.”

“You were quite sick,” Cas agreed.

“What do you think about trying to lie down?” asked Dean.

Gabriel scoffed. “Because that went so well the last time.”

“Okay, yeah, but you’re over the worst of it, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. I guess.”

“Why don’t I stay with you for a little while?” Sam suggested.

Gabriel lifted his head from Dean’s shoulder. “It’d be good to talk to you.”

“Yeah, okay. Guys, I’ll take care of things in here. You go relax.”

Dean stood up. “Holler if Sam gets too annoying.”

Gabriel smiled.

Out in the hall, Castiel turned to Dean. “Don’t let Sam’s skepticism get to you; he ... he just feels guilty that he might not be doing enough.”

“Gabe’s better than he was,” Dean replied. “I hope Sam can see that.”

“Even if he does, he may not attribute the improvement to his own efforts.”

“I’ll give him a pep talk.”

“And I certainly hope,” Castiel added, studying Dean closely, “That you know your input counts for something too.”

“All right. Well.” Dean turned and started making his way back down the hall. “While you and Sam were out feasting, I never got an opportunity to finish my sandwich. Come sing my praises in the kitchen.”

[poisoning-of-the-party-blog]

A FIVE YEAR LETTER - A RESPONSE TO MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE’S BREAK-UP

I woke up this morning still dreaming, or not fully aware of myself just yet. The sun poked through the windows, touching my face, dragging me from a dream world I wasn’t ready to leave. That tends to be my motive every morning. The dreams are better than my reality. I hope that someday, whether it’s tomorrow or 5 years from now, my reality is much better than my dreams. I’m willing to go the distance. I’m sure I’ll make it. Of course, my slumber was broken by the sound of chaos. Naturally, I panicked. Of course, I did. Loud noises tend to scare me. Or, should I say, loud noises that I didn’t plan nor expect scare me. The sound of dogs barking and my mother screaming. That scares me. The sound of a drum pounding, led by my movements. That doesn’t scare me. But the chaos of the morning ripped me from my half-sleep and caused me to get tangled in my blankets. Take Lucky out, feed the outside cat, do a list of unnecessary chores that my mother simply cannot do herself, or refuses to do herself. I don’t hold it against her. Two jobs, three jobs. Simply too much. But I would definitely prefer it if she used a calmer tone and was a kinder woman. Screaming obscenities at your children aren’t the way to go. I lean on the back door, staring into the outside world. Things looked to be about the same - a beautiful, but cold, day. Yesterday was the first day of spring and as a result, it snowed quite a bit. I hadn’t realized how much it was until I was left taking out the trash to the curb. Tomorrow is trash day. But my thoughts weren’t focusing on tomorrow. They were focusing on today. Today is March 22nd, 2018. 5 years ago today, My Chemical Romance had ended. It didn’t seem that long ago, but yet, it seems so far away. Was 2013 really five years ago? Have five years already passed? I can’t believe. My brain simply cannot wrap around it. I spend quite a lot of time on social media today. My time is spent mostly on Discord and Tumblr. I never thought those would be my chosen social media spots. I always saw myself as a Twitter or an Instagram person. But, alas, it seems lately my choice in social media has changed. I’m careful with it. Too much of it messes with my head. But I definitely enjoy it, I will admit. I find myself getting ready for work. Throwing on new boxers, questioning between ratty old jeans or a new pair of jeans. Straightening my hair in what seems like the first time in months. I treat myself today. I feel as if I deserve it. The walk to work is a quiet one. It gives me time to ponder. Most of the time, I find myself filling myself with sound. Some sort of sound. Somedays, it’s Green Day. Somedays, it’s Nirvana. Somedays, Blink-182. But today? Today is a day of silence. Maybe it’s because my phone’s headphone jack isn’t working anymore. Maybe it’s because I know I don’t need the sound. The walk to work is surprisingly peaceful. Why wouldn’t it be? That’s the perk of small-town life. It’s peaceful, for the most part. Here and there, we do have our little bumps and messes. I won’t lie, I live for those days. I love the excitement. I always love the hustle and bustle. Maybe, someday, I’ll move to a city where the hustle and bustle is every day. But my heart will always have a special spot for small-town life. Small town life can be a blessing and a curse. You don’t meet a lot of people and people tend to all be the same. If you don’t fit in, you’re cast out. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible to make friends and connections. I have plenty. Which is a perk? Everyone knows everyone or is related to someone. I’m not a native, so the latter doesn’t apply to me. But still, I feel the lull. I can tell that’s a diesel truck driving by, just by the sound of the motor. This is my home, despite how out of place I may feel some days. It’s hard to find a place, but I found my place. 5 years ago, I found my place. I was young and frail. I was broken and alone. I was isolated and afraid. It’s not surprising. March 19th marked the 6 year anniversary of my father leaving. It’s still a sore pain. Sometimes, the wound is fresh. Sometimes, the wound is a scar. But it’s always there. Always throbbing. It’s one of those pains in which all you can do is put the headphones in and crank it up. When my depression set in, that’s when the isolation began. I became an iceberg. I burned my sketchbooks like every bridge to my island. I smashed the keys on my keyboard just as I smashed the key to every lock to my heart. I shut down. I cut off. I became violent and irrational. I became a ticking time bomb, ready to blow. As I type this, my chest feels tight. I feel numb. The tears well up. I am no longer a 17-year-old man, hardened by battles. I am a 12-year-old girl with arms sliced open with a bloody knife and bruises around her neck from another broken noose. I am no longer me. I am her again, blackish in colour again. With every bomb, there comes a point where it needs to explode. And when I exploded, it was ugly. It was days with a psychiatrist, in a doctor’s office instead of school, suicide watch, revoking and isolation. I was a failure. I was a mess. I was a runaway dragged home. With the healing process came latching. I needed someone to hold onto. Someone to lock myself on to. I clung to an old friend who had been there for so long. I feared to lose her. Kiya was the one who introduced me to this band. They were called My Chemical Romance. It was a sound I had never heard before. Scratch that, it was similar to what I had heard, Green Day and Shinedown. But it was different. The vocalist’s voice, he sounded familiar. But that was a memory I would realise down the road when the red-haired man on Yo Gabba Gabba! that I pointed to at age 10 saying I wanted to be like turned out to be none other than the man that saved my pathetic and worthless life. This was a new feeling. This was a feeling of salvation. It gave me a new-found confidence and new-found identity. Slowly and steadily, the healing process truly began, now with a soundtrack. It was okay to not be okay. It was okay to learn to be okay. I arrive at work to start my shift. I clock in, already tired before the chaos has begun. But this is a good chaos. This is running around, on my feet, taking orders, laughing with co-workers, getting messy. This was blaring music on the stereo, mixing in with the smell of freshly baked pizza, flour on my pants and in my hair. It was smiling at customers and living life. 5 years ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of being here. That’s the thing, about time. Time changes. Everything changes with time. You grow older. You grow stronger. This will be my third summer here, marking the end of my second year here and the beginning of my third year here at Ison’s Family Pizza. I started about two months after I turned 15. I love it. I never thought my first job would be at a pizza place, a family restaurant when I can’t even spell “restaurant” without auto-correct. I also never would have thought I’d live to see my 17 birthday. But yet, in just a few days, I’ll be on a date on my 17th birthday with my beautiful girlfriend, Kiya. I would never have thought that I would be driving around town in a trashed ‘97 Buick, blaring The Used on some Bluetooth speaker connected to my cell phone, because my headphone jack doesn’t work and neither does the tape player in my car. I never thought I’d pick up music and art again. But here we are. After I returned from my depression-fueled hiatus on life, I learned a lot about myself. My name is Ryder. I’m 1/16 Native American. That’s why my brown eyes are the way they are and why I tan so well and never burn, despite being a pale ginger. I love to play piano and sing. I learnt to sing from years of music lessons, but I learnt to SING from Gerard Way. You can tell, by the way, I say my “R”’s and when you compare to how I sang before I quit. Though I’ll admit, I have a soft spot for the drums. I’m not the best, but I love it. I also love to draw. I’m not the best at that either, but I’m learning and growing. That’s the thing. Learning and growing. It comes with time. Everything comes with time. Just like recovery. My first piece on the piano, after returning from my hiatus, was “Welcome To The Black Parade”. I still can’t play it quite right. I’m still learning. But I’m still learning to be okay. I’m not okay at the moment. And that’s okay. It’s okay to be not okay. I learned that from a very special band. A band that became the soundtrack to my life. There was a time where I needed headphones. I needed to kick the headphones up loud until the world was silent and I was lost in the bass. Now, I can put the music on the speaker and make it simply a backtrack to my life. And now, I tune my own guitar and pluck out my own melodies, something that no one has heard before or thought of before. It’s been 5 years. Things have changed over the last five years. Thank you, My Chemical Romance. You’ve given me a great idea.

[theanxietyclinic]

Addiction Therapy

Changing Harmful Behaviours

Addiction is a very loaded word.

And often when we think about addiction, we think about some of the most difficult and challenging and harmful of human behavior, misusing alcohol, drugs, and sometimes emotional addiction like unhealthy relationships.

Addiction comes in many forms, from participating in extreme behaviors that may endanger our life or the lives of others, to milder events which are inconvenient or uncomfortable. This broad range of addictive behaviors also reflects the necessary broad range of methods and treatments through which we address addictions.

Traditionally over the last number of decades the primary source for the treatment of addiction is the “12 step program.” This program can be profoundly helpful for many, and for others the program does not provide a long-term solution to their behavior. There are also a number of modified 12-step programs available which address addiction less as a chronic illness, and more as a behavioral choice. Regardless of what type of treatment someone chooses to embrace, all specialists agree in one fact, the process of caring for yourself and tending to the changes that you decide to make in your life, is ongoing, and a lifetime commitment, and your success or failure has a lot to do with your relationships in life.

It is for this reason that many people wisely seek out a long term therapeutic relationship with a counselor/therapist/coach to help them stay on the road of their choice, living a life of sobriety. Critical to all of these programs is the recognition that this journey cannot be done alone.

In keeping with this understanding that recovery can only be done in and through community, new research has emerged that is beginning to shed light on how critically important relationship and engagement in community is, in order to retain sobriety.

Dr. Alexander Professor Emeritus 1, Professor at Simon Fraser University presents groundbreaking research 2 that is beginning to teach us that substances such as alcohol or drugs are in themselves are not addictive agents — and that in fact, the quality of of social relationships is much more the culprit. Rats Cuddling Dr. Alexander’s research in his ‘Rat Park’ concurred with previous research that rats, preferred cocaine and water over water IF housed in a typical laboratory cage with limited stimulation and no social interaction. However, the rats in the awesome ‘Rat Park’ had great friends, fun and food. They tried both the water and the cocaine — and choose water! By further illustration thousands of men and women have come back from war, or returned home after a protracted hospital stay, having spent days weeks and sometimes months on what we thought to be highly addictive drugs such as morphine — but upon their return they experience no addictive behaviours. What seems to be the very root of addiction does not seem to be the substance itself. It is beginning to appear at the very root cause of addiction is found in our social interpersonal relationships, or lack thereof.

This research highlights the critical underpinning of all 12 step programs — you cannot do this alone, and the quality of your relationships are the critical, if not curative, key to sobriety.

There is a unique quality about a relationship with a therapist, which cannot be found elsewhere. In all relationships what we say, what we do, and how we act, will always impact your relationship. We recognize that we stand the possibility of being judged, loved more, or pushed away. In a relationship with your therapist you are provided a safe and non-judgmental space to explore your thoughts your feelings and your connections to others (even the ugly messy stuff!), without any fear of losing the relationship or reprisal. This unique quality is both profound and powerful, and a critical component to your sobriety.

If you are struggling with addictions, or behaviors you feel may be classified as addictions, give us a call and sit down with us for an hour to chat. Let’s openly and honestly find out whether a relationship with the therapist feels like the right fit, and can be part of your journey towards sobriety, happiness, and the life of your choosing.

Our therapists at The Anxiety Clinic are ready to support your therapy process!

[shumparker1953-blog]

Weekend Reading, 12.30.18

I've been reading a lot of Pema Chödrön's writings about tonglen practice lately. One quotation of hers keeps sticking with me:

Tonglen practice (and all meditation practice) is not about later, when you get it all together and you're this person you really respect. You may be the most violent person in the world-that's a fine place to start. That's a very rich place to start-juicy, smelly. You might be the most depressed person in the world, the most addicted person in the world, the most jealous person in the world. You might think that there are no others on the planet who hate themselves as much as you do. All of that is a good place to start. Just where you are-that's the place to start.

It seems appropriate to digest those wise words right on the cusp of a new year, when even those of us who don't do much to commemorate NYE get to thinking about endings and beginnings and starting new things.

Actually, though, the quote resonates retrospectively more than prospectively. Starting where I am-treating each new moment as an opportunity to approach life with a fresh perspective-is at the heart of the resilience I've been feeling in the last few weeks, as my hospital rotation wrapped up and I entered the holiday season.

When I was interviewing for DI programs, I was repeatedly told that the most crucial quality in a strong dietetic intern was resilience. It confused me at the time: I was expecting to hear about other traits, like critical thinking, clinical judgment, or empathy.

Now that my first 15 weeks of the DI program are behind me, I know why resilience kept coming up. The year demands constant change. A lot goes into doing the job well while one is at work, but what happens outside of the clinical workday itself-adjusting to new commutes and new communities of patients, being willing to work around each preceptor's schedule, processing information quickly but thoroughly-is equally important. And it's a test of flexibility more than anything else.

Flexibility, of course, is as far from being one of my inborn strengths as anything could be. It's a deficit, actually, but I think the DI is helping me to build it up, little by little. A therapist told me long ago that I'd responded to a lot of stuff in my past by clinging to control, and that this would always be complicated for me, because control had (for better or for worse) become one of my strengths. It was true, and I've spent the last few years of my life working hard to release my grip, soften up, and move with the flow of things. It's good for me, but I do feel robbed of a strength, not to mention frequently disoriented (“thrown out of the nest,” to use another Chödrön expression).

Like anything else, it's a work in progress. Sometimes I flow without trying to. Sometimes I can't lighten up or loosen up at all, and the opportunity to tread lightly is in having a sense of humor about a clingy/grasping/reactive day. What feels really good is when I can move between these states quickly-in other words, when a craggy morning doesn't necessarily become a proverbial “bad day.”

This was, I remember, such a huge struggle for me in ED recovery: flipping my experience around quickly, rather than writing a narrative about how it was going to be a bad day or a bad week because something ugly had happened with food. It took me a while, but I did get to the point where I could struggle midday but feel grounded, balanced, and sane by dinnertime. And, as with so many other things, the skills I learned in ED recovery are now being cultivated in other areas of my life.

The last few weeks of my hospital rotation where chaotic and messy. I felt powerful and competent sometimes, totally overwhelmed at others. In the past, each moment of mess would have gotten drawn out and intensified by my tendency to judge and agonize about struggle as its happening. With the DI in full swing, I didn't have the time to get sucked into that kind of a vortex. I had to bounce back quickly from feeling tripped up, caught off-guard, or overwhelmed.

So I did. When things felt chaotic or messy or rough, I took a few minutes to breathe, to get into my body, to feel sensations. I invited myself to start over. And I invited myself to believe that resilience was possible. Sometimes it felt a little forced. It almost always felt like some version of “fake-it-till-you-make-it.”

But there's a lot of wisdom in “fake-it-till-you-make-it”-or at least in having faith that repeated, small behaviors and actions can sometimes bring about inner change (rather than the other way around). I wasn't always sure that I could shake off a heavy or anxious mood when I invited myself to take a deep breath and move forward as if I could. Most of the time, though, it worked.

I'm now inviting myself to believe that this experience of resilience can stay with me outside of the DI-through early January, and then moving beyond next summer. I'll proceed as if it can, and it will. And as a new year gets underway, what I wish for myself-what I wish for any person who needs it-is faith that each new moment, each new breath, is a chance to begin again. New beginnings don't have to look any particular way, and they don't require preparatory self-improvement. They're an evergreen possibility, and they can take all sorts of tiny, everyday shapes.

As 2019 begins, I'm celebrating any and all opportunities to see and do things differently. And I'm giving thanks for all of the goodness in my life that abides-friends, family, food, and especially my body. I wish you all light, joy, and continual moments of starting anew-on New Year's Eve, and always.

And now, some recipes and reads!

Recipes

What a beautiful concord grape bread, perfectly veganizable with non-dairy milk.

I'm all about cozy winter recipes like this right now: an old-fashioned vegan French onion chowder.

More soup! Tomato barley with all of the cheesy roasted chickpeas.

And now, for some baked goodness, starting with this cozy and creative maple dijon butternut sage & apple bake.

Finally, a lovely vegan winter centerpiece from the talented Thomas: Finnish rutabaga gratin.

Reads

1. HDL cholesterol is regarded as the “good” cholesterol, and a strong body of evidence shows that very low levels HDL are actually associated with an increased risk of heart disease. A new study, though, suggests that very high levels of HDL might also be problematic, which means that the relationship between HDL and cardiovascular disease risk is what's known as a “U-shaped” pattern. This Scientific American blog discusses the interesting findings!

2. One of the most painful, yet often under-discussed consequences of having childhood cancer and cancer treatment is that fertility can be permanently altered. A new cryopreservation procedure-freezing whole parts of an ovary, rather than individual eggs-may give childhood cancer patients hope. The Guardian shares details.

3. On the topic of cancer and other chronic illnesses, The Boston Globe profiles doctors who are working on earlier, more precise detection methods for disease diagnosis.

4. This fall, I witnessed firsthand how important palliative care is for those who need it. As this Washington Post article makes clear, many people in this country can't access palliative care because it's unavailable or uncovered by insurance. The piece gives exposure to a really important healthcare topic.

5. Also from the Washington Posta great perspective on how people can better prepare themselves for the challenges of behavior change. I love the author's differentiation between adopting a habit vs. building a life skill-I tend to think that most changes with food and nutrition fall into the latter category, which is why robust support and patience is so necessary for them to happen!

Happy New Year's, a little early, friends. Sending love. And may all beings living be happy and free.

xo

The post Weekend Reading, 12.30.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

[rjhamster]

Overnight those tasks and routines can become the precious little places where joy is birthed. ~ Dawn Barton, Laughing Through the Ugly Cry 

You Get ToDawn Barton, Laughing Through the Ugly-Cry and Finding Unstoppable Joy  

Learning to Treasure What You Didn’t Want 

Now eagerly desire the greater gifts. And yet I will show you the most excellent way. — 1 Corinthians 12:31

A deep breath and a huge, slow eye roll. That was my immediate reaction. A family member had just said to me, “You get to.” This was her attempt at reminding me of the holiest of postures — gratitude — so I’d do something I absolutely did not want to do: clean my child’s vomit off my dress and new suede shoes. I can assure you there was no feeling of gratitude in this moment as I stood covered in vomit at my cousin’s wedding. “Honey, you get to clean that vomit.” You get to. If you’re not familiar with this worldview, it’s an idea espoused by pretty much every pastor, women’s conference speaker, and all-knowing aunt I’ve ever encountered: to truly enjoy life the way God wants us to, we must be grateful 24-7. We should be grateful for the little things, the big things, the smelly things, the happy and the sad — in all things we should be grateful. The truth is this: that annoying family member was right. And I do believe it now. Finding joy in the messy, tedious tasks of our everyday lives is darn near impossible sometimes. Driving the kids to school, going to your job, helping with homework, keeping up with sports, meals, and exercise, feeling miserable about what you just ate, and wearing an underwire bra when all you want to do is let those puppies loose — every single day, life is hard, ladies. I know. The tasks seem never-ending, and it can be so difficult to find joy in the tedium. Until one day, when everything that makes your eyes roll is taken away. Overnight those tasks and routines can become the precious little places where joy is birthed. The struggle quickly becomes the gift. My youngest daughter, Ellason, was four years old when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and Makenzie, my oldest, was married and out of the house, tending to her own family about an hour away. My husband, Craig, was in a dusty tent in the Middle East. It was just Ellason and me at home, with a lot of love and support from family and friends. During the biopsy on my right breast, something went wrong, and they burned the skin, leaving a half-inch, black, circular burn at the incision point. Believe it or not, that burn turned out to be one of the best things to happen to me. That burn became something visible and tangible I could use to explain cancer to a four-year-old little girl. We called it the “booby bug,” and it made sense to her sweet four-year-old mind. The booby bug made mommy sick. Getting rid of the booby bug was a lot harder than I imagined it would be. Chemotherapy was a wild beast, and it kicked my butt. The plan was six rounds of a chemo combination called “red devil�� (because one of the drugs was red in color), and I would receive those treatments every two weeks. The next phase was a different type of drug that I would receive weekly for twelve weeks, totaling six months of chemotherapy treatments. My chemo weeks looked a little like this: Day 1: Chemo infusion. A nurse covered in protective gear — large plastic mask and all — inserted IVs into the port in my chest and changed them every hour until my body was filled with what I like to call “the poison drugs.” (Side note: Someone should give you a heads-up that your nurse is going to look like the hazmat dudes in ET when she walks in to give you chemotherapy drugs. That image sort of shakes you up. I mean, if the nurse is covered three ways to Sunday so she won’t touch the drugs, why is it a good idea to put them inside of my body? Food for thought.) The entire process lasted about four hours, and then someone would drive me home. Off to bed I would go, feeling tired but otherwise alive. Day 2: The poison drugs hit. Nausea meds and painkillers were a must, but this wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that I had to go back to the cancer center for a bone marrow stimulant injection that increased my white blood cell count so my body could fight infection. I hated it. Imagine feeling so nauseated, with pain seething through every inch of your body, and knowing you have to go back to get a shot that’ll make you feel substantially worse. From a mental perspective, Day 2 was always the hardest for me. Days 3–4: The crescendo of suffering. The poison drugs battled with my body. They were pure misery. I prayed, cried, and begged for God’s mercy through them. Day 5: A hint of hope. A small flicker of light appeared at the end of the tunnel, and I began to feel a bit of relief from the process. The first five days are followed by nine days of recovery and desperately reaching for normalcy until the cycle ends and I am shoved back to the starting line all over again for the next Day 1. The more rounds of chemo I had, the longer the miserable part of the process would take. The effects of Day 2 would stretch over two or three days. And the effects of Days 3 and 4 — my rock-bottom days — would sometimes last almost a week. The overwhelming pain, nausea, and discomfort were constant, and so were my pleading prayers. But I can’t write honestly about my chemo days without adding this: it was in the agony and sickness that I found God on the most beautiful and intimate level. Nothing has pried open my raw, aching heart like having my body and soul assailed by that disease and its horrific treatment. In the depths of my pain, I came to know Him best. I believe it is often at our most helpless, our most vulnerable, that we are most primed to hear and see Him. Anyway, back to the vomit at my cousin’s wedding. Yes, it all comes full circle. I’m sharing the not-so-pleasant details of my chemo routine to paint a picture of what life was like in that season, but also to give you some background on how I learned to embrace the “you get to” philosophy. While I was undergoing treatment, there was no driving Ella to school, no making her lunches or picking out her clothes. There was no playtime, no homework together, no running and tickling. I wanted to play an active role in my own life, and I couldn’t. Chemo was a prize-fighting boxer, and I was on the ground slamming my hands against the floor to tap out. I wanted to be done; I begged for it to be over. I wanted to be a mom, and I didn’t want to be sick a moment longer. Despite how hard I was fighting, I was still riddled with guilt over the kind of mother I was to Ella. I think women are the only creatures who can be gripping the ring of a toilet in sickness and still feeling guilty that they can’t drive their babies to school. We are crazy, beautiful creatures, aren’t we? As I fought through weeks of chemo, I found moments of joy and laughter with Ella. Not on a playground or in a car drive, but in the sweet, quiet moments lying in my bed with her snuggled next to me, close to my belly and wrapped in my arms. I am not sure if I comforted her more or if she comforted me, but Ellason was my saving grace at the end of each day. When I felt well enough, I would make up stories, starring her as the princess, me as the queen, and daddy as the king. (The queen was always very beautiful, of course.) The stories would change daily, and she loved it. After months of treatment, I remember the day I was finally able to pick up Ellason from school. I was elated that I’d been given a two-week break from chemo, and I finally felt well enough to drive. It was something so small, but it meant so much. When the normal, everyday pieces of life get taken away, you realize they make up a beautiful and wonderful existence. Before cancer, I had taken so much of this for granted; I even thought of some of those activities as the burdens. (What do you mean, you need lunch again? Didn’t we just do that yesterday?) In reality, these mundane activities were the sweet blessings of life. When cancer took away the mundane, I finally understood driving my daughter to school was a gift. Chemo was teaching me how to fight for moments of joy and hope. I was learning to look for them, and I was realizing all those things I resented were actually things I got to do. In fact, I eventually reached a rather revolutionary level of “you get to” mastery. Remember what Days 1 through 5 looked like during my chemo treatments? The beast of chemo was destroying me and my life; I hated the treatments and all that came with them. I hated walking into that cancer center and being poisoned each time. Chemo was the enemy — that is, until I learned my hardest “you get to” lesson. Every time I arrived to get chemo, nurses took my vitals and drew my blood to make sure I was “healthy enough” to be poisoned. My body was weaker each round, and my white blood cell count needed to be more than one thousand. When I walked in for my fourth round of red devil, I was fighting with all that I had — but this time I was also battling a fever. After a few minutes, the nurse walked over and with pity in her eyes said, “I’m so sorry. We can’t give you chemo. Your white count is too low.” My body wouldn’t be able to fight the infection. I actually couldn’t get the thing I hated getting most. This was the beginning of a big mind-shift for me. At first I was a little relieved. They gave me a shot of white blood cell booster, hoping to increase my white count overnight, and sent me home. The next day I arrived, and I was ready. My vitals were taken, blood was drawn, and soon I would be heading back for the red devil. But wait. “Dawn,” the nurse said, “your counts are too low again. I am so sorry. We will try again tomorrow.” The tears fell so fast and so hard and wouldn’t stop for hours. I needed this chemo to fight cancer; I had to have it. How could I want something I so intensely loathed? That’s when I realized: I needed to change the story in my head. Chemo was a gift. I get to get chemo. Chemo gave me the ability to fight cancer and live. It was a gift that generations before me did not have. Three days later I was able to receive my gift again. I would love to tell you that my view on making lunches and driving to school has remained in a place of gratitude, that I do it daily with a skip in my step and joy in my heart, but I would be lying. I am human. I complain. I get overwhelmed and annoyed. I grow tired of driving back and forth to school. I roll my eyes at a busy schedule. I loathe going to the grocery store. But I do have a gift that many don’t. When it all seems like too much, I have the gift of remembering what it felt like to have it all taken away. I remember what it felt like to desperately want to drive a little girl to school and go to a playground with her. I know that feeling, and I am grateful for it. I get to make those lunches. I get to clean her vomit off my shoes. Never in a million years would I have dreamed the diagnosis of cancer was a gift. But I can tell you unequivocally it was. A crazy, wild, precious gift. I got to battle cancer. In that battle I learned to love my family more, and I met God on a whole new level. So whether it’s a life-changing battle or one of those mildly irritating or gross parts of life, they don’t look so bad when that story in your head changes. When you realize that the gifts you’re being given are right there in that unattractive packaging. You get to open them, and you might find out that God designed them just for you — for your good and His glory. Excerpted from Laughing Through the Ugly-Cry and Finding Unstoppable Joy by Dawn Barton, copyright Dawn Barton. * * * Your Turn What do you get to do today? Do you get to work from home? Supervise kids' distance learning? Clean the house? Do the laundry? Deal with frustrating co-workers? Shop for an elderly neighbor? How are the get to’s changing your perspective? Come share with us on our blog. We want to hear from you about what you’re grateful for! ~ Laurie McClure, Faith.Full

[theherblifeblog]

Can I Be A Drug Advocate As the Sister of A Drug Addict?

by Kait Heacock

The night I learned of my brother’s overdose, I cooked a large pot of food. Every time I’ve eaten this meal after, I’ve thought of it as the death meal. I was in survival mode: make enough food to feed myself for the next couple of nights because eating was one of the fews things I could guarantee. Eat, breathe, sleep, maybe. That week I drank too much and smoked weed every night. The weekend in Atlantic City, a new couple’s getaway, was damaged beyond repair, but we went, and I consumed everything I could to feed the vacuum inside me.

The Epidemic

Much like survivors of gun violence focus on gun reform or breast cancer survivors raise money for research, those of us touched by the opioid crisis feel a personal responsibility. I did not save my brother; that fact will remain with me for the rest of my life. But I refuse to sit quietly and watch other families fall apart, not when there are potential real solutions. Opioids are a big pharma backed scourge made possible by doctors rushing to dull the symptoms of chronic pain rather than treat the cause. We should stop scapegoating cannabis and put actual funding into more in-depth research.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s latest report found the number of opioid-related overdoses rose by nearly 28% between 2015 and 2016. These overdoses break down into prescription opioids, synthetic opioids, and heroin. It was heroin that took my brother, though his entry point was the painkillers given to him after foot surgery. After some fifteen years struggling with alcoholism and drug addiction, a doctor handed him a death sentence when they filled out that prescription.

In a report released in April 2018, JAMA found a correlation between legalizing marijuana and a reduction in opiates, and this follows a report from 2017 by the National Academies finding evidence “to support that patients who were treated with cannabis or cannabinoids were more likely to experience a significant reduction in pain symptoms.”

 According to a .gov drug abuse website, “Marijuana use disorder becomes addiction when the person cannot stop using the drug even though it interferes with many aspects of his or her life.” The website carries a whiff of reefer madness, so quick to offer marijuana as a gateway drug because it still holds the counterculture stigma of “turn on, tune in, drop out.” I was raised in the DARE, “just say no” generation, where we were taught that all drugs are the same. Unfortunately there are people, including those high up in our government, who can’t separate cannabis from other drugs.

For the record, former Attorney General Sessions, cannabis is not the same as heroin.

There were moments following my brother’s death when I wondered if I could do it too, need something so much I’d risk my life for it. I hovered on the brink but never dove off it. Is want and need the difference between dependence and addiction?

 In an alternate universe, my brother was told cannabis was not just another “illicit drug” made to fuck him up, but that it was a medicinal alternative to address the pain caused by his surgery.  

The Survivors

In an alternate universe, my brother survives. Not lives, survives. Because this is an epidemic.

I look for answers because I don’t have a brother anymore. A cursory glance at headlines suggest we exercise to combat the epidemic. The Trump administration wants to explore policy allowing the death penalty to be sought for drug dealers, and yet there is no mention of punishing pharmaceutical companies. We are fumbling in the dark for an answer to this plague. Is it really so absurd to suggest cannabis?

Entrepreneur and Ellementa co-founder Ashley Kingsley is a survivor. She is two years sober from pills and alcohol, and attributes her recovery to cannabis. Ashley suffered from undiagnosed Endometriosis for years, and from the age of 15, doctors prescribed her everything from sleeping pills to Percocet. When she was finally diagnosed, she underwent multiple surgeries and began to rely on opiates to dull the pain.

“It was like I had to feed something inside of me, like this beast,” Ashley described of her pill addiction. She tried AA, yoga, therapy—everything to get sober. “I was functional. I wasn’t jobless or homeless. I wasn’t what people pictured.”

Melissa Heldreth, co-founder of Panacea Plant Sciences, considers her family survivors too: “My brother was one of the lucky ones. He is one year and eight months off heroin, and it’s been a struggle for years.”

Melissa is also sober, and she uses cannabis for anxiety and pain relief. She, like so many others who become advocates, knows firsthand the risk of using cannabis when drug addiction is in your family, your life, yourself. When I shared with her my fear of a potential cannabis addiction, she told me, “I 100% understand this battle of thought process, but I look myself in the mirror every day and know this is the right thing for me. I’ve never been healthier or happier in my life.”

 She supports her and her brother’s recovery stories with evidence, pointing me to studies on how CBD stops addiction. “THC is what stops heroin and alcohol withdrawals that could potentially kill a person. While there are people with addictive personalities who should watch their intake, studies show that weed, itself, is not addictive,” she explains.

 “This is my main mission in life, to help end the stigma in using cannabis for sober people. To show people this is a less risky, healthier way to elevate so many things that doctors push prescriptions for. Prescriptions that are extremely addictive,” Melissa adds.

Ashley echoes the sentiment, saying, “Cannabis has changed my life—in so many ways. I want these kinds of stories out there.”

My Survival

I admit that I relied heavily on alcohol, weed, and sex to numb, self-medicate, and distract myself after my brother’s death. I was in survival mode. We don’t always make the best choices in desperate situations. In the nearly six years since, I’ve stopped sleeping around for the sake of departing my body, and I’ve stopped the reckless nights of binge drinking just to force myself to sob on the walk home, a needed pain extraction that was as messy as my wet face.

In the years since my brother’s death, my relationship with cannabis has only deepened. I’ve utilized it in both my running and writing routines, began learning its medicinal benefits through work with a women’s wellness network, and now proclaim myself a cannabis advocate.

I want to normalize cannabis and proclaim its benefits, but it’s hard to do that when first you have to fight stigma and stereotypes. I worry people can’t—or refuse—to see the plant in a new light. But I also worry that their shortsightedness prevents them from utilizing something that can help with pain, sleeping problems, and in my case, wading through the emotional chaos left inside of me in the wake of my brother’s death.

What I’ve found the most interesting in my experiences using cannabis to affect my mood is that it seems to help me better hone in on what I’m feeling and process it. When I drank, it was a distraction from what I was really feeling, or like I was only able to experience the raw, visceral tears. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all in for an ugly cry, but sometimes I wanted to dig deeper than that, and that’s where cannabis shaped a lot of my grief journey. It slowed me down and helped me shed the inhibitions that kept me from truly exploring my grief.

I haven’t always felt comfortable admitting that cannabis helped me fight my way out of the dark places I had fallen into in the wake of loss. I worried people would think I was no different than him, using drugs to escape my problems. To preempt that, as anyone with addiction in their family should consider doing, I’ll take breaks from using cannabis and alcohol to check the want versus need ratio, sometimes for a week, maybe a month. I don’t ever want to need it, don’t want to abandon everything and wind up like my brother, frozen in his Alaskan backyard, hundreds of miles away from his children.

In an alternate universe, my brother and I sneak away from Thanksgiving dinner at our parents’ house, pass a joint by the lake, and talk about how big his kids are getting. But I don’t get to live in that universe. I live in this one; I survive in this one.

If you or someone you know is suffering and needs help there are resources available:

U.S.A.

The National Drug Helpline offers 24/7 drug and alcohol help to those struggling with addiction. Call the national hotline for drug abuse today to receive information regarding treatment and recovery.

Tel:1- 888-633-3239

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline Tel:1-800-273-8255

Canada

For questions or concerns about substance use during pregnancy, please contact Motherisk’s Alcohol and Substance Use Helpline​ at 1-877-327-4636 (toll-free in Canada).

For access to a listing of programs offered to First​ Nations and Inuit, visit: Addictions Treatment for ​First Nations and Inuit​​.

The new Canada Suicide Prevention Service (CSPS), by Crisis Services Canada, enables callers anywhere in Canada to access crisis support by phone, in French or English: toll-free 1-833-456-4566 Available 24/7

Crisis Text Line (Powered by Kids Help Phone) Canada Wide free, 24/7 texting service is accessible immediately to youth anywhere in Canada by texting TALK to 686868 to reach an English speaking Crisis Responder and TEXTO to 686868 to reach a French-speaking Crisis Responder on any text/SMS enabled cell phone.

KidsHelpPhone Ages 20 Years and Under in Canada 1-800-668-6868 (Online or on the Phone) First Nations and Inuit Hope for Wellness 24/7 Help Line 1-855-242-3310 Canadian Indian Residential Schools Crisis Line 1-866-925-4419 Trans LifeLine – All Ages 1-877-330-6366

Visit thelifelinecanada.ca for more services.

[strangersea]

I’ve had a lot of emotional/mental breakdowns even after the initial recovery from real deep depression. Recovery is a process anyway, right? It doesn’t happen in an instant, and sometimes there are bumps.

Truthfully, I’ve learned to appreciate those moments, because it helps me get out a lot of shit that I’ve probably been holding in for a really long time. It’s messy and ugly, but sometimes those things are necessary. I can’t live and move forward and heal if I don’t also allow myself to be stripped down to the raw nerves of my emotions when it needs to happen, and to let things out and fade in their own time. 

It’s helped me let go and move past things that I used to think I never would be able to. Scars just means I’m healing.

I kinda had a breakdown yesterday. It’s been a hot couple of days, like 40 degrees or that’s about 100 in fahrenheit, and that wore me down a lot quicker on top of the usual things that I have to deal with in my own head. 

The fact that I still am experiencing these, is why I wanted to avoid serious relationships for a while after my last breakup. Obviously I’m not in the best emotional and mental states when I’m having a fucking breakdown, and they can last from a couple of hours to a couple of days, depending on a lot of other factors. Then there’s the recovery period, where I might be a little emotionally numb for a while.

I’ve been told I was too much work. Just, too much. I’ve been told I was stupid, when I tried to air out the things that were fucking me up. 

Just told and called a lot of things that didn’t help the situation.

I don’t like what I am like when I’m having a breakdown. Being so worn down and aggravated by it, it affects how I behave when talking to others. It can make me say or do hurtful things.

It’s destructive. I’m doing better, but it’s still destructive, not just to myself.

Thing is, I still don’t blame any of them. It is a lot of work to be with someone who has depression, anxiety, whatever. Not everyone is equipped to cope with it. Nor is anyone really obligated to be present through it, especially if it affects their own wellbeing.

So, no, I don’t blame them. How can I? I know these things. I can’t force anyone to deal with my shit, and I won’t. 

I tend to try to be alone when it happens. I usually am, anyway. Alone is my default, and I’ve learnt to not see it as an inherently bad thing, because I can still achieve things and progress even while I’m on my own - sometimes even better than if I was around others.

But that’s why it made me really appreciate having someone who would choose to sit through it, and hold my hand, and try to talk to me through my breakdown. That’s not something anyone has ever really done before.

I just..am so fortunate, and so, so blessed to have met someone who can see through to me, and communicates with me, and just... So blessed, and so grateful. I love you, Cameron.

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 12.30.18

I’ve been reading a lot of Pema Chödrön’s writings about tonglen practice lately. One quotation of hers keeps sticking with me:

Tonglen practice (and all meditation practice) is not about later, when you get it all together and you’re this person you really respect. You may be the most violent person in the world—that’s a fine place to start. That’s a very rich place to start—juicy, smelly. You might be the most depressed person in the world, the most addicted person in the world, the most jealous person in the world. You might think that there are no others on the planet who hate themselves as much as you do. All of that is a good place to start. Just where you are—that’s the place to start.

It seems appropriate to digest those wise words right on the cusp of a new year, when even those of us who don’t do much to commemorate NYE get to thinking about endings and beginnings and starting new things.

Actually, though, the quote resonates retrospectively more than prospectively. Starting where I am—treating each new moment as an opportunity to approach life with a fresh perspective—is at the heart of the resilience I’ve been feeling in the last few weeks, as my hospital rotation wrapped up and I entered the holiday season.

When I was interviewing for DI programs, I was repeatedly told that the most crucial quality in a strong dietetic intern was resilience. It confused me at the time: I was expecting to hear about other traits, like critical thinking, clinical judgment, or empathy.

Now that my first 15 weeks of the DI program are behind me, I know why resilience kept coming up. The year demands constant change. A lot goes into doing the job well while one is at work, but what happens outside of the clinical workday itself—adjusting to new commutes and new communities of patients, being willing to work around each preceptor’s schedule, processing information quickly but thoroughly—is equally important. And it’s a test of flexibility more than anything else.

Flexibility, of course, is as far from being one of my inborn strengths as anything could be. It’s a deficit, actually, but I think the DI is helping me to build it up, little by little. A therapist told me long ago that I’d responded to a lot of stuff in my past by clinging to control, and that this would always be complicated for me, because control had (for better or for worse) become one of my strengths. It was true, and I’ve spent the last few years of my life working hard to release my grip, soften up, and move with the flow of things. It’s good for me, but I do feel robbed of a strength, not to mention frequently disoriented (“thrown out of the nest,” to use another Chödrön expression).

Like anything else, it’s a work in progress. Sometimes I flow without trying to. Sometimes I can’t lighten up or loosen up at all, and the opportunity to tread lightly is in having a sense of humor about a clingy/grasping/reactive day. What feels really good is when I can move between these states quickly—in other words, when a craggy morning doesn’t necessarily become a proverbial “bad day.”

This was, I remember, such a huge struggle for me in ED recovery: flipping my experience around quickly, rather than writing a narrative about how it was going to be a bad day or a bad week because something ugly had happened with food. It took me a while, but I did get to the point where I could struggle midday but feel grounded, balanced, and sane by dinnertime. And, as with so many other things, the skills I learned in ED recovery are now being cultivated in other areas of my life.

The last few weeks of my hospital rotation where chaotic and messy. I felt powerful and competent sometimes, totally overwhelmed at others. In the past, each moment of mess would have gotten drawn out and intensified by my tendency to judge and agonize about struggle as its happening. With the DI in full swing, I didn’t have the time to get sucked into that kind of a vortex. I had to bounce back quickly from feeling tripped up, caught off-guard, or overwhelmed.

So I did. When things felt chaotic or messy or rough, I took a few minutes to breathe, to get into my body, to feel sensations. I invited myself to start over. And I invited myself to believe that resilience was possible. Sometimes it felt a little forced. It almost always felt like some version of “fake-it-till-you-make-it.”

But there’s a lot of wisdom in “fake-it-till-you-make-it”—or at least in having faith that repeated, small behaviors and actions can sometimes bring about inner change (rather than the other way around). I wasn’t always sure that I could shake off a heavy or anxious mood when I invited myself to take a deep breath and move forward as if I could. Most of the time, though, it worked.

I’m now inviting myself to believe that this experience of resilience can stay with me outside of the DI—through early January, and then moving beyond next summer. I’ll proceed as if it can, and it will. And as a new year gets underway, what I wish for myself—what I wish for any person who needs it—is faith that each new moment, each new breath, is a chance to begin again. New beginnings don’t have to look any particular way, and they don’t require preparatory self-improvement. They’re an evergreen possibility, and they can take all sorts of tiny, everyday shapes.

As 2019 begins, I’m celebrating any and all opportunities to see and do things differently. And I’m giving thanks for all of the goodness in my life that abides—friends, family, food, and especially my body. I wish you all light, joy, and continual moments of starting anew—on New Year’s Eve, and always.

And now, some recipes and reads!

Recipes

What a beautiful concord grape bread, perfectly veganizable with non-dairy milk.

I’m all about cozy winter recipes like this right now: an old-fashioned vegan French onion chowder.

More soup! Tomato barley with all of the cheesy roasted chickpeas.

And now, for some baked goodness, starting with this cozy and creative maple dijon butternut sage & apple bake.

Finally, a lovely vegan winter centerpiece from the talented Thomas: Finnish rutabaga gratin.

Reads

1. HDL cholesterol is regarded as the “good” cholesterol, and a strong body of evidence shows that very low levels HDL are actually associated with an increased risk of heart disease. A new study, though, suggests that very high levels of HDL might also be problematic, which means that the relationship between HDL and cardiovascular disease risk is what’s known as a “U-shaped” pattern. This Scientific American blog discusses the interesting findings!

2. One of the most painful, yet often under-discussed consequences of having childhood cancer and cancer treatment is that fertility can be permanently altered. A new cryopreservation procedure—freezing whole parts of an ovary, rather than individual eggs—may give childhood cancer patients hope. The Guardian shares details.

3. On the topic of cancer and other chronic illnesses, The Boston Globe profiles doctors who are working on earlier, more precise detection methods for disease diagnosis.

4. This fall, I witnessed firsthand how important palliative care is for those who need it. As this Washington Post article makes clear, many people in this country can’t access palliative care because it’s unavailable or uncovered by insurance. The piece gives exposure to a really important healthcare topic.

5. Also from the Washington Posta great perspective on how people can better prepare themselves for the challenges of behavior change. I love the author’s differentiation between adopting a habit vs. building a life skill—I tend to think that most changes with food and nutrition fall into the latter category, which is why robust support and patience is so necessary for them to happen!

Happy New Year’s, a little early, friends. Sending love. And may all beings living be happy and free.

xo

The post Weekend Reading, 12.30.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 12.30.18 published first on

[gardencityvegans]

Weekend Reading, 12.30.18

https://www.thefullhelping.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/weekend_reading.jpg

I’ve been reading a lot of Pema Chodron’s writings about tonglen practice lately. One quotation of hers keeps sticking with me:

Tonglen practice (and all meditation practice) is not about later, when you get it all together and you’re this person you really respect. You may be the most violent person in the world—that’s a fine place to start. That’s a very rich place to start—juicy, smelly. You might be the most depressed person in the world, the most addicted person in the world, the most jealous person in the world. You might think that there are no others on the planet who hate themselves as much as you do. All of that is a good place to start. Just where you are—that’s the place to start.

It seems appropriate to digest those wise words right on the cusp of a new year, when even those of us who don’t do much to commemorate NYE get to thinking about endings and beginnings and starting new things.

Actually, though, the quote resonates retrospectively more than prospectively. Starting where I am—treating each new moment as an opportunity to approach life with a fresh perspective—is at the heart of the resilience I’ve been feeling in the last few weeks, as my hospital rotation wrapped up and I entered the holiday season.

When I was interviewing for DI programs, I was repeatedly told that the most crucial quality in a strong dietetic intern was resilience. It confused me at the time: I was expecting to hear about other traits, like critical thinking, clinical judgment, or empathy.

Now that my first 15 weeks of the DI program are behind me, I know why resilience kept coming up. The year demands constant change. A lot goes into doing the job well while one is at work, but what happens outside of the clinical workday itself—adjusting to new commutes and new communities of patients, being willing to work around each preceptor’s schedule, processing information quickly but thoroughly—is equally important. And it’s a test of flexibility more than anything else.

Flexibility, of course, is as far from being one of my inborn strengths as anything could be. It’s a deficit, actually, but I think the DI is helping me to build it up, little by little. A therapist told me long ago that I’d responded to a lot of stuff in my past by clinging to control, and that this would always be complicated for me, because control had (for better or for worse) become one of my strengths. It was true, and I’ve spent the last few years of my life working hard to release my grip, soften up, and move with the flow of things. It’s good for me, but I do feel robbed of a strength, not to mention frequently disoriented (“thrown out of the nest,” to use another Chodron expression).

Like anything else, it’s a work in progress. Sometimes I flow without trying to. Sometimes I can’t lighten up or loosen up at all, and the opportunity to tread lightly is in having a sense of humor about a clingy/grasping/reactive day. What feels really good is when I can move between these states quickly—in other words, when a craggy morning doesn’t necessarily become a proverbial “bad day.”

This was, I remember, such a huge struggle for me in ED recovery: flipping my experience around quickly, rather than writing a narrative about how it was going to be a bad day or a bad week because something ugly had happened with food. It took me a while, but I did get to the point where I could struggle midday but feel grounded, balanced, and sane by dinnertime. And, as with so many other things, the skills I learned in ED recovery are now being cultivated in other areas of my life.

The last few weeks of my hospital rotation where chaotic and messy. I felt powerful and competent sometimes, totally overwhelmed at others. In the past, each moment of mess would have gotten drawn out and intensified by my tendency to judge and agonize about struggle as its happening. With the DI in full swing, I didn’t have the time to get sucked into that kind of a vortex. I had to bounce back quickly from feeling tripped up, caught off-guard, or overwhelmed.

So I did. When things felt chaotic or messy or rough, I took a few minutes to breathe, to get into my body, to feel sensations. I invited myself to start over. And I invited myself to believe that resilience was possible. Sometimes it felt a little forced. It almost always felt like some version of “fake-it-till-you-make-it.”

But there’s a lot of wisdom in “fake-it-till-you-make-it”—or at least in having faith that repeated, small behaviors and actions can sometimes bring about inner change (rather than the other way around). I wasn’t always sure that I could shake off a heavy or anxious mood when I invited myself to take a deep breath and move forward as if I could. Most of the time, though, it worked.

I’m now inviting myself to believe that this experience of resilience can stay with me outside of the DI—through early January, and then moving beyond next summer. I’ll proceed as if it can, and it will. And as a new year gets underway, what I wish for myself—what I wish for any person who needs it—is faith that each new moment, each new breath, is a chance to begin again. New beginnings don’t have to look any particular way, and they don’t require preparatory self-improvement. They’re an evergreen possibility, and they can take all sorts of tiny, everyday shapes.

As 2019 begins, I’m celebrating any and all opportunities to see and do things differently. And I’m giving thanks for all of the goodness in my life that abides—friends, family, food, and especially my body. I wish you all light, joy, and continual moments of starting anew—on New Year’s Eve, and always.

And now, some recipes and reads!

Recipes

What a beautiful concord grape bread, perfectly veganizable with non-dairy milk.

I’m all about cozy winter recipes like this right now: an old-fashioned vegan French onion chowder.

More soup! Tomato barley with all of the cheesy roasted chickpeas.

And now, for some baked goodness, starting with this cozy and creative maple dijon butternut sage & apple bake.

Finally, a lovely vegan winter centerpiece from the talented Thomas: Finnish rutabaga gratin.

Reads

1. HDL cholesterol is regarded as the “good” cholesterol, and a strong body of evidence shows that very low levels HDL are actually associated with an increased risk of heart disease. A new study, though, suggests that very high levels of HDL might also be problematic, which means that the relationship between HDL and cardiovascular disease risk is what’s known as a “U-shaped” pattern. This Scientific American blog discusses the interesting findings!

2. One of the most painful, yet often under-discussed consequences of having childhood cancer and cancer treatment is that fertility can be permanently altered. A new cryopreservation procedure—freezing whole parts of an ovary, rather than individual eggs—may give childhood cancer patients hope. The Guardian shares details.

3. On the topic of cancer and other chronic illnesses, The Boston Globe profiles doctors who are working on earlier, more precise detection methods for disease diagnosis.

4. This fall, I witnessed firsthand how important palliative care is for those who need it. As this Washington Post article makes clear, many people in this country can’t access palliative care because it’s unavailable or uncovered by insurance. The piece gives exposure to a really important healthcare topic.

5. Also from the Washington Posta great perspective on how people can better prepare themselves for the challenges of behavior change. I love the author’s differentiation between adopting a habit vs. building a life skill—I tend to think that most changes with food and nutrition fall into the latter category, which is why robust support and patience is so necessary for them to happen!

Happy New Year’s, a little early, friends. Sending love. And may all beings living be happy and free.

xo

[Read More ...] https://www.thefullhelping.com/weekend-reading-12-30-18/

[davidrmcqueen1985-blog]

Weekend Reading, 12.30.18

I've been reading a lot of Pema Chodron's writings about tonglen practice lately. One quotation of hers keeps sticking with me:

Tonglen practice (and all meditation practice) is not about later, when you get it all together and you're this person you really respect. You may be the most violent person in the world-that's a fine place to start. That's a very rich place to start-juicy, smelly. You might be the most depressed person in the world, the most addicted person in the world, the most jealous person in the world. You might think that there are no others on the planet who hate themselves as much as you do. All of that is a good place to start. Just where you are-that's the place to start.

It seems appropriate to digest those wise words right on the cusp of a new year, when even those of us who don't do much to commemorate NYE get to thinking about endings and beginnings and starting new things.

Actually, though, the quote resonates retrospectively more than prospectively. Starting where I am-treating each new moment as an opportunity to approach life with a fresh perspective-is at the heart of the resilience I've been feeling in the last few weeks, as my hospital rotation wrapped up and I entered the holiday season.

When I was interviewing for DI programs, I was repeatedly told that the most crucial quality in a strong dietetic intern was resilience. It confused me at the time: I was expecting to hear about other traits, like critical thinking, clinical judgment, or empathy.

Now that my first 15 weeks of the DI program are behind me, I know why resilience kept coming up. The year demands constant change. A lot goes into doing the job well while one is at work, but what happens outside of the clinical workday itself-adjusting to new commutes and new communities of patients, being willing to work around each preceptor's schedule, processing information quickly but thoroughly-is equally important. And it's a test of flexibility more than anything else.

Flexibility, of course, is as far from being one of my inborn strengths as anything could be. It's a deficit, actually, but I think the DI is helping me to build it up, little by little. A therapist told me long ago that I'd responded to a lot of stuff in my past by clinging to control, and that this would always be complicated for me, because control had (for better or for worse) become one of my strengths. It was true, and I've spent the last few years of my life working hard to release my grip, soften up, and move with the flow of things. It's good for me, but I do feel robbed of a strength, not to mention frequently disoriented (“thrown out of the nest,” to use another Chodron expression).

Like anything else, it's a work in progress. Sometimes I flow without trying to. Sometimes I can't lighten up or loosen up at all, and the opportunity to tread lightly is in having a sense of humor about a clingy/grasping/reactive day. What feels really good is when I can move between these states quickly-in other words, when a craggy morning doesn't necessarily become a proverbial “bad day.”

This was, I remember, such a huge struggle for me in ED recovery: flipping my experience around quickly, rather than writing a narrative about how it was going to be a bad day or a bad week because something ugly had happened with food. It took me a while, but I did get to the point where I could struggle midday but feel grounded, balanced, and sane by dinnertime. And, as with so many other things, the skills I learned in ED recovery are now being cultivated in other areas of my life.

The last few weeks of my hospital rotation where chaotic and messy. I felt powerful and competent sometimes, totally overwhelmed at others. In the past, each moment of mess would have gotten drawn out and intensified by my tendency to judge and agonize about struggle as its happening. With the DI in full swing, I didn't have the time to get sucked into that kind of a vortex. I had to bounce back quickly from feeling tripped up, caught off-guard, or overwhelmed.

So I did. When things felt chaotic or messy or rough, I took a few minutes to breathe, to get into my body, to feel sensations. I invited myself to start over. And I invited myself to believe that resilience was possible. Sometimes it felt a little forced. It almost always felt like some version of “fake-it-till-you-make-it.”

But there's a lot of wisdom in “fake-it-till-you-make-it”-or at least in having faith that repeated, small behaviors and actions can sometimes bring about inner change (rather than the other way around). I wasn't always sure that I could shake off a heavy or anxious mood when I invited myself to take a deep breath and move forward as if I could. Most of the time, though, it worked.

I'm now inviting myself to believe that this experience of resilience can stay with me outside of the DI-through early January, and then moving beyond next summer. I'll proceed as if it can, and it will. And as a new year gets underway, what I wish for myself-what I wish for any person who needs it-is faith that each new moment, each new breath, is a chance to begin again. New beginnings don't have to look any particular way, and they don't require preparatory self-improvement. They're an evergreen possibility, and they can take all sorts of tiny, everyday shapes.

As 2019 begins, I'm celebrating any and all opportunities to see and do things differently. And I'm giving thanks for all of the goodness in my life that abides-friends, family, food, and especially my body. I wish you all light, joy, and continual moments of starting anew-on New Year's Eve, and always.

And now, some recipes and reads!

Recipes

What a beautiful concord grape bread, perfectly veganizable with non-dairy milk.

I'm all about cozy winter recipes like this right now: an old-fashioned vegan French onion chowder.

More soup! Tomato barley with all of the cheesy roasted chickpeas.

And now, for some baked goodness, starting with this cozy and creative maple dijon butternut sage & apple bake.

Finally, a lovely vegan winter centerpiece from the talented Thomas: Finnish rutabaga gratin.

Reads

1. HDL cholesterol is regarded as the “good” cholesterol, and a strong body of evidence shows that very low levels HDL are actually associated with an increased risk of heart disease. A new study, though, suggests that very high levels of HDL might also be problematic, which means that the relationship between HDL and cardiovascular disease risk is what's known as a “U-shaped” pattern. This Scientific American blog discusses the interesting findings!

2. One of the most painful, yet often under-discussed consequences of having childhood cancer and cancer treatment is that fertility can be permanently altered. A new cryopreservation procedure-freezing whole parts of an ovary, rather than individual eggs-may give childhood cancer patients hope. The Guardian shares details.

3. On the topic of cancer and other chronic illnesses, The Boston Globe profiles doctors who are working on earlier, more precise detection methods for disease diagnosis.

4. This fall, I witnessed firsthand how important palliative care is for those who need it. As this Washington Post article makes clear, many people in this country can't access palliative care because it's unavailable or uncovered by insurance. The piece gives exposure to a really important healthcare topic.

5. Also from the Washington Posta great perspective on how people can better prepare themselves for the challenges of behavior change. I love the author's differentiation between adopting a habit vs. building a life skill-I tend to think that most changes with food and nutrition fall into the latter category, which is why robust support and patience is so necessary for them to happen!

Happy New Year's, a little early, friends. Sending love. And may all beings living be happy and free.

xo

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