#this barely scratches the surface but i was trying to write something digestable

[queenlucythevaliant]

Six things I wish you knew about chronic migraine

(By a person who’s lived with the condition for the last eight + years)

While it’s true that migraine is more common than you think (something like one in five women, one in twenty men), it’s also true that there are lots of different kinds of migraine. Optical migraine (“aura”), vestibular migraine (vertigo), and abdominal migraine (lots of nausea and vomiting) can and do frequently coexist, but only a fraction of the people who get “migraine” experience all three all the time. Complex migraine has symptoms similar to both a seizure and a stroke, frequently in addition to some/all of the aforementioned. A person with chronic complex migraine (like me) and a more normal person who gets an acute migraine every month or so (like my mom) might as well have two entirely different conditions.

Corollary to the above: migraine advocacy needs to cover both breadth and depth of sufferers. Naturally, resources and up-to-date research ought to be available to anyone who experiences migraine symptoms, but there also needs to be acknowledgment that even some people for whom the condition is technically “chronic” (eight days a month) might have it relatively easy in the scheme of things. I often tell people that I have a seizure condition (closely related to migraine) in order to be taken seriously in lieu of a thirty minute lecture. 

Migraine is under-researched and poorly understood. I have one of the most expert migraine neurologists in the US and yet frequently, when I ask him questions that seem like they should have simple answers, his response is “good question.” Lots of meds/treatments are new and experimental and thus not covered by insurance. There is a LOT of migraine-related misinformation in the milieu. I cannot overstate this. Immense truckloads of misinformation. It’s incredible. Take anything a non-neurologist tells you about migraine critically.

You would be astonished by how many needles and hospital visits severe chronic migraine entails. There are periods where I’ve had to get painful injections 3x daily and had hospital visits every other week. IV steroid infusions are also a pretty common occurrence and they suuuuuuck.

Most people who get migraine take either OTC drugs or Imitrex/Sumatriptan pills, and if a person gets any kind of nausea/vomiting with migraine, this is pretty much insane. The body can process migraine like a physical trauma and as a result the stomach stops working (gastric stasis). As a result, if you take a pill after an episode has already begun, it won’t actually get digested until the migraine is basically over already. Injectables are much better if you can get them and it’s absolutely crazy to me that most doctors don’t prescribe them across the board. Doctors have known about the gastric stasis thing for decades now and it really ought to be common knowledge.

 Not specific to migraine, but the longer you suffer with chronic pain the more sensitive your body becomes (barring improvements in treatment). This is kind of counterintuitive- you’d expect to get used to the pain over long exposure, but actually your nerves get hyper-attuned to it. This goes double if you have any kind of allodynia. If you have long-term chronic pain—you’re not going crazy if you think something/everything hurts more now than it used to.

[exhaustedbastard]

assorted spoilery ramblings re: tlou 1x09

i know some people were worried episode 9 would feel rushed and. shit fucking damn i see why! i know they were trying to stay true to the game but feel like there should have been at Least one episode between 8 and 9. i want to see how ellie responds to the Incredibly Traumatic Experience(s) of episode 8! Neil and Craig have acknowledged that TV as a medium allows for more exploration of the internal, emotional elements of the story (see joel’s panic attacks). at the start of ep 9 ellie and joel are different people than they were before shit hit the fan in Colorado; things have changed, and those changes matter! but we barely even scratch the surface of any! it’s clear there has been a time skip, based on the weather in Salt Lake City (which is north of boulder, colorado, where fandomwiki says The University is). it’s the same thing that happened with sarah and henry and sam’s deaths—we skip most of the digestion, the processing, the grief; and maybe we see for a second that something has changed, but we’re not allowed to spend any time with the characters as they figure out what has changed—we fast forward through that into the next plot point.

like, joel opening up about sarah and his fucking feelings about her is a big step! and we don’t really see him choose to take it! for his part, we don’t see him agonizing over whether to tell ellie and how to tell ellie. it doesn’t even seem hard for him to tell her! he just implies that their trauma bond fixed him enough to talk openly about it?and for ellie’s part: joel clearly concluded that she is suicidal, and she does nothing to dispute that—that’s a monumental update to ellie’s story, but it’s crammed aside in favor of joel’s perspective and montage. the story is saying ‘ellie matters! her feelings matter!’. (hell, our understanding of what she would feel if she knew the truth about the cure situation is a main point of tension in the episode!) but the storytelling is saying ‘actually you don’t really need to see ellie’s response—joel knows she’s sad, and more importantly, Joel is having new feelings and he has the plot-steering wheel now!’

also, i wish we had some flashbacks showing us what joel and tess did before ellie. we see glimpses of his less than hinged side, but this still feels like a different level of violence. also the tone here feels way more like video game violence; other episodes have gone out of their way to adapt it into something more serious and grounded (e.g. joel just getting stabbed instead of falling out out of a second story window onto rebar) and they’ve gone out of their way to portray antagonists as people (like creating Kathleen instead of keeping the faceless fedra agents). but all of a sudden this is a hospital full of targets. not people. one thing i love about craig mazin’s writing is the feeling that every character has a perspective we could look through, and that that’s worth doing even when it means the plot stands still for a minute (see episode 3).

idk i feel like if they’re gonna have joel go off and kill a bunch of people they should fucking commit! show us that every single person he killed was a person! maybe there is something to be said about the episode’s single-minded focus on joel’s pov mirroring joel’s single-minded focus on getting to ellie, but i feel like it was done at the expense of the tone and the rest of the story.

and i think the rest of the story matters.

[memryse]

my thoughts abt xiran jay zhao since i said i would elaborate on that:

i think they have some good ideas, the concept for iron widow was great i love chinese historical fantasy and mashing it up with sci-fi and feminism and polyamory was in theory a very interesting idea.

but... it's like if you asked a tumblr user who bases their reading choices purely on representation checklists to write a book. it has all the diversity you could really want, but that's... kind of it. the protagonist is a modern #girlboss mary sue: Strong and Independent, murderous, morally dubious but ultimately never really faces any real challenges, anything that she does encounter is pretty easily overcome by her realising that she is a STRONG and POWERFUL woman who will DISMANTLE THE PATRIARCHY. she's not like the other girls. practically every other woman in the book is complicit in the further enabling the patriarchy, be it out of active malice or being too silly and feminine to act for themselves. she kills her entire family (including the women) in revenge for the violent misogyny they subjected her to and feels zero guilt for it but also feels bad whenever any other woman dies because they didn't ask for the role they had in the system.

the entire book is Girlboss Moment Yass Slay. there is no nuance to the writing, no showing and not telling. you are told precisely in clear and easily digestible terms that Sexist Thing Is Sexist. [insert badass #feminism line] Yes Clap Now For The Girlboss. the plot and worldbuilding are skimmed over in favour of more girlboss moments. it promises feminism but it barely scratches the surface. the writing is shallow with so little actual substance to it beyond advancing the protagonist's ego that in the few months since i read the book i've managed to forget the name of every single character and location because they were so thoroughly uninteresting.

i loved this book in theory, i tried really hard to like it as i was reading. but i don't want to read like 400 pages of having the bare minimum of feminism explained to me under a VERY thin veil of fiction with cheesy dialogue and a paper thin plot. the way people talk about it made me expect a feminist masterpiece of actual forward thinking (or at least as close to that as a YA novel will get) and what i actually got was a book that i still would have thought was trying too hard had i read it at age 13. i really can't in good conscience recommend zhao as a good sci-fi author, not even remotely. fun for a preteen or if you just want to read something for the sake of reading and switch your brain off, sure

apologies for the rant i feel strongly about this book it had so much potential

[cyncerity]

👁👄👁 can I ask for anything with naga Phil au?

I TOLD YOU I WAS ACTUALLY WRITING IT!! >:)

Anyways here the long awaited naga!Phil noms

Tw: vore, digestion mention, angst, swearing, puke mention

Phil turned to look at the food that Wilbur had gone out of his way making. Honestly, it all looked really good, for it just being pasta, the only food Wilbur could make. After Phil had been, well, shrunk, he couldn’t do what he needed to do for his family, like making dinner, so his sons had taken up his jobs around the house. Though it made Phil sad that he couldn’t do everything he needed to for his sons, he was grateful that they could at least take care of themselves without burning the house down or killing one another.

Phil subconsciously moved to slither up a leg of the table to get to the food and to get on level with his sons. He saw Techbo getting dishes out, Wilbur continuing to stir pasta in a pot, and Tommy being an unhelpful gremlin as per usual. The tiny naga smiled as he moved through the table to get to a ramp that led him from his current position to the top of the cabinets near Wilbur, who was talking to Techno and doing his best to avoid Tommy’s shenanigans.

He almost got up when Tommy suddenly bumped the counter, sending Phil tumbling down without the time to even scream before he fell into the pot that Wilbur was stirring. He couldn’t even yell out to Wil since he was still talking to Techno, who also apparently didn’t notice Phil almost drowning in noodles.

Finally, after what felt like hours to Phil, the stirring stopped, leaving him buried in noodles. He tried fruitlessly to slither his way to the top of the pot, and just as he got close, he felt himself being lifted very quickly with…a spoon maybe? It was hard to tell before he was dumped in a bowl and then quickly covered with even more pasta as he heard Tommy say something about going to his room. Suddenly the surface he was in was moving and swaying slighlty, and he could hear the feet of his youngest moving beneath him as Tommy ran to his room.

The bowl was soon layed on an uneven surface that Phil could only assume was Tommy’s bed. Phil managed to grab the edge of the bowl and peer over side just in time to see Tommy turn up the volume of his phone, which was propped up against his sheets and playing some sort of cereal video. But even with the volume almost all the way up, Phil couldn’t hear a sound out of the phone.

It dawned on him that Tommy had earbuds in just to late, as in the time it took for him to process that information he felt himself be pulled back under the noodles as his tail was forcefully twisted around cold metal, leaving Phil unable to escape what he now unfortunately realized was a fork.

Tommy didn’t take his eyes off his screen for long enough to realize that Phil was stuck to his utensil, and he didn’t hear Phil calling out to him. Tommy just slipped the fork into his mouth as Phil screamed in terror, and slipped the newly emptied fork out just as quickly, leaving Phil no escape. Phil made a move to try and pound on the teeth that surrounded him, but they quickly re-opened just long enough for Tommy to fit another mouthful of spaghetti. Tommy barely chewed the food, which Phil would have been more disappointed with had it not been for the fact that if Tommy were chewing, Phil would more likely be crushed to death, before swallowing to make room for more food.

Phil barely had time to get used to the unbearable humidity of the mouth before he was sucked tail-first down the throat. In little to no time the only part of him still in the mouth was his torso, and Phil could feel exactly where the sphincter tightened around part of his tail, and he could feel the part of his tail that was already in the stomach, since it was the only part of him that wasn’t being constricted at the moment besides his upper body.

Phil made every move in his power to scream and claw at Tommy to let him out. As much as it hurt him to try and use his claws on his own son’s throat, he didn’t want to die by someone he loved, and someone who didn’t even know that they were putting their father in danger. Phil continued to scratch at the mouth as he flailed the free part of his tail in the stomach against the walls back and forth as hard as he could, trying to use every part of him to alert Tommy that something was wrong.

He not only heard but felt Tommy’s stomach growl slightly at the movement from Phil’s tail and he heard Tommy start to cough, since having something stuck throughout his whole esophagus was making him feel sick. Phil’s hope sparked that maybe, just maybe, Tommy would at least accidentally cough him out.

That spark of hope was extinguished when a wave of soda came splashing at Phil, making his already slippery claws let go of the flesh surrounding him and sending him down into the hollow organ below.

A few antagonizing moments later and Phil was left curled up in Tommy’s stomach, trying to process what had just happened. He was in a stomach. And not just a stomach, his son’s stomach. Tears began to fall from his eyes as he realized that his own son would kill him, and wouldn’t even know what happened to him. His family would think that maybe he was eaten by some wild animal, or got stuck somewhere and starved. Maybe they would just assume he left them. After all, they wouldn’t have a body to confirm his death. Tommy would have digested him by the time they realized he was missing.

Phil began to coil in a circle around the stomach and against the walls in a motion that would have mimicked pacing if he still had legs. The longer he thought about it, the worse the scenarios that entered his head got. Tommy’s stomach rumbled loudly, probably from the fact that Phil had been punching against all sides of the stomach for a while at that point, and he heard a groan from above him and felt the wall against him press in, and that was all it took for Phil to pass out from stress and fear.

*******

Tommy pressed a hand against his stomach, which growled under it as he let out a pained groan. His stomach felt uneasy, like there some sort of uncomfortable weight in it, and he felt like throwing up. He wasn’t sure why, since he had just been fine, but maybe it was the pasta. He got up slowly to go to his brothers and get some sort of medication or something to settle his stomach, but was stopped by Wilbur before he could reach the medicine cabinet.

“Toms, have you seen Phil? I don’t think he got any food yet and I haven’t seen him in a while.” Tommy scoffed at Wil before turning back to his quest for some kind of anti-acid.

“Maybe Phil’s the lucky one, if he didn’t get any of your fucked up food yet. I feel like shit, big man, honestly. Like, I feel like I’m about to throw up.” Wilbur’s face shifted to concern as he looked Tommy.

“I don’t think it was the pasta. Techno had some, too, and he seems alright. Maybe you should get something to help you empty your stomach, you probably just ate to much.” Tommy nodded along. Honestly, it made sense to him. And it would explain the queasy feeling of something swaying in his gut every time he moved, it was probably just to much food. “Alright then,” Wilbur continued, “I’ll go get you a pill or something and you go get a bowl.” Tommy did as Wilbur said and they met back up in the living room, Tommy with a big metal bowl and Wilbur with a pill and a small cup of water. Tommy quickly took the pill from Wilbur and swallowed it down and Wilbur slid the bowl closer to Tommy as he noticed him start to look more sick.

*********

Phil slowly woke up looking around him to see he was…in something, and still surrounded in pasta. The walls around him were tall and shiny and cold, much cooler that the dreadful heat of the stomach. Metal. A metal bowl? How’d he get there?

As he became more and more conscious, he began to process that there was yelling somewhere above him, too.

“…well then how the hell’d he end up there?!�� “I have no fucking idea, I swear!!” “How could you not know?!” “Are you trying to accuse me or something?!” “Would you both please calm down!!”

Phil knew those voices anywhere. His vision cleared enough to see Tommy and Wilbur engaged in a shouting match, and Techno trying and failing to calm them down.

Phil began to try and get out of the bowl when he was suddenly picked up out of nowhere and practically smothered with attention from his sons, all of whom were fretting over whether or not he was ok.

“I- Im fine…” Phil said, voice hoarse from the screaming earlier. He was soon lifted up higher towards Tommy, who he realized had picked him up. Phil’s face fell as he realized Tommy’s cheeks were lined with tear tracks.

“Phil, I’m so sorry, I don’t even know what happened, I didn’t mean to, I swear, I-“ “It’s alright, mate.” Phil interrupted, leaning forward and hugging Tommy’s nose. “It’s alright.”

He felt Tommy’s body begin to shake with slight sobs as he began crying again, pressing Phil into his nose gently with his hands. He turned his head to see Wilbur and surprisingly Techno join the hug, too, both relieved that Phil was ok. They were both horrified to see Phil unconscious in the bowl, and knowing he had been in Tommy’s…it was hard to think about. They were just glad he was ok. And Tommy was just glad he’d forgiven him.

And Phil was just glad that his sons still cared, even if he couldn’t be the best dad to them at the moment. They were still a family, and he’d never choose to abandon or leave them.

[debiteful]

Yooo if you’re up for a writing request maybe a naive prey not realizing the danger they’re in while a pred smooth-talks them into having a look inside their mouth and panicking when the preds mouth snaps shut and the prey is tasted and devoured, feeling humiliated for trusting them while the stomach around the gets to work on them 👈🏻👈🏻

Actually had a bit of a difficult time with this one. I’m not much of a smooth talker ^-^’ So I actually ended up with 2 attempts at this. I hope one appeals to you

How Bad can it Be?

Content: fatal soft vore, digestion, giant dragon pred, unwilling human female prey, glowing insides

Check it out

Content: soft vore, digestion, reformation, human female pred, human size shifter male prey

How bad can it be?

Anne stepped into the cave, determined to find what she came for. She put both hands to her mouth and called out boldly, “Show yourself, keeper of the treasure!”

Her words echoed down the stony passage. After a few moments of hesitation, she followed them. She didn’t have to go far before a voice called out, “Not far now dear adventurer.”

She hardly held back a squeal of delight as she hurried along. Soon the path gave way to a cave. She could only tell it was such because yellow light emanated from an orb on the ceiling. Suddenly, the orb moved, and another became visible. They blinked out of existence before returning; they were eyes!

The dragon spoke with shocking softness, “Hello there. Have you come for the treasure?”

“Of course!” Anne said with a nervous giggle.

“Very well,” the dragon said, then smiled. Cold, pale light shone out from between its wickedly sharp teeth. The smile grew closer, until it lay just before her. The dragon whispered, “Delight with amazement at my maw. It glows with magic and fascinates all who see it.”

They stretched their jaws wide open, revealing a purple forked tongue and glowing blue cheeks that dripped with saliva. Anne hesitated, and the dragon purred, “Go on. It’s all natural, all safe. Nothing but food is in danger there.”

Anne nodded and stepped forward, climbing over sharp teeth, and soon standing on that purple tongue. Heat washed past her in waves and she smiled. Her eyes glittered as she looked around, basking in the cool glow. She whispered, “Incredible.”

So enraptured was she, that she did not notice the saliva rising around her feet until it pooled past her ankles. Only then did she look down. She lifted a foot and watched the saliva spider-web between it and the tongue. She scrunched her nose, “No one said anything about dragon drool!”

“That because those who get this close don’t make it out,” the dragon chuckled then snapped its jaws shut.“

The movement jarred Anne, and she fell into the rising pool of saliva. She slide back along the dragons tongue, feeling its lumps as it tasted her. It arched with ease, the muscle flexing and pinning her up against the hard palate as it got a firm lick. She yelped as she fell into the area normally under the tongue, only to groan as it pushed her back up for another strong lick. It wasn’t long at all before she was breathless. The comtual squishing and helpless noises certainly weren’t helping any more than the humid heat.

Feeling her weaken, the dragon finally tilted its head back and swallowed. With a wave of saliva she slid down its throat before splashing down in its belly. Smooth flesh pressed against her from all sides as she struggled to find a way out.

This place too had that same cool glow. She could see herself as she splashed around in an otherwise empty stomach. Her cheeks were hot, and she couldnt tell if it was from exertion or humiliation. She screamed profanities at the dragon and tried to kick or hit it in some significant way. All she succeeded in doing was stimulating the stomach wall further, encouraging acidic ooze to seep out.

It stung her hands and her face. Soon the stinging became a distinct burning. She watched in the gentle light as the acid ate away st her hungrily.

She no longer had the energy to fight, only to feel herself fading away and shame at being such a fool for coming here.

Check it out

"This is a delightful dinner,” Dan sighed, sparing his date an appreciative grin.

Suzie smiled back, “Why thank you! Now, should we move to the next part of our evening?”

Dan flushed a bit, “And that would be?’

"The movie of course, it’s only been a couple dates you silly fellow.”

“Ah- yes,” he grinned and scratched the back of his head. He shrank a little, feeling silly.

She eyed him up and down, “Did you just do that thing you do?”

“That what? Oh! The size thing… yeah,” he mumbled the last word.

She giggled and scooped him up into a tight hug, “Ooooh that’s delightful!”

“Oh- Thanks,” he smiled, his confidence returning along with his full size. 

She let him go and lead the way to a comfortable looking living room. They cuddled up beside each other on the couch. As Suzie picked the movie, her finger kept wandering into her mouth. Dan could hear her picking at something. Eventually he felt bold enough to ask, “Something in your teeth?”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” Suzie said, withdrawing her finger. He watched her face twitch and twist as she clearly poked at it with her tongue, “I just can’t quite seem to get this one stubborn bit.”

Dan nodded a couple times then looked up at her. “I could check it out,” he offered with a smile.

Suzie considered this, a slow, sly grin creeping across her face. “Thar would be perfect.”

His smile widened at seeing her grin. In a moment he was as big as her thumb. She let out a soft gasp and scooped him up. Her now giant eyes studied him with wonder and delight. He stood proudly as he could, fighting back another blush. 

She opened her mouth wide and popped him in. He stumbled then struggled to his feet on the slippery surface. He made his way back towards her molars, on the lookout for any sign of food debris.

He jumped in surprise when her mouth snapped shut, plunging him into darkness. The humidity climbed rapidly and he felt her soft, warm tongue shift beneath him. It tumbled him around with ease, then gave him a lick that pinned him against the sides of her teeth. Her tongue worked over his little body with expert swipes.

When she was finished tasting, she swallowed him up easily. He slid helplessly into her belly, floundering in the darkness. 

“How could you!” He called.

“It was quite easy, really,” she giggled.

He huffed and struggled around to try and find escape. All his efforts found him was more and more stomach acid that welled up around him. It ate away at every part of him, breaking him down to bare nutrition, just as their supper had.

In the meantime, Suzie picked out a movie to watch and enjoy. She rubbed at her active belly with a fond smile, pleased at how easy he had been to gobble up.

It wasn’t until the next morning that he woke up. He was back to his proper size and laying in bed beside her. With a face flushed with humiliation, he hurried away.

[lisacatherwood]

Me and M.E.

The Horror

Fatigue as a word doesn’t begin to describe the horror that they casually call Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or M.E. - Myalgic Enephalo Myelitis

I was 14 in 1980 when I contracted a virus known then as glandular fever. I was seriously less than chuffed… I was an 800 meter runner. I was a member of my town swimming club, doing competitive swimming and planning to do scuba diving training (I desperately wanted to be a Marine Biologist). I played hockey and went on my bike to the athletics club on a Saturday. I had a lot to do, but I had friends who had had the illness, a cousin who had been very ill and had had a long recovery over some weeks, so we knew what to expect, and I wasn’t too worried.

I had a high fever and then a low grade fever and felt really rotten and it simply didn’t go away. It’s such a simple thing to write down but the reality was and is horrific for my family as well as for me.

I was finally diagnosed with M.E. (myalgic encephalomyelitis) when I was 22 years old. In the intervening time I had had nearly two years off school. I got O’ levels, at 16, doing two year’s work in a year but was then so poorly during my 6th form that I largely blew my ‘A’ Levels at 18. I spent some time in the metabolic unit at my local hospital as they tried to work out what was wrong, with no success. It was frightening and disappointing for me, and for my family. I was so exhausted, confused and miserable that I couldn’t even fill in the university applications never mind thinking of packing and going.

A pattern developed which has persisted until now, forty years later. I would start to rebuild my life out of the illness and then catch a bug or even just overdo it a little and be destroyed by it. The illness seems to be something to do with a defunct immune system. Some bugs, colds, flus etc. I catch and get over the same as other people, some I catch and it’s like my immunity fails. I can’t get rid of the bug and the symptoms persist for months and months. In my body it feels like the immunity starts to triumph in one part of the system, but is overwhelmed in others. Like chasing dry rot round an old house. The painful joints start to feel better and then it flares in my digestive system and I have nausea and other digestive symptoms. Or the headaches die away and I feel so physically weak, I can’t stand steadily, lift a kettle, turn a tap on, hold a pen. Not just tired, but sore and stiff and lacking control. I have had long periods of being incredibly fatigued cold and hungry. Mind numb, sluggish forgetful, time concertinas, days, weeks pass in weird disjointed forms, sometimes I can barely speak. Summer days spent in low light indoors with two duvets and a hot water bottle, the central heating on, the fire lit, still freezing cold.

Every year or two Something happens which knocks me down into bed for months, sometimes years. After the initial sickness illness the convalescence is unending. I have described it as being like the worst flu and hangover you have ever had combined and lasting for months – the problem with this description is that I don’t think it really explains it, people don’t really remember what that level of awfulness feels like. The brain has a gift for not really storing the memory of physical symptoms – pain discomfort etc. We remember as an intellectual exercise not as a visceral experience. Even if you can vaguely put together a sensation of what that might be like it doesn’t really scratch the surface. (Try thinking of what a strawberry tastes like – really imagine it, hard as you can. Now eat a strawberry. See?)

The terror of finding you can’t roll over in bed on your own, the humiliation of having to have your personal care taken care of by someone else, the days when all the radios in the world are on in your head, all light is too bright, all sound is too intense, the indignity of being questioned like a criminal in benefits offices and doctors surgeries. I think I can now write openly about all of this because I have nothing left to lose.

I think I had always tried to hide the damage the illness does particularly to my mind because I was afraid of a diagnosis of mental illness. I had an acquaintance who had the same symptoms as me when we were in our twenties, she ended up on a ward in our local mental hospital. They took her drawing materials away from her. They wouldn’t let her write. I fear this kind of thing more than anything.

I have not been idle. I have not been a scrounger. I have a tiny website design business. I work as much as I can always from home and now employ two people part time. I am a self taught artist and designer and love my work when I can do it and I do it as much as I can. Just at the moment that isn’t very much. But I live in hope.

I don’t have any children. We sat down and thought about it. It seemed that to bring a child into a house where their mother could spend long periods unable to look after them was a bad thing to do. We made the choice some years ago and given how my health has been subsequently we were right. We made an adult choice and we live with that every day. It doesn’t mean it wasn’t and isn’t painful. I say 'we' but my marriage broke up after 23 years due in no small part to the effect of my illness. When we married I was 25 and the prognosis was that the illness would lessen and in at worst 7 years it would be gone. I'd grow out of it.

I am writing now because I feel awful, my hands ache the tears of weariness and anguish are running down my face. The brain fog is ghastly and I feel so alone and isolated. My next major birthday I am 54. I have not learned to scuba dive. I didn’t become a marine biologist. In some ways it would not be over dramatic to say this illness has ruined my life. Certainly it has ruled it, changed it, made it unpredictable, difficult, at times nearly unbearable.

I saw a child on the TV the other night, recently diagnosed with ME/CFS, he is lying there, another little grey shape in a bed (we all go that way) and I saw the desperation in his mother and recognised myself and my mother. The silent scream of horror I had at seeing it all happening again was from the depths of my being.

That the scream was silent is partly because I don’t have the strength to scream and partly because I have no words. It is not just me – the English Language has not got the words.

I had a really bad flare which put me in hospital unable to walk in Oct 2018 and I’m still housebound/bedbound dealing with the consequences. Applied for disability benefit got a home visit and didn’t score a single point even after 40 years I am not believed. Too ill to fight for it and terrified about the future. My incredible Mum stepped in again to take care of me when this latest flare happened. I have no words to express my combined gratitude and shame for being this kind of endlessly needy daughter. l when, at this age I should be taking care of her.

Originally Written September 2012.

Header Artwork originally by me aged 15.

Added to in 2015 after my marriage broke up.

Updated July 2018 and again Feb 2020 for #MEAwarenesshour on Twitter every Wednesday share relevant content with the hashtag to help raise awareness.

Reposted July 2020 to send to @OxMEDiscovery

[hobrerek]

Realizations: Writing Prompt

“Brotherly love between Derek and Scott!! Always upset me we never got to see more of them... 😫” - @veseyz

Here you go my dear, Derek and Scott brotherly love as requested! This story took a bit of a turn from where I had originally started with it, but hopefully you enjoy all 2.4K of it all the same. Let me know what you think!

Much love, Jessa

Realizations

Scott was sure in this moment, that if it came down to it, he may actually murder Stiles in cold blood if he didn't stop talking.

"Can werewolves menstruate?" Stiles was asking as he angled his body back towards the screen, typing in almost the exact phrase. "I mean, obviously there's not going to be an exact hit or anything like that, duh, but maybe we can learn something from a history book or like...a fanfiction or something that gives us an idea, you know? Scott? Buddy?"

"I swear to God," Scott muttered under his breath as he walked down the street, ignoring Stiles' shouts from the window behind him when he clued in that his best friend had slipped out, gliding down the street quietly as he cracked his neck in irritation.

Scott was...itchy. Not physically, not as in something he could scratch, but his insides felt itchy, like his body couldn't decide if it was supposed to be human or werewolf and kept slipping back and forth between the two causing an incessant 'feeling,' like a source of friction that was driving Scott absolutely mad. Originally Scott had gone to Stiles to see if he had ever read anything about this sort of issue in werewolves, but when his best friend diverted into theories about werewolf mating rituals, Scott had decided he should probably find his answers elsewhere.

Without realizing or really intending for it, Scott found himself in front of a familiar beaten-up door, raising his hand with a sigh before letting his knuckles rap across the wooden surface, hearing no motion inside indicating someone was home, though he could also tell that Derek was standing directly on the other side of the door and was pretending to not be doing so.

"I feel like you are forgetting something," Scott said with a huff into the cold air, watching the condensed air that slipped from his lips drift away into little wisps, still sensing no movement from within. "As in the 'I am also a werewolf and know you are on the other side of the door' kind of something, Derek. It's weird, stop lurking."

"I wasn't lurking," Derek said with a grimace as he pulled the door open to reveal himself standing in dark jeans and a well worn henley. "I was waiting."

"Behind the door? While you held your breath?" Scott asked incredulously, raising a brow in judgement as he stepped into Derek's home. "You have a functioning door now. That's new."

"Mmm," Derek grunted in acknowledgement, walking back into the house and through the long hallway with the multiple offshoots, entering into the kitchen with Scott close behind him, the latter having followed the smells emanating from the large pot on the stove.

"You can cook?" Scott spoke in surprise, phrasing his words as both a statement and a question simultaneously. "I assumed you lived on rabbits."

"Why on Earth would I eat rabbits, Scott?" Derek asked in annoyance, visibly scowling and drawing attention to his own bunny teeth which Scott could just 'hear' Stiles making fun of in his head. "Oh shut up, not you too."

"You have to admit," Scott said with a laugh as he made himself at home at Derek's dinner table (also new) and eyed the delicious smelling pot on the stove, "that for a werewolf, your teeth are decidedly bunny like."

Casting him a sharp look that Scott was accustomed to and ignoring the younger man's comment, Derek reached up into his cupboard (new shelves I see, thought Scott) and pulled out two bowls, keeping the most recent one in his hand as he pulled off the top of the pot and ladled a few scoops of the stew into a bowl, before repeating the motions with the other one as Scott watched on intently.

"Dude, that smells fucking delicious," Scott said excitedly as he salivated, missing the look from Derek as he shook his head at the younger man.

"Dude," Derek retorted, grabbing his own bowl and sinking down before tilting his head with a frown when he realized he had forgotten the bread on the counter for dunking.

"Bread," Derek motioned, tilting his head back towards the offending item across the kitchen and staring Scott down until he relented, standing from his seat to bring it over, though he stopped to grab the butter on the way.

"Is there a reason you are in my house eating my food?" Derek asked after some time had passed and both men were well on their way to finishing their second bowl of stew.

"How do you know I didn't just come for a visit?" Scott rebutted, though he at least had the foresight to look down into his bowl instead of making eye contact, knowing full well what Derek was about to say.

"Hm, not sure," Derek hummed, tone dripping in sarcasm. "Maybe all the times you told me you hated me, preferred if I didn't exist or asked me to leave. And to think, somehow you managed to get that all into one sentence last time you said it."

"I'm sorry, okay?" Scott replied, clenching his eyes shut as his mouth formed into a straight line. "I was in a weird place last time."

"And the times before that?"

"I'm pretty sure that was just me being an asshole."

Derek didn't respond to Scott's latest statement, Scott more than aware that meant that the older man was agreeing without having to directly vocalize his thoughts, though frankly he had to admit that he had been pretty harsh on Derek last time, especially since he had actually been the one to save the day in place of Scott.

"You are decidedly less hostile lately," Derek tacked on after a few more moments of silence had passed, though the quiet wasn't uncomfortable. A moment later, as Scott finished his own bowl, he realized that Derek had left the question hanging in the air for him to grab onto.

"I may or may not have had some sense knocked into me recently?" Scott stated slowly, choosing his words carefully, brows furrowing as he recalled the conversation in question. "There was some other stuff mentioned too, but it got weird at that point so I tuned it out."

"What kind of weird? Stiles I am presuming?"

"Of course," Scott replied with a roll of his eyes, much to the amusement of Derek who barely kept a grin from spreading across his features. The general annoyance that was Stiles Stilinski was something everyone could agree on, regardless of their differences.

"What did he say?" Derek pushed, his gaze focusing and for the first time in as long as Scott had known him, he could see right through the older man.

"Oh ew," Scott said with genuine disgust, as Derek looked around trying to gauge what Scott's words had been in reaction to, coming up blank, eyebrow raised in a silent question. "You like him."

"Like who?" Derek questioned, though Scott could see his cheeks colouring and could smell the change in the older werewolf's hormones which only caused his disgust to deepen.

"Ew, you like Stiles," Scott said with a grimace, nose scrunched up as he suddenly got a very detailed mental image of Stiles and Derek kissing. "Jesus, please don't tell me you plan on waxing poetic about him too, I already get it enough from him."

"I, no, erm, I mean, I wouldn't, because you see, I mean, with you and him, and you know, it's just, the timing and, it's um, wait what?" Derek finally settled on asking, eyes scrunching together in confusion. "Say that again."

"You like him," Scott repeated, smiling to himself at the look of contempt Derek shot his way.

"Not what I meant," Derek grumbled, though he apparently decided not to push Scott further.

"Look," Scott said with another grimace, still trying to scrub out the mental image of Stiles and Derek making out from inside his brain, but knowing he had a real opportunity to do his best friend a solid after all the years of the roles being reversed. "I'm just saying, you should probably talk to Stiles sometime soon, like...just the two of you. If you know what I mean."

"Oh," Derek said simply, eyes blown wide leaving his face looking incredibly vulnerable as he digested Scott's words, clearing his throat awkwardly after a moment and trying to rearrange his facial features. "Good to know."

"Also, please don't make out in front of me," Scott added on after a moment, getting another flash of the pair locked in a heated embrace and willing himself to think of Kira's breasts or the way she had kissed him when he had left the night before or anything that wasn't his best friend and older brother making out.

"Oh, huh," Scott said aloud, tone coloured with surprise. "That's interesting."

"I'm really not following," Derek said with only a hint of exasperation in his tone, feeling like he was pulling teeth as he 'patiently' waited for Scott to tell him what the hell was going on in his head.

"Sorry," Scott started, still mulling something over in his head. "Stiles was just saying to me the other day that I needed to be nicer to you because you were all I had of my kind and I thought that was dumb since I knew he just wanted to make out with you and have me be okay with it."

Looking up, Scott rolled his eyes once more when he noted the pleased expression that had crossed Derek's face before he continued.

"And I was just thinking how fucking weird it is to think of you and Stiles kissing. Not like, cause you're gay or anything."

"Bisexual," Derek interrupted, waving Scott's protests away and motioning for him to continue, cheeks having gone a darker colour when he realized his words.

"But like, that's my best friend. And you're my like, Derek."

"I'm your like Derek?" the older man replied sarcastically, hands spread as he waited for Scott to explain. "Meaning?"

"I d-don't know," Scott stammered, still trying to make sense of his thoughts. "It's just like, you're not so bad anymore you know? And you help a lot with the pack and answering questions and things. And you don't try and boss me around as much anymore and you're good in fights which is handy, especially the other night."

Both men stopped briefly as they considered the wounded werewolf they had encountered on the outskirts of their territory a few nights previous, the feral nature of the wound having taken over not long after they had found the young woman.

"And like," Scott continued, shaking off the images from that night and plowing forward. "You put up with Stiles. And that's not easy. And you're friends with the Sheriff and he's like my dad so I love him, but that's also not easy. And you get all weird around Stiles and say embarrassing stuff and I've literally just realized you like him and oh my god, would you stop making out with him in my head?!"

"I-" Derek started to speak, mouth closing with an audible click as he stared on at Scott as if he had two heads growing from his neck. "Are you okay?"

"Dude, you're like a big brother figure in my life," Scott said in shock, finally coming to a conclusion in his head as Derek looked on with wide eyes and a thoughtful expression. "Dude, when the fuck did that happen?"

"I-"

"I need to go tell Stiles!" Scott cut off, standing abruptly and turning towards the door, stopping after a few steps to look back at Derek and humming aloud to himself. "You're okay with that, right?"

"Erm, sure?" Derek replied, his voice suggesting otherwise, though it was apparently enough for Scott who nodded happily to himself and continued down the hall, Derek leaning back in his chair so he could watch as the younger man got further and further away.

"Thanks Derek!" Scott shouted as he opened the door, pushing his feet into his shoes and twisting until they slipped in. "This helped a lot!"

"I-" Derek started yet again, looking back at the two empty bowls and crumbs strewn across the table as the door closed behind the younger man. "What the fuck just happened?"

"Stiles!" Scott shouted as he climbed through his best friends window some 25 minutes later. "I figured out what was wrong!"

"Hello to you too, Scott. Thank you for knocking and not just sliding through my window and scaring the living shit out of me," Stiles responded with a hand clutched over his heart from the floor as he flailed dramatically out of his bed. "Nice of you to return."

"Yeah, yeah," Scott waved off absentmindedly, going to sit at the head of Stiles' bed. "So I went to talk to Derek."

"Willingly?" Stiles asked, face frowning as he looked on at Scott questioningly. "Literally like ten minutes before you left you were going on about how annoying he was."

"Yes, but I realized that wasn't the problem!" Scott replied happily, missing the 'what the fuck' expression that Stiles was continuously shooting his way. "I was feeling all weird BECAUSE of Derek, but not BY Derek, you see?"

"Nope," Stiles said with a little head shake and with pursed lips. "I really don't see Scott, since that wasn't even English and you usually hate Derek."

"But that's the thing!" Scott exclaimed, turning to look at Stiles directly. "I don't hate him, I just realized that I'm not actually competing with him anymore because he's like an older brother right? Like, we are going to fight and stuff and he's annoying, but like, he's still family, you know?"

"That's awfully big of you," Stiles said cautiously after a long moment, eyes widening in a calculated manner as he stared curiously at his best friend. "Any particular reason why all of a sudden you don't hate the big mean bad wolf you always complain about?"

"I told him you liked him and he started blushing and then I realized that he'll probably be around a lot more if you two start dating and then I realized that he's actually not so bad when I was trying to avoid thinking of the two of you kissing and now that I realized that I thought I should come and tell you that he's not so bad," Scott replied simply, totally oblivious to the flailing and increasingly concerning colour of purple that Stiles was turning beside him on the bed. "Cool, huh?"

"YOU TOLD HIM WHAT?!"

[firesign23]

I would like to read that very angry post and learn the two rules.

Okay, so, I was GOING to be all “Here are my well composed arguments” about this, but… honestly, I’m still digesting the specifics of Brienne’s story in 8x06 and getting caught up on “Soo, we’re going with the shallowest interpretation of her character’s desires and also kinda just making her Jaime 2.0: The Just Edition” (more on this rant LATER, because oh it was so much worse than I thought when I read the leaks), so instead y’all get a slightly edited version of the Angry Screaming I sent a friend a few days ago. Buckle up, I am Riled.

A pre-rant note–my husband woke up this morning, checked his phone, and looked at me like a man who had Seen Some Shit. “The leaks were right.” He has never watched Game of Thrones (he’s been waiting until the show is done, and I’m pretty sure season 8 killed his plans to binge it), but honestly I can think of no better way to sum up this experience.

(Fucking MOOD, Jon.)

So, first off, I do not expect a lot from Game of Thrones. The visuals are amazing, the actors are top notch, but there have always been issues with the plot, with misogyny, etc. What has made me so ANGRY about this season is that it thumbs its nose at storytelling as a craft. I expected it to be dumb. I did not expect it to be “Wow, my nine year old literally has a better grasp on constructing stories” dumb. #subvertedexpectations (As an aside, I could turn this into a series of rants about the different elements of storytelling and how season 8 fucked them up, but honestly I’d rather lose a fucking hand and I still have a spite fic to write to fix what I can. So we’ll have to content ourselves with this rant, and if husband ever DOES binge the show I’ll save the others as a reward for surviving the experience.)

Second of all, I want to make this clear that any writing rule can be broken (some I don’t believe SHOULD be, which is what started this rant, but they CAN), but you must understand the rules you are breaking and why. And you can’t break all of them at once. I have seen exactly zero evidence this is true for D&D, those talentless hacks.

Now, onto the two rules for character arcs that should never be messed with because they are SO structurally important, and they’ve fucked over both repeatedly throughout season 8:

(1) A character must always want something. They absolutely do not need to GET it, but they need to want it. Hell, NOT getting it is basically the definition of tragedy.(2) A character getting what they want should not result in “Guess their story is over, we can kill them or write them off”

This applies to SO MANY of the characters right now, but I’m going to use Jaime as an example of (1) and Brienne as an example of (2) because honestly that’s the only plot I’ve followed with any enthusiasm. (There are definitely better examples of (2) within the show, but I used Brienne as an example in the original rant and I’m carrying that over. Because Brienne. Fight me.)

RULE ONE: A character must always want something.

Jaime’s arc has been about redemption, about listening to his own morals instead of the poisonous family first that has been dripped in his ear for decades. The setup is all there–a brash kid who is forced to make a call between his own morals (not burning half a million innocent people) and the oaths he made (to protect the king), makes it, and is reviled for it because the truth is never revealed. He falls further into this “Family above all else” mindset because he’s been groomed since childhood for this. There’s like a whole meta post from me in the Lannisters and abuse, but people better than I have gone there before. For this post, “Jaime’s arc is about redemption, a redemption he doesn’t always BELIEVE in but has been a core of his character from season 1” suffices.

His death absolutely should have been about this redemption. Whether he succeeds and kills his sister and lives, or kills his sister at the cost of his own life, or he gets there and the decades of brainwashing means that he falters at the final hurdle… THAT doesn’t matter, so much, but the impetus absolutely should have been DRIVEN by that need for redemption. Have him go south because he needs to save innocents, or even the family of choice (THERE IS A FAMILY OF CHOICE SCENE IN THE FUCKING EPISODE!!!) Hell, have him SEE saving Cersei as redemption. (I mean, that would be fucking stupid beyond stupid, but it wouldn’t insult me on a crafting level.) Just… don’t go “He’s happy, guess it’s time for a relapse we lay no groundwork for, and then handwave with forgiveness from a female character because…she’s so good and pure? We want to pretend we are deep?” There is no tragedy in Jaime’s death because they moved the goalposts at the very last second.

(As an aside, the Very Dear Friend subjected to this rant responded to this portion of my ire with “Why would they do that? It’s so meaningless”, and all I could say was “Because it’s ~*~sHocKinG~*~ that way. NO, YOU BASTARDS. You make it shocking by laying the groundwork and then subverting our hopes at the last second, but THE GROUNDWORK NEEDS TO BE THERE. YOU NEED TO USE OUR CULTURAL UNDERSTANDING OF STORIES.” This was the toned down version of my actual thoughts, because Very Dear Friend is genuinely dear to me and does not need to know the depths of my creative cursing.)

RULE TWO: A character getting what they want should not be the end of their story.

As for Brienne… she is such an interesting character because she’s SO driven by her own morality. She wants, desperately, to be a knight. Not just BE knighted, but to embody the spirit of knighthood. She gets that knighthood from someone she respects, deeply–she’s one of the few people who truly knows about Jaime’s struggle with morality vs oaths and has utter faith in him–and so she gets what she wants. Great, right? WRONG. We are at Unbreakable Rule #2–a character who gets what they want should not then have nowhere to go.

NB–the original rant here was far more articulate and focused on how this rule is broken, but we might descend into slathering rage instead. Because the ending (oh god, seriously, like I said, I’m still digesting the depth of the shit in this because on a surface level it seems happy but it’s really fucking terrible) puts her in this horrible stagnation that is more focused on title than her actual character. She didn’t necessarily want to be a Kingsguard, she wanted to be a Kingsguard for a king she believed in. And, like, she had a say in electing Bran? (Rereading this rant--that’s a weird phrasing. I’ll deal with it later) But that whole thing makes no sense (“I can’t be lord of Winterfell because I’m the Three Eyed Raven, but I can totally be King” ??? I just… honestly, my brain is not computing this well.) and I just… CAN WE FUCKING TALK ABOUT HOW SHE HAS PREVIOUSLY PLEDGED HERSELF TO PEOPLE WHO ARE IN SOME WAY VULNERABLE??? Seriously, who has she pledged oaths to before now? A gay man and women. Because that was always fucking important to me, and this is just… no.

The ending as it is basically just makes her Replacement Jaime–a highborn heir who instead takes the role of Kingsguard, but don’t worry guys she’s so Noble and Caring that she absolves Jaime of his sins by writing his story in the book. Where’s the fucking vomit emoji? (Don’t get me wrong, that scene is emotional and moving and honestly FUCK YOU GWENDOLINE CHRISTIE FOR BEING SO LOVELY AND TALENTED, but in the wider context of this show I just cannot see it as a good thing.)

I just�� look, in my rant a few days ago I’d read the leaks, but I still had some hopes the ending would be better on screen; right now I can’t even articulate the number of levels it bothers me on, so just know that I SHOULD HAVE BEEN FUCKING HAPPY WITH HER ENDING! But I’m not, because it is this surface level understanding of what she desires from knighthood, and there is this… okay, so, I’m articulating this TERRIBLY because the original rant was solid but did not account for fuckery, but you know what Brienne’s ending made me think of? Nikolaj Coster-Waldau’s interviews where he would fight for Jaime’s character and basically get told to shut up and follow the script. THAT is what Brienne’s ending feels like to me, and it shouldn’t.  She should have places to GO and GROW from here. Like, there are SO MANY things they could do with these characters that are surprising. Hell, imagine Brienne getting this knighthood and then getting presented with a similar situation to Jaime–does she keep an oath or to her own morals? Make it a smaller scale so that the answer isn’t so simple, have knighthood become shades of grey she never really understood–she gets what she wants, but it’s not simple. Boom, her story will go on after the end credits.

(I also have Capital I Issues with the narrative surrounding her love life and gender and… seriously, this could have been a motherfucking SERIES of rants. I could do a week’s worth just on how they did Brienne dirty)

RULE THREE: If you make me spend over an hour trying to present a coherent explanation for why your writing sucks and I’ve barely scratched the surface, you don’t get to write anything ever again. Sorry, I make the rules and I have decreed it so. All in agreement, raise your hand.

[okaywhateverokayyes]

It’s Okay to Not be Okay

Isak's thinking about the pieces of paper that Even still leaves him in the morning- about parallel universes and how he writes all these words that somehow are strung together to sound more articulate than Isak could ever make them sound-

And it dawns upon him, what all of it means.

At first, his head’s reeling. He kneads his fingers into the mattress as he hangs his head to stare at his feet. Isak wiggles his toes and presses them into tiles until they are a ghostly white. His ears start to buzz and he suddenly feels suffocated by the room. Sure, it’s tinier than the one had been in before and if he doesn’t watch where he’s going, he’s bound to hit something and recoil as he expresses his disdain with a few curses-but this suffocation is something entirely different.

It hits him in chest but it spreads not only to his throat and renders him speechless- he has to clutch onto his stomach when the throbbing that induces in his lower pit is undeniably tangible. He’s muscles ache with such intensity, he can’t pinpoint where the sore starts and where it ends. He feels his skin prickle with such warmth, he almost is enveloped by the sheer jabs of it.

It’s constraining and he has to take shallow breaths just to stay focused.

“I just thought…”

“kissed him…..”

Mikael.

“He freaked-“

“…I just didn’t know what else I could do…”

“…thought the Qu’ran would help me understand..”

I had an episode.

“…maybe you heard about the posts…”

Facebook. Sonja.

“…I wasn’t thinking-first it was one and then I had so many in my hands-“

Pills. Pills.

Shit.

Isak slides his hand behind his neck, swipes at his skin as he tugs at the strands of hair clamped to his flesh. His eyes gravitate towards the window, notices it’s open but sits there and wonders whether it’s hot air swarming the room because shit, it’s hot.

When he resumes his glare back on to Even, warm eyes meet his. It’s a smoldering and pained look that Even wears that Isak has a hard time digesting. He goes to extend his arm out because that overwhelming disdain he has when he sees Even’s thinned lips, his frantic eyes wavering as if what he has just said was too much, in a short period of time, as if he’s scared of the words and how Isak would respond to it-

It pains Isak to the point where he wants to wipe that look off of Even’s face but he bites down on his tongue as he fists the blanket into his hand to restrain himself.

He’s tried not to push before because shit, he understands that sometimes somethings were better left unsaid and he’s not going to force him to say something that he’s not ready to say.

Minute for minute.

Isak promised him that.

He’s not going to go back on that.

Eventually those minutes accrued to months but to ask made him grimace.

He’ll tell him when he’s ready.

He’s not telling him for a reason.

It’s ok.

It’s OKAY.

But this?

“You’re not saying anything.” It’s a soft and meek mutter that causes Isak to blink fastidiously.

Even’s settled against the drawer, knees up to his chin, his hands wrapped around his legs tentatively and timidly. Everything about Even makes Isak want to scream right there and then. He has to stifle a gasp as he lurches forward.

Isak wraps his hands over Even’s, kneads their fingers together as he hangs barely over the edge of the bed.

“I love you.” Isak begins with, waits for Even to absorb it before he repeats it again, “I love you.”

Even presses his cool forehead against Isak’s, letting out a languid sigh that swallows the entire room.

“I love you.” Even eventually replies with, void of any trepidation.  

Isak wraps his hand behind Even’s, fisting his hair in his fingers as he presses their heads further together. His clampy flesh sticks to Even’s brisk skin. The sheer coolness unnerves Isak as he pulls back slowly to press his lips to his forehead.

“I’m sorry I d-“

“I don’t want you to apologize,” Isak whispers, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Yeah, but-“ Even pauses, glancing away as his eyes waver all over the room, “-I should have told you sooner. I wanted to. I just didn’t know what you’d say or do. I thought that if I told you about this, you’d-“ Even’s ruminating as he glances away. There’s a small crease that appears in his forehead as he concentrates on pulling the string that peeks out from the hem of his jeans. He tugs and tugs, doesn’t get very far but he doesn’t stop trying.

“Leave?” Isak’s voice is strained as he supplies the word.

Even hangs his head, slightly extricating his hands from Isak’s to create circular motions on his knee-

Which gives away everything even though nothing had been said. Isak shuts his eyes close as he takes a harsh inhale-exhale-another inhale-

“Is that what you seriously think I would do?” Isak’s almost hurt at the insinuation because what has these last few months been? Hasn’t he been the kind of person that Even could rely on or was that illusory?

Isak slides his hand slightly downwards, unclenching his fingers before pressing them into the hoof of Even’s shirt.

“I’m sorry if I gave that impression.”

“You haven’t,” Even is quick to reply, “You haven’t,” his voice is soft as he repeats his words, “I just-I still worry you know?” Which in all honesty, he doesn’t, “I worry that what you and I have, it’s just too good to be true.” Even waves his hands in the air as if his point was made, “Yeah?”

No.

Nope.

And for all intensive purposes, it’s only exacerbated by the fact that Even thinks there was a valid point to be made. Unreliable? Maybe he’s been slightly unreliable when it comes to things like washing the dishes. Or knowing how to warm up tea when there’s no kettle-but not for things that matter. He’s running through material in his mind as he takes a walk to school-thinking about RNA polymerases and hybridization, Heisenberg’s principle which, he has to contend, remembering all five is only worsened by the fact that three had been disproved-

He likes to think he’s aware of things happening around him.

He’s not stupid.

When Even’s pacing across the floor, tells him that he’s only trying to measure how much space is left for a bean bag-he’s not daft when he can easily sense the way Even would flicker his eyes towards the ceiling as he mutters the words. As if Isak looked into his eyes, he’d just know.

When Bakka even comes up, Isak feels the way Even’s fingers tense up under his. Isak doesn’t turn to stare at him, doesn’t want to make it too obvious that he knows that he’s tense so he runs circles on the palm of Even’s hand, hopes it works-hopes its soothing-hopes that Even knows that there’s nothing he has to tell him if he doesn’t want to. Especially if he’s not ready for it.

And for Isak to realize, in that moment-that he’s managed to colossally fail in relaying that message-

He looks for a wall to slam his head into.

“What are you thinking?”

Isak rubs at his face.

He’s thinking about Mikael.

He’s thinking about Bakka.

He’s thinking about what it must take to want to end your life.

He’s thinking about the pieces of paper that Even still leaves him in the morning- about parallel universes and how he writes all these words that somehow are strung together to sound more articulate than Isak could ever make them sound-

His lips are parched as he swipes his hand across his mouth. His throat is unbelievably dry that he stands to walk towards the fridge, tugs on the knob and quaffs down the water. He has to slide his tongue over his lips when the water does nothing but sap him up even more.

Isak glances at the window again, takes quick strides towards the sill and extends his hand out.

There’s a breeze of air that sways across his skin, causing the hair on his flesh to stand up. He withdraws his hand and extends it out again, just to make sure, feels another breeze before he settles his hand to his side.

Yet, as he’s leaning against the frame of the window, the warmth resumes back in his face and he wonders what exactly he has to do to not feel this smothered.

It’s not that he feels suffocated because he’s been told this.

It’s the fact that he’s not sure he has anything to say that could help.

And it bothers him.

Because he wants to help.

Isak clamps down his jaw as he settles his eyes on Even, clenches his hands into a fist to stop the shiver that reverberates through his arms.

It bothers him that Even’s considered something like that.

It bothers him that there is nothing he could say that would take away that memory.

That pain-

That anguish-

That anger-

“You’d tell me if you ever feel like you can’t-“ he’s at a loss of words as he pauses, “you might consider-“ Isak wonders whether he’s being spoon-fed a word salad and that’s why he’s rendered inarticulate, “if you think about-“

Even settles his palms on the floor as he lifts himself up. As he stretches, Isak is always surprised how tall he is. His head almost scratches the surface of the ceiling, almost. But it’s when his neck retracts that he’s back to being, still the most above-average towering guy, but it’s not as unanticipated.

Even takes three large strides before he’s across the room and has his hands wrapped across Isak’s waist. He nudges him slightly forward before Isak moves into the touch and if he’s being completely honest, Even doesn’t have to even do much for Isak to want to be enveloped by him. The touch is familiar and it’s a different kind of warmth that swims through his blood. It’s comforting and it’s tangible. It doesn’t make him feel discomforted.

It feels real and the sheer temperature reminds Isak that Even’s there. He’s right there, with him. He’s not gone. Or gone gone. He’s with him, in this clamped up room, that’s scorching hot-

Isak is comforted as he feels the drumming of Even’s heart-

Because it reminds him that Even’s there. He’s just there.

The fact that there’s a possibility that he could not have been there-

Isak clenches his jaw.

“I promise that if I ever do,” Even breathes into his hair, “I’d tell you.”

Isak shifts under his touch until he’s pressed his nose into Even’s cheek, inching forward to only brisk his nose side to side for more of the warmth to emanate through him.

He knows that they are just words and to be comforted by them is easy, but as Even tugs his chin up and presses his lips against his, murmuring once more, "I promise" as their foreheads touch, Isak knows that these words are invaluable.

[gl211]

Chances

So I took a massively long break. I needed time to deal with my personal life before I could want to write again. This little piece has been swarming my brain for a while and I wanted to get it out before last week’s episode, but alas life got in the way! This little beauty could be a stand-alone… Or a two parter… we’ll see what happens!

Amelia wrapped her sweater tighter around body, snuggling further into the seat on the airplane. She was wrapping up sending an email to Stephanie, briefing her on any remaining patients. The poor resident had no idea where she was going but had been told she wouldn’t be back for a while.

She had the patient’s pre and post op scans spread out into her lap as she furiously typed before the flight attendant came back and advised her to put her tray up and cell phone away.

“Okay that might be the coolest glioblastoma I’ve ever seen.”

Amelia looked up to see a woman, sitting down next to her, she smiled as politely as she could muster, which at this point probably came off as a slight grimace.

“Her sight and speech still in tact?”

Amelia nodded as she quickly sent the email and put her files in her bag as she put everything back into her bag under her seat.

“Badass.”

Amelia smirked slightly. Okay maybe this woman wouldn’t be the worst travel guest.

She heard the mumblings of the flight attendant going over the in flight emergency procedures and the pilot announcing the travel time.

“Are you a surgeon?” Amelia asked.

The woman nodded as she buckled her seat belt and wrapped the scarf she had on around her shoulders to shield her from the coldness of the plane.

“I was at one point. I teach med students now. Neurosurgeon?”

Amelia nodded as the plane began to whir around then indicating take off was about to happen. Amelia shut her eyes, bracing herself for her least favorite part of traveling, moments later they were in the air.

“So what are you running from?”

“Sorry?” Amelia barely managed to croak out at the other woman’s bold assumption.

“Well you’re a surgeon. A successful one I gather based on that case.  So you’re not running from your job. You’re married. But your ring doesn’t have dings or a scratch so that means it’s a new marriage. So you could be running from him. Or her.” she stated indicating to her wedding band.

“But you definitely don’t have kids, because you’re not that type of runner.  So what exactly are you running from?”

Amelia felt her chest tighten at the stranger’s words. What was she running from? Her life in Seattle? Everything she built and created.  Owen? This man that loved her despite her flaws. A man that she in turn loved immensely, a love that she’d never thought she’d feel about someone else.

Herself? Was she running from herself? Probably. She’d done that her whole life. It was practically an art.

Amelia remained silent for a moment, fiddling with her hands. She had to given this stranger credit, she was relentless. And she picked a good place to corner someone. 36,000 feet in the air, with no possible escape. She watched as the women’s eyebrows rose before she opened the book on her lap, clearly thinking Amelia was done with all of this.

“I’m a recovering drug addict. And a recovering alcoholic. I developed a drug problem at 16 and it spiraled for a while. I pulled myself together as best as I could and got through some of my life.”

The stranger’s attention was pulled from her lap, shutting her book and tucking it into the seat pocket. The flight attendant had stopped near them and the stranger signaled to her, as she appeared to take their drink orders.

“Coffee good with you?”

Amelia nodded as the flight attendant wrote it down and disappeared. The woman turned back to Amelia, as Amelia cleared her throat nervously. She had to question why she was disclosing information to a strange woman she’d only met thirty minutes ago.

“So you’re running from your drug problem?”

Amelia shook her head explained her almost half a year of sobriety and over five years without prescription drugs. Went on to explain where she was in her life now, discussed how she was newly married. Everything.

She watched as her travel companion listened intently as she felt the words violently untangle from lips, hardly taking a break as she gave her life story to a stranger. The woman didn’t appear to judge or think too much into Amelia’s words.

“My…. My… he really wants a baby.”

She watched as the other woman nodded, her hands quickly taking the coffee from the flight attendant, holding both mugs, not trusting Amelia’s shaky demeanor to hold on to a cup of hot liquid. She put her tray down putting both down, motioning to the sugar and milk, silently asking Amelia if she wanted any.

“And you don’t?”

Amelia’s lips felt dry and breath felt short. She let out a sigh, as she rung her hands nervously.

“I did… I do. I wanted five at one point. I just….I lost my son. When I was getting clean, I found out I was pregnant. I found out pretty late into the pregnancy. And then I found out that he had anencephaly.”

She watched as the stranger’s eyes literally sparked every emotion one could think when digesting information like that. Amelia looked down to avoid her gaze. She stared at her hands for a moment before she felt a hand cupping hers.  She looked up again, relishing in the warmth of her kind gesture.

“I held him when he was born… and then he donated all his organs. And it all almost killed me.”

She swiped at her eyes as tears bubbled to the surface. She felt a tissue being pressed into her clasped hand. She took it and quickly wiped her tears away.

“When I met my husband…. I knew I wanted kids with him. But then suddenly we were married and trying. And I wasn’t… I just don’t want to let him down. I want to be able to give him everything he’s ever wanted. But what if I can’t?”

The stranger squeezed Amelia’s hand before giving her a reassuring smile.

“I could say the medical perspective and remind you that the chances of something happening to any future babies is slim to none. Or I could give you my real advice.

Amelia smiled slightly at her cantor and swiped her eyes again with the crumpled tissue. She nodded encouraging her to be real and honest with her.

“You seem like someone that’s meant to be a mom. And not everyone has that quality.  And by everything you’ve told me about your husband… he sounds like he wants to give you everything in return. He wouldn’t want you to feel this much guilt about being afraid to tell him how you’re really feeling.”

Amelia nodded agreeing with her. She knew Owen and she knew his heart. As badly as he wanted a baby as soon as possible, she also knew how much he loved her. Respected her, wanted to make her always feel safe and loved.

“I think you’re almost ready. You’re almost there. You’re scared to have something go wrong. And you’re scared that the love for a future baby will overpower the love you have for your son. Your son will always be your son. He’d want you to keep moving forward.”

The woman squeezed Amelia’s hand tightly before they were interrupted with the pilot’s voice announcing their final descend, their short flight quickly coming to a close.

“Thank you.”

The woman bat her hand slightly as if to say, not a big deal, that she gave life advice out like this daily.

“I better get a baby picture one day.”

The two women chuckled as they gathered their things and put them back under their seats as to not let the final aircraft’s movements jostle them around.

“Okay you have to tell me something about you. I just gave you my life story in an hour. ”

The stranger chuckled and reached into her bag, pulling out her wallet. She grabbed it sitting it in her lap.

“Well I couldn’t talk your ear off about my great husband or kids. I don’t have either. But… it just wasn’t in the cards for me. And I‘m okay with that. My job and my students mean everything to me. And I feel like this is the second part of my life… you know? Like the first part was someone else’s.”

Amelia nodded understanding her words more than the other woman probably truly understood. The plane hit the ground jostling them both slightly. She watched as her new friend pulled a photo out of her wallet, the photo clearly a older one as it was crumpled and weathered.

“This was a part of my first life. One of the best parts.”

Amelia took the outstretched photo smiling at how proud the woman was to let her in on a special part. She first noticed the familiar face of the stranger next to her, and then noticed the rest of the picture.

She felt her breath catch in her throat, as she looked at the picture closer thinking she was imagining things. Staring back at her were the smiling faces of Owen and Nathan, sandwiching the woman between them, all matching in military uniforms.

It was then she realized who this woman was and the magnitude of this situation. She suddenly noticed her curly red hair and pale skin, her nose that looked like Owen’s. 

She smiled as best as she could as she handed the picture back to her. The sound of her seat belt clicking off as everyone started to move around in the plane. She watched as the woman beside her gathered her things and outstretched her hand.

“Good luck with everything. I know it’ll work out just fine.”

Amelia stood up; also grabbing her own things, feeling incredibly dazed and lost. She took her hand shaking it back, her last attempt to confirm her suspicions.

“Amelia.”

“Nice to meet you Amelia. I’m Megan.”

[dingletragedy]

3, 12, 14

hey anon!!! thank you for the questions

3. favourite line/scene you wrote this year

i was really happy with the little winter scenes i did in my emmerdale big bang, particularly this scene:

Winter is road—trips to the next town over, miles of untouched land and a bench on top of a hill. It’s red skies, pink skies, skies of purple and orange, streaks pulling together, sun sinking like molasses on the edge of the muggy horizon, a flask between them, hands in each others pockets. It’s fossil hunting and stone skimming. Secrets rippling like the water below.

“I want to take you somewhere,” Robert announces as they step into his car in sync.

“Where?” Aaron murmurs.

“It’s a secret,” Robert says. He rubs his thumb over Aaron’s hand one last time before sparking the ignition.

“Oh?” Aaron says, and Robert just rolls his eyes back at him.

“Can you keep a secret?” Robert questions, and Aaron blinks at him, confused at the seriousness that clouds over Robert’s eyes, the way he bites his bottom lip between his teeth.

Aaron holds out his pinky. “Promise.”

They share a packet of chocolate digestives as they drive, hot air running through the filters of the aircon, steaming the windows. Robert’s got chocolate smeared down his chin, and Aaron has to sit on his hands to stop himself from doing something stupid, from leaning over and kissing at the spot right there.

When they pass the Yorkshire border, Aaron eyes Robert curiously. He hasn’t been this far out of town in forever, not down this way, and they drive deeper into the wilderness, a thick mist folding over and shadowing the path before them. It’s another fifteen minutes before Robert slowly brings the car to a halt, pulling into a tiny car park with a signpost Aaron can just make out the words ‘beach’ printed upon.

There’s another old sign that’s rusted and fallen over, pointed towards a dirt track, warnings in white and red, decayed around the edges. Aaron can’t see a beach, can’t even imagine one nearby, and the furrow between his brow deepens as Robert slots their fingers together and starts to tug them straight down the path, dried out leaves crackling under their feet.

“Where are we going?” Aaron questions.

“I told you,” Robert smiles at him over his shoulder. “It’s a secret.”

Even though there’s no visible path, Robert seems to know exactly where he’s going. His steps are sure, and he leaps from rock to rock as they start to decline. Robert keeps a firm grip on his fingers, his face is a little flushed.

Finally, they break through the final treeline and stumble onto the sand.

It’s a tiny cove of beach, just a thin strip of white—gold that’s bordered by cliffs on either side, rockpools stretching out to the water and meeting the waves, foam spraying. Robert drags him along the sand, already flicking off his trainers and socks. Aaron follows suit, and he barely notices the cool of the wet sand, grains sticking on his soles.

Robert stops them by the edge of the rockpools, just before the rock itself merges with the sand, and where the foam of the waves fizzles out to a dull trickle.

“Be careful,” he says, stepping up onto the rock. “Try not to step on the sharp bits, you’ll cut your feet.”

“That’s reassuring,” Aaron murmurs, almost slipping as fizzling seawater hisses over the gleaming rock. Robert holds onto him closely, and they start to tread through the slightly warmer water of the singular pools.

“I’ve seen that book you’ve got in your bedroom,” Robert starts, voice so soft that it’s almost lost under the lapping of the water around them, and then at Aaron’s audible huff of confusion, he continues: “I know, I was just as surprised to discover you own an actual book. Anyway, that fossil one. I figured you must like fossils, find them interesting or whatever.”

And yeah, Aaron’s definitely got tears building in his eyes already.

“I thought we could look for some, maybe collect a few and take them home? You could buy a little pot for them or—or maybe display them on your shelf or, I don’t know,” Robert sighs. “It’s a stupid idea, isn’t it?”

Aaron blinks his eyes quickly; once, twice, three times. “No. God no, it’s—Rob—you’re—,” Aaron stutters. “Amazing. You’re amazing. Let’s got hunt those fossils.”

The water stretches out endlessly before them, past the expanse of rock. The waves curl into the shoreline in steady sets, huge and unbroken, the water navy and gurgling, deep despite being close to the sand. Another set of waves starts to wash through, and the water rushes over their ankles, spitting up over their legs, dotting their shorts.

60 minutes and almost as many fossils later, and Robert leads them to a cave at the foot of the beach.

Beneath them, the floor of the cave is dome-like, deep but still translucent blue, and Aaron can see all the tiny details of it, the shadows of starfish and tiny crabs huddled close on the rocks, baby blennies swimming in wide circles at the very bottom, the seaweed and barnacles and dark sponges that splay themselves out, the patterned shells of limpets turned pearly white when the sun hits them through the water.

It takes him a while to notice the etchings on the cave walls, the white scrapes that have been carved into the clay red, and he tilts his head up as he marvels at all the names that are engraved, that are part of this tucked-away place. Robert interlocks their fingers as he runs this other hand over a bunch of names. There’s a few that stand out to him, namely ‘Robert��� and ‘Victoria’, but then there a third name below, Mum, it reads, accompanied with a date. A date Aaron has memorised in his head, his heart. Sarah’s death.

“We used to come to this beach a lot as kids, when we were still one big, happy, family. Me and Vic wrote our names the summer before Mum died,” Robert explains. “Andy thought it was childish, but me and Vic, we spent all day finding a rock the right size to make the carvings.”

Aaron offers him a smile and a reassuring squeeze to his hand.

“When I came back a year later, alone,” he continues slowly, face shadowing, “everything was… different. Broken. Mum was gone, forever, and Andy was the golden boy, and my head—well, everything up there was just so fucked up. I wrote her name below our that day, it made me feel closer to her, somehow.”

Aaron suddenly feels like the cave has shrunk down, like the walls are scraping against his skin and his shoulders are hunched in painfully, knees tucked up into his chest as he listens to Robert speak, the distant, detached way he’s running his palms over the rock. He wasn’t expecting to hear all this, and now he isn’t sure he wants to, isn’t sure he deserves these explanations, these stories that feel too personal, and although he was there, although Sarah’s death hurt him too, he never once imagined Robert struggled so much. He didn’t show it. And that thought alone makes Aaron want to cry.  

“Anyway—" Robert hakes his head. “That’s a whole other story. The point is that this place, it was Mum’s favourite place, mine too, now. It’s hidden away and some of the locals don’t even know it exists. And I guess I just– I thought you should see it, because you’ve seen what’s underneath the surface of everything else with me, and you’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know, and you actually care. You care about me and I care about you, and I think you’ll care about this place just like I do.”

Aaron stares at him, dumbfounded and flushed, almost shrinking under the intensity of Robert’s gaze, under the open and vulnerable wideness of his eyes, the earnestness of his shuddering chest, the refracting light on the water shimmering and dancing on his cheeks. Then Robert bends down, and he dislodges a small rock from the pool beside them, slippery and shining and sharp, and he loops his tan, calloused fingers around Aaron’s wrist gently, places the rock in his palm and curls his fingers over the smoothness of it.

“Robert,” Aaron breathes, staring down at the rock in his hand, at Robert’s fingers folding over his own.

“Go on,” Robert lifts his hands away, and he gestures his head towards the cave wall, towards years and years of traditions and secrets and heartache and grief. “Do it.”

“I can’t,” Aaron says, and his voice is caught in his throat suddenly, overwhelmed and unsure of himself.

“I want you to,” Robert says, fiercely.

Aaron just stares at him for so long, the rock in his palm seeming to weigh his hand down. He can’t help but feel that there’s something else here, something more that Robert isn’t saying, that there’s a part of this story that he won’t ever hear or see, that even the most vulnerable and delicate things are still hidden by that wall of glass, that he’s only just starting to crack through. With Aaron. Other things, though, have already shattered the glass completely, and it scares him now, the thought that he’s managed to break down that barrier. It scares him that he doesn’t quite know what to do now that he’s smashed his way through.

Turning slowly, Aaron runs his fingers over the damp wall, and finds a place to squeeze his name in, where there’s a smooth gap of deep red. Slowly, and carefully, he carves AARON into the rock, fingers shaking as he scrapes the colour away and leaves white scratches, leaves his name imprinted here. It’s more than the lingering bruises on Robert’s neck, more than the borrowed football shirt on Aaron’s back, more than the lyrics twirling around Aaron’s head.

It’s more than the emails. More than the winter. It’s a piece of him permanently etched here. A piece of Aaron and a piece of Robert, displayed in eternity.

12. favorite character to write about this year

hmmm, ben mitchell i think! he’s such a complex character with all these layers to explore and delve into - really interesting! or, OR teen aaron - i bloody love writing a mardy, chavvy, yet massively in love teen aaron!

14. a fic you didn’t expect to write?

this i a weird one because i didn’t expect to ever write a single fic. once you’ve been in a fandom three years and decided from the off you were only ever going to read fic, never ever write it, any writing comes as a shock! i was so convinced i couldn’t write, that i never even tried until earlier this year! and now i have 25? works on ao3 and honestly no one is more surprised than me! 

the two that i really never expected to write have got to be love, aaron purely becuase 40k+ words?? me???? surely not??? and then my first ballum fic hold my flame and set alight because i’ve known ben mitchell my whole life and never did i expect to be writing fic about him lmaoooo

fanfic end of the year asks

[elevatorupcompany]

Design to 9th Graders

A few months back, a friend reached out and asked me to Skype with her ninth grade art classes about my job as a designer. I didn’t prepare myself. I figured, I do this for a living, how hard will it be to explain? To prepare for our Skype chat, my friend asked her students from both classes to write their questions on a whiteboard.The questions ranged from smile-inducing curiosities such as, the size of my desk to plenty of questions around how to find inspiration and how long projects took. As I looked at the questions and stared at the group of students in front of me, I realized answering their questions about inspiration or desk size would satisfy their curiosities, but it wouldn’t educate them on the breadth of what it means to be a designer or the amount of paths a career in design might take you.

After the realization that I did not do justice to explaining my job the first go round, I wanted to find a way to better articulate myself. I was inspired by a bit I read on explaining graphic design to 4th graders and began to think through a loose framework for how to talk with young creatives:

What is design and how it applies to everything

A high level look at the array of careers that exist in the creative field

Advice on pursuing a designer lifestyle

What is design?

In the same notion of teaching design to 4th graders, similar lessons in the basics apply to all ages. It’s important to understand what “design” means, regardless of context. At the core, design is often defined as a tool for understanding, communicating, and problem solving. Making the complex digestible. In the article previously referenced, he describes design to 4th graders as:

“Design is about making something easy to use, or easy to understand.”

It's important to find an example of design and tie it to something to which 9th graders can relate: Social media platforms. Snapchat, Facebook, Instagram, were all created by a team containing all different types of designers, people who made decisions to make the apps easier and enjoyable to use. Industrial designers planned, designed, and tested snowboards so they can ride through deep snow or if you live in Michigan—cruise on ice. Graphic designers, illustrators and photographers came together to make the graphics on the board. The clothes you’re wearing—a team of fashion, textile, product, and graphic designers, all came together to decide how they’d look, how they’d fit and how they’d be made and produced.

This could go on for days, all coming back to the (sometimes overwhelming) notion that indeed, we live in a world that is designed and shaped by humans.

Opportunities to work creatively

Not always, but often, designers are associated with making cool resumes, killer business cards, and heaps of logos. While this is true for plenty of designers, it barely scratches the surface of what designers are doing now. If we are being broad, even within the term of graphic design, there are many different types of designers with focuses unknown to aspiring creatives.

Relate the variation in design careers like you would surgeons. There are general surgeons, neurological surgeons, plastic surgeons, the list goes on. They all went to med school, had a similar learning foundation, but have branched off into areas of speciality that suit their passion. With slightly less blood and guts, apply this idea to graphic design as a career, knowing the word, “graphic,” will be changed out depending on the work.

Factors to consider in choosing a creative path

Type of work The two high level distinctions of designers are typically print and digital designers.  

Print designers work in a much more tangible world than web designers. Their work uses the building blocks of design such as typography and color theory to communicate to different audiences. The work done by print designers tend to have deliverables: posters, business systems, reports, billboards, invites, the list goes on. Often the work of a print designer overlaps with digital designers, creating web assets such as advertising for the web. They tend to work more in branding and often have a more keen eye for typographic details than digital designers. Print designers have a fine eye for print quality and paper quality and use texture and structure to better tell their story.

In short: Print designers use creative solutions and an understanding of design principles to efficiently communicate, tell stories, and solve problems.   

Digital designers come with all different titles: user interface designer, user experience designer, interactive designer, product designer, the list goes on. For sake of a 9th grade audience and brevity, let’s talk about what it means to be a designer who works in the digital sphere. Digital designers work in a world of lots of moving pieces and the work itself is a living, ever changing, piece. Digital designers are designing interfaces for apps, websites, and software, but more so, they are making product decisions. They're ultimately designing what someone will experience and how those interfaces interact with the user and the overall product.The work of a digital designer often starts far before anything hits the screen. Wireframes, sitemaps, and user research are all tasks digital designers do to ensure their work is validated.

In short: Digital designers use their understanding of the user and the client’s business to create an experience that solves a problem and / or helps users accomplish their goals.   

____

Type of environment Whether you're part of a small agency, a massive corporation as an in-house designer, or a freelance designer, your role and responsibilities will vary. A small agency and a freelancer will have more involvement at every stage of the process whereas a designer at a larger company may have a more targeted role. There is no right or wrong and trying out different types of work environments will help shape your preferred work style.  

____

Different roles of designers This will come in time as you develop your skill-set and know what drives you as a designer. Some designers transition from being hands-on in production to being the lead in setting the direction and overseeing a team of designers. Some designers will focus on a company’s brand alone. Some designers design very little but focus on setting strategic direction and architecture of a product. If you can’t tell by now, as a designer, the world is truly your oyster.

____

Working creatively in another role You don’t have to be a designer to work in a creative environment. A team has many roles that are involved in the creative process. I’ve worked on teams with copywriters that use language to craft the story and build a brand. I’ve been alongside UX strategists who are integral to building and informing the foundation for the entirety of a project. Product managers make it happen by finding creative ways to keep everyone and everything aligned on a project. There are too many roles to name (and celebrate!). The short of it, if you’re inspired by design and being in a creative atmosphere, don’t feel discouraged if you don’t consider yourself creative.

The heart of being a designer

Beyond the complicated web of types of designers, varying environments and roles of a designer, there are a few points that resonate with me every day as a designer.

Know a career in design means you’re always learning. It’s fast paced and you’re going to learn a lot. Yes, you’ll learn a lot about design and bettering your practice, but you’re going to learn a lot about every client you work with and the industry it pertains to. It’s a part of your job as a designer to fully understand the user and the industry and to empathize with whoever your designs will impact.

Work where you’re happy and know you’re never alone. Good team dynamics are the real deal. Being able to jive, communicate, and share ideas freely makes for better days and far better outcomes. Collaboration and diversity of perspectives and skill-sets are what make for meaningful results. From college to the workforce, you realize you’re never alone on a project. You’re no longer responsible for every piece of the puzzle. In fact, you’re working with people who are better than you in different areas. It’s their skill-sets that heighten and make what you do validated and possible.

Learn to step away. The creative process isn’t science or clockwork and accessing the creative part of your brain can’t be forced. Luckily, this is celebrated in most creative environments, but it takes self awareness, control, and intention to step back and to get out. There is power in stepping away from it all. Many great ideas and moments of “ah-ha!” are born out of the mind’s stillness. In an article based off the book, Too Fast To Think, the author talks about our society's growing obsession with our devices and the distraction of it all. The more we’re taking in the more our brain starts to filter, for better or worse. The more our brain is busy filtering and taking in the content, the less time our subconscious has to solve problems and bubble up with epiphanies. Learning to be aware and take control over these distractions is important. Make time for yourself to be still, relax, and let your brain do what it does best. From the author of Too Fast To Think:

“Stop staring at your phone and stare into space. You might be hit with something far more valuable”.

Armed with a better framework in mind, I’m filled with excitement for the next time I chat with young students looking to be creative for a living. To give them a better idea of what design means and broaden their awareness for design that is all around them. It wasn’t until college I understood the breadth of opportunities in a creative career, and it wasn't until I was working as a professional that I understood what it meant to be part of a team. With much to learn, much to practice, and much to celebrate, it’s an ever interesting career to have and to share.

~Emily, Designer