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flydotnet · 4 years ago

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Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me requests according to this marvelous card! (Red cross is the completed prompt, character headshots are prompts I’ve already filled. I don’t have any request left, so feel free to send in suggestions for this card!).

Like blood on a patch of fresh snow.

I'm not sure of where this fic went, but... oh well. I don't want to look at it for much longer, so here y'all go, 1.9K words of whatever this is. I really wanted to write more NaomiLG because I love them, but I realize I'm really not their best writer, so I need to hone my skills. Take this weird-ass oneshot with a very specific and picturesque prompt as an attempt to nail them. It was fun to imagine all of the red-on-white imagery, at least. Title comes from a Rammstein song because it played while I was writing this and I figured, y'know, it means "red rose", so why not make it the title? It at least sounds epic to someone like me who knows shit about German. No correlation to the lyrics, though, far from it lmao.

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Rosenrot

Summary: Naomi's past catches up to her in a street as someone else's blood spills for her.

Fandom: Trauma Team (spoilers for TC:SO and TT) Ship: Naomi/Little Guy

Wordcount: 1.9K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

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Like a widow who had lost her spouse, Naomi started wearing black after losing her ability to save lives. Back then, she didn’t really know why, probably to remind her of the sins she still had to expiate. It felt weird to her to wear white again, since it kept reminding her of the life she had to leave behind, that of a lifesaver whom people trusted with literally all they had left.

Even now, even as her life has gone back on track (she has a stable job, a daughter and friends who hold her in great esteem – things she thought she’d never have until a year ago), she continues wearing black because it feels more comfortable to be able to fade back into the shadows would she ever need to slip back into the night. She can’t ever live in the broad daylight, not anymore she knows this; but, as long as Alyssa doesn’t mind, then she doesn’t have a reason to complain. The cold and silence have their perks.

Wearing black, at first, was to hide stains when she was working with Delphi. God knows there was little hygiene there, so blood could easily show on clothing when they weren’t careful. Wearing black robes (or whatever outfit they had given her that looked very little like a robe) allowed them to conceal the dark reds and rusts more easily without having to think about it too much. Out of sight, out of mind, she supposed.

On the other hand, blood is too visible on white. Of course, it is the point of wearing it for surgical procedures, since it’s easier to disinfect – it’s still too visible for people like Delphi or, in a way, her. Even to this day, seeing reddish stains on white fabric makes her uneasy, reminding her of things she’d much rather never think about again. She’s like the black-clad widow staring at the radiant bride with a wine stain on her dress: she knows what she lost and has the feeling of seeing a bad omen.

There is this one thing about Delphi she has stopped minding, and it’s Little Guy, or whatever his real identity was supposed to be. If he reminded her of their dark past not too long ago, he now represents what they could become: atoners, working for “the right side” for once, working in the shadows to help the living move on like they’ve had to. Unlike her, he didn’t let himself dwell on the past, preferring to get moving.

The moment she understood it the most when he started to wear white more than black, renouncing to the colour she was always used to see him dress. It felt weird, at first, but he knew how to pull it off, and she got used to the new habits. Never dwell on the past, let herself get swiped away by the changing winds. Moreover, Alyssa really liked it whenever he’d drop by the house after driving her home after work or getting Alyssa from school when she couldn’t.

But now, the past has caught back to them. Ex-Delphi members have found them again, motivated by the recent rise (and fall, but they forgot about that second time) of Adam’s nephew trying to bring the virus back right as PGS cases flare up across the USA. They’re not running away, this time: she did that enough when going to seek amnesty in Europe, so now, she better prepare herself to strike. Little Guy already cocks his FBI-licenced gun out, intending to strike judging by the little tremors in his fingers.

It goes in a flash: a couple bangs, blood spilling on the ground, dirt and smoke and iron fill the air of an urban cul-de-sac. The commotion is such that it’s difficult to follow anything until the stench of violence lifts up and so does the smog it created. For a moment, she believes they may have both gotten killed, and that she’s already passing into the afterlife, in denial of everything, not ready to face death nor discover if there is, indeed, something on the “other side” that isn’t roaming around this world and calling the “voodoo hotline”.

One thing quickly becomes clear: she is still alive. In fact, everyone is somehow still alive, because she sees their three assailants with their weapons on the floor and wounds in their legs: they were only harmed to disarm them. She pats her own clothes and body to check if she hasn’t been injured, remembering reflexes she had thought long gone coming back to her in a moment’s notice. To her fortune, she seems okay, as she only feels dirt, dry clothing and skin under her fingers’ touch.

Seeing the men lie on the ground in pain, she already grabs her phone and calls for help, going into not too many details for everyone’s safety and privacy.

“Little Guy,” she starts calling to her partner so they can get away from this place before being brought into this, her finger about to swipe the call off, “let’s go.”

His response is delayed.

“Sure… Sure thing.”

His voice sounds strangled and hesitant, drier than her clothes, and it prompts her to turn around. As soon as she does, however, her own breath gets caught in her throat as her entire body tenses up. Her mind, which was until now fixated on running as far as possible from the scene before they were going to be questioned about the bullets in their pursuers’ limbs, immediately switches to the same sort of panic she felt in Caduceus Europe all those years ago when she witnessed a fellow surgeon collapse in pain.

Little Guy!

He’s sitting on the ground, back against the wall that cornered them until now, a hand loosely holding onto his gun, the other barely holding onto a striking red stain on his clear, monochrome attire. It’s expanding moment after moment, replacing the immaculate white of his shirt and suit jacket with a much darker colour. If it was only the bloodstained clothes, it’d have been fine, no matter how much this man frets over such things – but it’s not what is scaring her so much about this.

“Little Guy, what happened?!”

As he struggles to get an answer out, she takes his pulse: there, obviously, since he’s breathing, but weakening. His breathing is quick but shuddering, as if fragile like glass.

“One… one of them was armed,” he replies, swallowing every few words. “One bullet hit… my flank, I think?”

Not caring for the nail polish Alyssa put on her fingers last night, Naomi digs under the bloodstained jacket and where the incriminated wound must be. There, she confirms Navel’s suspicions: it’s indeed in his flank.

“If my assumption is correct, it shouldn’t have hurt an organ,” she says, a little bit of relief pulsing through her. “We need to get you into a hospital asap, though, you’re bleeding profusely.”

She grabs back her phone, which she previously slipped into her pocket, and adds the information on a fourth wounded. She gives more information on their location and the circumstances, merely forgetting to mention this is all because of Delphi’s doings and their smothered shady pasts, and stays on the line, putting the phone in speaker mode so she doesn’t miss crucial information.

“You should go, Dr Kimishima,” Navel whispers, eyes getting glassy and unfocused, the speed at which this happens prompting her to check the wound again. The blood has spread even further, making the fabric stick to the wound. “Don’t… let them catch up to you.”

“You’re an idiot if you think I’m leaving you for dead. Plus, I’d rather have to search for amnesty again than get pursued for not helping someone in critical need.”

It’s the pragmatic way to say she’d never handle having his blood on her hands and his death on her conscience. He, however, doesn’t reply, letting uncomfortable silence install itself as they wait for assistance to arrive.

When they do, the sirens’ shrills muffle Navel’s breathing, lights almost covering the blood stains on his suit and her fingers, slipping under her nails, drying out already.

It could, however, never erase the image from her mind.

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Naomi waits in this bedroom, all alone and in silence, for a little while. She doesn’t know how long exactly (probably around half an hour, although it feels like more than that), all she knows is that the chair she’s sitting on isn’t very comfortable and that she needs to remember when to pick Alyssa from school; two things that, for the moment being, don’t matter much.

The weather is beautiful, today. Even earlier, when they were outside, there was a gentle breeze blowing through their hair. She merely forgot about it due to thinking about literally anything else under the sun, mostly her colleague whom she found out wasn’t just randomly hit during the kerfuffle. To be fair, she should’ve guessed that was what had happened when she suddenly found herself on the ground rather than standing, but…

She suddenly hears Little Guy stirring and, finally, opening an eye. His injuries were fortunately not as grievous as she was afraid they’d be, even if he’s clearly landed himself for at least a week in the hospital. What an idiot.

“Doc… Doctor Kimishima…?”

“Go back to sleep, Little Guy, you still sound like you’ve pulled a week-long all-nighter.”

As if obeying her (but most likely because losing this much blood tends to leave you weak, and his corpulence isn’t exactly one that’d take kindly to blood loss), his eyelids flutter; but he doesn’t go back to sleep. At least, not yet.

“Are you okay…?” He asks, voice recovering some clarity, even if it’s unlike his usual swagger.

“I’m pretty sure I should be the one asking you that, you know; but I’m okay. Better off than you, that’s for sure.”

He chuckles once before groaning in pain.

“Urgh, I forgot how sore post-surgery was…”

“You’ll get used to it. Believe me, I know.”

“I’m sure you do, Dr Kimishima.”

She drops the playful banter for something else altogether.

“Oh, and, Little Guy?”

“Yes…?”

“Never do that again. I don’t want to see you covered in your own blood again.”

His face, which is slowly regaining more colour, distorts a little.

“Even if…”

“Even if it means saving my life.”

He looks aside, in silence. She guesses he’s unable to honestly give her the answer she wants to hear, so he instead prefers not to say anything. Well, that’s something she expected would happen: people have told her he was wrapped around her little finger. Too bad that this man got infatuated with someone like her whom death and misfortune follow her every step. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, considering the number of close calls he found himself in when he was by her side. You sometimes have to wonder what other people even think…

“I’ll… I’ll try,” he eventually replies.

Naomi can’t stay upset about it forever, especially when she sees how dishevelled and vulnerable he looks with his hair askew, dark rings under his eyes and hospital gown, so far from the sharply-dressed bachelor she’s come to appreciate.

“Good. Just be careful and we’ll be clear.”

“Sure thing, ma’am.”

As long as he doesn’t mind being so close to death, she’ll make sure he doesn’t meet it.

#bad things happen bingo #trauma center #trauma team #naomi kimishima #little guy navel #how do you even tag this dude #bthb #bloodstained clothes #my writing

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questwithambition · 3 years ago

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Little question tag - Thanks for the tag @agarden-bee <3

Nickname: A diminutive of my real name

Zodiac: Sagittarius

Height: 5′9 (or 176 cm)

Last movie I saw: good question as it’s been ages, I think it was Return of the King from lotr

Last thing I googled: “Compartmentalisation”, I wanted to use it to describe a character but wasn’t 100% sure of the spelling

Favourite musician: Ahhhhh I don’t know, I’m more of a “a few songs from many artists” rather than fixating on one artist.

Song stuck in my head: Foreigner’s God, Hozier

Other blogs: I have a couple that a private for bookmarking and saving posts, and another one but that’s a secret :)

Blogs following: About 200

Amount of sleep: 7-8 hours (or at least I try)

Lucky number: Don’t really have one, but loved the number 27 as a child

What am I wearing: Comfy jeans and a jumper, England seems to have forgotten that summer is a thing

Dream job: Not 100% sure! I’m studying engineering so something in that area? Ideally something that would make the world a better place

Dream trip: Don’t think I have a specific one in mind, I do want to go to Scandinavia and see the Northern lights, and also to New Zealand.

Favourite food: Why are you making me choose??? (If it has cheese it’s high on the list)

Play an instrument: I used to play the piano, and sang in a choir for like 5 years, but stopped both

Languages: English as my mother tongue, and then French as I grew up in France. Also have conversational Spanish (although it’s a bit rusty) and am learning German! (Also want to learn Swedish but one thing at a time)

Favorite songs: Not sure it’s a favourite song, but Silhouettes by Of Monsters and Men holds a special place in my heart, it’s been on my music rotation ever since I was 13 and has just been through a lot with me. I find it very soothing.

Random fact: I have twisted / sprained my knee over 10 times. Most of the times I’ve been guilty of overdoing it, but a special mention to the time some guys were carrying me for a stunt and dropped me without warming. Thanks guys <3

Describe yourself as aesthetic things: (this may be more of an aesthetic I aspire to but) black coffee, croissants, exhaustion after a dance class, reading on public transport, laughter with friends in cafés, painted nails, high heels, solving a maths problem, ambition, believing that every day is a new opportunity.

Tagging (if you so desire) @semperfeminae @kxowledge @lostand-notfound @fuzzynike @littleannasun @leggeteconme

#tag games #about me

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kyukun · 5 years ago

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Barking up the Wrong Tree (OumaSai)

hEY HEY ANON!! hhh writing mr. saihara is my favorite thing ever hes so fun to write. though i need to think of a name for him so i dont have to be so formal lmao but i hOPE YOU ENJOY! this came out a lot sappier than i had planned...

title: Barking up the Wrong Tree

summary: Shuichi takes Kokichi to his uncle's house to meet a little special someone. Though he did not expect to be practically ignored the entire time they were there.

word count: 1287

~~ prompt starts after cut! ~~

Kokichi loves animals, and Shuichi has known this for a super long time. In fact, they first met when Kokichi was dog sitting for a neighbor. Shuichi loved the way Kokichi acted around animals. It was seriously the cutest thing ever.

Kokichi had mentioned multiple times that he loves rescue dogs the most, even wanting to open his own pet rescue shelter at one point in time. Shuichi knew of someone who had recently gotten a rescue animal and decided to take Kokichi to go meet them.

And when he did, boy was Kokichi absolutely thrilled to meet the animal. His uncle had recently adopted a rescue dog and asked if him and Kokichi wanted to go and meet her. She was a German shepherd, and while she was still less than a year, she was quite big. His uncle had found her at a recent shelter when she was just a pup and decided to take her in.

The minute Kokichi walked into the door, she was all over him. She was a bit scared of him at first and barked a bit at the pair but eventually had gotten used to him. Kokichi had this thing about him that seemingly all animals were drawn to, making their first meeting go by smoothly.

Shuichi sat down on the couch, watching as Kokichi played with the dog on the floor. He smiled, "What's her name?" He giggled as she licked his cheek playfully. Mr. Saihara walked into the living room, a grin plastered on his lips. "Her name is Luna."

"Luna, huh? That's such a cute name! You are so, so cute Luna-chan!" He snuggled into her neck as she pounced on top of him. Shuichi couldn't help but laugh. That was cute.

"Shumai look! Luna-chan likes me a lot, doesn't she?"

"Yeah. She really does." He playfully shook his head as Kokichi hugged the dog once more. Mr. Saihara smiled alongside his nephew, "Man Shuichi, your boyfriend's going to steal my dog from me."

The rest of their time there, Shuichi increasingly dreaded. Kokichi would not leave the dog alone, actually, it was the other way around.

See Luna was a sweet dog, she liked mostly everyone. Though for some fucking reason, she did not like Shuichi. When she was a small puppy, she loved him. But she seemed to forget all about that when Kokichi came around. She was attached to the hip with Kokichi, following him everywhere and even growling slightly at Shuichi whenever he'd so much as touch Kokichi. Kokichi usually tried his best to play it off as a joke and tried his best to escape Luna but to no avail. Shuichi groaned at the dinner table, looking over to see Kokichi sitting on the opposite side of him instead of sitting right beside him.

Why was he sitting there you may ask? Well that’s where Luna’s bowl is of course!

He rolled his eyes, “Kokichi, sit over here.”

He pouted, which slightly annoyed Shuichi. “But she’ll whine if I leave her alone.”

Shuichi's uncle gave him a knowing look, casually eating his dinner as he observed the interaction quietly. "Okay but you need to eat your food. It's getting cold. Don't be rude."

Kokichi huffed even louder, petting Luna's ears playfully as she wagged her tail. "How am I being rude? Am I being rude?" He looked over to his uncle, whom of which was smirking this entire time but stopped when the couple shared a gaze towards him. He coughed down his food, taking a sip of his wine before clearing his throat once more. "No, not at all. It's okay, I don't mind."

"See!? Uncle is fine with it, quit being a baby Shumai. You were the one who brought me here in the first place."

Well, that's true. He did take him here to meet Luna but he didn't expect to be ignored the entire time he was here. He wanted to hang out with Luna? Fine. That's what he was going to do. Shuichi rolled his eyes, taking a bite of his meal before closing his eyes in annoyance. "Fine. Don't eat then."

"I won't!"

Shuichi's Uncle stayed quiet, awkwardly waiting for either of them to talk but realized that moment wouldn't come when both males had their chests turned the other way in a huff. He cleared his throat and noticed how sad both of them looked after.

He needed to step in.

The remainder of the day went by very awkwardly, tension filling the air every time either of them stepped into the room. Shuichi wasn't speaking to Kokichi and likewise with Kokichi. He noticed Kokichi sadly playing with Luna outside, his head hung low with a frown plastered on his lips. He took a seat beside the male who had been sitting on the grass with his legs crossed over the other, throwing a ball halfheartedly for Luna to catch.

"Hey there, bud."

He glanced up and noticed it was just Shuichi's Uncle with a gentle grin on his face. He sighed and turned his attention back to the dog. "Hey."

"Why did you two fight earlier? You guys rarely get into arguments like that."

"You saw the way he was acting! He was acting all grumpy and stuff whenever Luna was around. He was overreacting, I was just playing with her." Mr. Saihara listened intently as Kokichi ranted, hearing a few cracks in his voice from the pure frustration he had felt. "Maybe you should talk to him about it and explain how you feel? Y'know, Shu has always been a jealous kid. He's never really had things to himself, always having to share. So maybe he got jealous with Luna ‘cause she was taking all of your attention?"

Shuichi was jealous? But… but why? That didn't make any sense. "Why though? Luna-chan is just a dog, there's no reason for him to be jealous."

"Then tell him that. Explain to him and reassure him. You know who he is: his insecurities, his thoughts. Reassurance is the thing he needs the most right now. Even if it's over something silly like this." Ah, that makes sense now. He'd always tell Kokichi how insecure he had felt when they had started dating, and how he didn't feel like he had deserved Kokichi.

Man he felt stupid. Why didn't he figure this out before? "You're right. I'll talk to him. Thank you, Uncle." His arms wrapped around him as he pulled him into a tight hug. He hugged back, "Of course. Now go back to being lovebirds again, I'll take care of her."

He nodded and rushed back inside. He noticed Shuichi sadly fidgeting around with a throw pillow and cleared his throat to gain his attention. Shuichi glared up at him, their eyes remaining fixated on one another with a slight yearn in their irises. Kokchi gave a halfhearted smile before taking a seat next to the detective. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. I’m the one who should be apologizing. The way I acted was completely unnecessary and immature. Please don’t be mad at me—” Kokichi threw himself into Shuichi’s arms, kissing his neck furiously. “How could I be mad at you?! Seriously! You’re an idiot if you think I’d replace you with a dog. Shumai has no reason to be jealous over Luna-chan. I’m only yours.”

Shuichi chuckled, feeling his cheeks heat up as his hands trailed down Kokichi’s back in a soothing motion. “I know, I know. I just didn’t expect you to ignore me. Sorry for yelling.”

“It’s no biggie! Come on, stop sulking and let’s go tell your Uncle we’re okay before he starts crying about it.”

“Right behind you.”

#oumasai #kokichi ouma #shuichi saihara #danganronpa #saiouma #drv3 #kyus post #whew i havent posted in forever huh?!#its been a while but i think im finally getting back into the swing of things :")))#hopefully this is good!#glad to be back!!

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luckydoogs · 5 years ago

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HOW TO CHOOSE THE BEST DOG FOR YOU

Once you determine that you’re ready for a dog and capable of caring for one, then it’s time to narrow down your choices. While some people know exactly what kind of dog they want and where to find him, others have no clue. Either way, I’ll walk you through the most important issues to consider.

Puppy or Adult Dog?

at this stage of his life. For starters, you’re in a position to teach your pet from day one. You can prevent habits you don’t like from emerging in the first place, and you can take measures to prevent your dog from having socialization issues later on in life. Of course, there’s also something magical about caring for another living being from a very young age. However, keep in mind that puppies are a lot of work, and the time commitment is huge. A puppy is brand-new to this world and knows nothing of human culture and expectations. Puppies don’t come housetrained, and you have to walk them very often. They haven’t yet learned that they’re not supposed to play bite. Plus, you have to constantly monitor their every move—puppies are extremely curious and often love to chew everything in sight, so if you let your guard down they can damage your home or, worse, get hurt. In short, you’ll need to be extra tolerant and patient for some time. What are the advantages of adopting an adult dog? They don’t play bite as much, and housetraining is a little less difficult simply because their bladders are more developed and they can “hold it” longer. Some dogs may even come fully housetrained and know basic requests such as “sit” and “stay.” Older dogs typically cost less to acquire, too. Also, keep in mind that some of the best dogs in the world are those who have spent years in rescue shelters waiting for the perfect home. However, there may be some disadvantages: Many older dogs may not have been socialized properly as puppies, which can make them less confident in certain situations. For example, many dogs fear men simply because they weren’t exposed to them at a young age. Bad habits like destructive chewing, jumping on people, and pulling on a leash are likely more established, which means it may take a little more effort to put a stop to them. Weigh the pros and cons of having a puppy versus an older dog and remember not to underestimate the commitment a young puppy requires. However, if you have the time and patience to dedicate to a dog regardless of his age, then either can be a perfect addition to your family.

Does Size Matter?

Some people want only a dog they can tote around in their purse; others believe that bigger is better. I’ve worked with dogs of all shapes and sizes, and I’ve learned that size has absolutely nothing to do with the personality of a dog. However, it’s something you should consider. Here’s what you need to know:

Large dogs may require more room to exercise. This is a generalization, but it’s often true.

Smaller dogs tend to have longer life spans. For instance, a Chihuahua can live eighteen years, whereas a Bernese Mountain Dog’s life expectancy is a mere six to nine years. A study published in the American Naturalist found that for every 4.4-pound increase in weight, life expectancy dropped by one month. Of course, many variables will affect a dog’s life span; size is just one of them.

The larger the dog, the higher the costs for his basic care. While a small breed might eat about a half cup of kibble daily, a large one can go through ten times that. Grooming, toys, and other expenses can cost more, too.

Smaller dogs are more portable. You can more easily pick them up and take them in the car or on errands. Also, on most commercial airlines, you can bring a small dog on board as a carry-on as long as he fits in a travel case under the seat in front of you.

Large dogs can ward off strangers. A Bullmastiff sitting in your front window is going to scare off potential burglars more than a Maltese might, simply because of his appearance. (Though a small dog who’s attentive and likes to bark can also make for an excellent watchdog.)

Small dogs are easier to control. I’m not saying that it’s easier to train a small dog. However, when a ten-pound dog jumps up or lunges on his leash, it’s quite different from handling an eighty-pound dog with the same behavioral issues. Think about whether you have the strength to control a bigger dog.

Mixed Breed or Purebred ?

People often fixate on a particular breed, but I’ve got to say that many of the friendliest, smartest, most capable dogs I’ve ever worked with were mixed breeds. These dogs, often found in shelters, are typical results of random or unintentional breeding, and they tend to cost much less than purebred dogs. (We’re not talking about “designer dogs” here. I’ll get to that in a second.) On the flip side, it’s understandable that many people want a particular breed. Maybe they adore Pugs because they grew up with them or German Shepherds because they make them feel safe. Also, there’s the obvious advantage: with a purebred, you can safely estimate the future size, grooming needs, and appearance of your dog. With a mixed breed puppy, you can take a guess, but you might be surprised when the dog you thought was nonshedding and destined to top out at ten pounds winds up leaving hair all over the house and weighing so much you can’t lift him. Many experts argue that mixed breeds are healthier because of what’s known as hybrid vigor: by combining two different breeds, you are pooling from a larger range of traits, so the dog will less likely carry one of the genetic conditions common in certain breeds. However, a large study in the Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association found that the prevalence of certain genetic disorders among purebreds versus mixed breeds greatly depends on the specific health condition.4 Bottom line: I can’t recommend one type of dog over another—for every great mixed breed, there’s an equally amazing purebred. And more research needs to be done on this topic before we definitively know whether one is healthier than the other. Just rest assured that with so many choices, you are sure to find a loving, well-behaved companion.

DESIGNER DOGS

You might wonder about “designer dogs” such as Cockapoos and Morkies. These dogs are mixed breeds with a twist—they’re the result of intentional breeding of two purebreds to create a new breed that theoretically combines the best traits of both parents. For instance, a Cockapoo is a cross between a Cocker Spaniel and a Poodle, while a Morkie is a cross between a Maltese and a Yorkie. These puppies sometimes have a much heftier price tag than purebreds. The popularity of these dogs has dramatically increased since the late 1980s when an Australian breeder named Wally Conron set out to create a nonshedding Seeing Eye dog. He crossed a Labrador Retriever with a Poodle and voilà: the Labradoodle was invented, and a new trend in the dog world was launched. Some experts claim these dogs are healthier because of hybrid vigor, though no studies have proven that. However, keep in mind a lot of these designer dogs come from puppy mills and backyard breeders who are looking to make a quick buck and have no concern for the puppy’s health or temperament. In fact, according to an article in Psychology Today, Conron himself said, “I opened a Pandora’s box, that’s what I did. I released a Frankenstein. So many people are just breeding for the money. So many of these dogs have physical problems, and a lot of them are just crazy.”5 I’m not saying you should avoid these dogs. Just don’t believe all the hype. Designer dogs aren’t that different from the mixes you see at a shelter. Regardless of any benefits, their sellers claim, you still won’t know exactly what you’re going to wind up with, as temperament, appearance, and coat can vary greatly from one dog to another. Many dogs bred not to shed actually do.

CHOOSING A BREED

If you choose a purebred dog over a mutt, then your next step will be to pick a particular breed. I can’t stress enough how dangerous it can be to focus too much on the breed. People choose breeds based on stereotypes and are very often disappointed when their dog doesn’t behave as he’s “supposed to.” However, almost no individual dog will meet all of the characteristics defined by a breed description. Trust me: you simply cannot reliably assign attributes to your individual dog based on his breed. I’ve known lots of retrievers who don’t retrieve, tiny Yorkies who excel at competitive Frisbee, hyper Basset Hounds, and Border Collies who were terrified of the sheep they were bred to herd. I’m not saying to ignore breed altogether. Of course, there are characteristics of certain breeds that remain true: things like shedding and size are not going to vary widely, so these generalizations are more accurate. Also, if you’re picking out a dog, it’s still a good idea to get a wide-angle view of what certain breeds were bred to do, and if you need a dog to, say, herd cattle, then you should probably stick with a herding breed. When I first got into competitive Frisbee competitions, I purposely chose a Border Collie because I knew they are often high-energy dogs with relentless focus and physical stamina. In my dog Venus’s case, she fit the stereotype in those respects, and we won many competitions. However, I know plenty of other Border Collies who wouldn’t have been suited for the competitions at all. In sum, it’s fine to use breed stereotypes in a very preliminary way to get traction on the decision-making process as long as you understand that these are tentative guidelines, not absolute truths. Just as every human within a certain race, religion, or culture is different, the same concept applies to dogs: You need to get to know the individual.

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afinepricklypear · 5 years ago

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Mother’s Day and Mental Health Awareness Month

**Warning - This post talks about depression, mental disorder, and an attempted suicide. Please do not read if you are sensitive to these topics. The events described here are real and true to the best of my memory.**

I went to make a post May 1st and Tumblr was kind enough to inform me that May is Mental Health Awareness month. It isn’t without irony for me that Mental Health Awareness month occurs the same month as Mother’s Day.

My relationship with my mother is a difficult topic, it’s usually only one I can talk about with my sisters, but it’s this time of year that people most want to talk about moms. When I was younger, I didn’t know what to say when people brought up their moms and mom-like behavior in general, mostly foreign concepts to me. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned I don’t have to say anything at all, like in my work meeting this morning when our supervisor reminded us all to call our mom’s this weekend, you know, “if they’re still alive”, since most of our department are near retiring age, but I don’t always know how to feel. Here comes the guilt: do I call, do I text, do I take the risk that she’ll be in a good mood or will she turn it around, again, like the year I sent her a gift and she used my gesture as ammo to attack my “ungrateful” older sister that’s still trying to untangle her own complicated relationship with our mother. I’m ten again, twelve again, sixteen again, walking on eggshells around a house where the air is so thick with the constant fog of her misery, I can’t see farther than a minute into my future.

There were good moments, of course, like any home. She was always the more encouraging parent when it came to my writing, my father would pick it all apart – in the long run, both approaches helped me become a better writer. There was the time she was given two tickets to see Mama Mia at the casino where she dealt, and she chose to take me. We got dressed up, she leant me this white faux fur jacket and some of her jewelry, curled my hair and did my make-up, she was riding high on her emotions. She took me to a fancy dinner at the Hard Rock Café before the show. We didn’t get spoiled often, and to this day, Mama Mia and ABBA hold a special place in my heart. I always think of her singing along to the radio in the car, she has a nice voice, and maybe in another life, she could’ve been a singer.

There were moments when she was trying to be sweet and it still leaves me with conflicted emotions. Like the time the German shepherd she took off the hands of a coworker who was afraid of him violently attacked me. She bandaged me up, laid in bed with me and comforted me, it’s the most motherly I ever remember her being. She kept the dog for a while after that, I still have scars on both my arms from the attack, I’ll have them the rest of my life, just like my little sister will still have her scars from when it attacked her, and my friend who came to visit will still have the scar it gave her…my older sister was only lucky that it was muzzled when it went for her face. My mother was convinced she had a special connection with this dog, that in his heart of hearts he believed he was protecting her, so I get it, she didn’t want to get rid of something that she felt loved her unconditionally.

Sometimes it’s hard to conjure these kinder memories, they become overwhelmed with the harder, darker ones that feel infinitely more numerous. There are the moments that seem innocuous, when you could say I was acting a spoiled child, like the time I was in middle school and I wanted to keep my hair long, but my mother decided I needed bangs. My dad tried to stop it, but she had made up her mind. I cried and pleaded with her but she commanded the reluctant stylist to chop the hair off. Armed with a brush and blow-dryer, she attempted to show me “it was cute” that night and things escalated to the point my dad and older sister were stepping in, arguing with my mom to let me be. I went back to that same hair stylist with my friend who was getting her hair cut the next day, and the stylist apologized, confessed that she didn’t want to cut my hair, told me it was so healthy and beautiful too, and she felt terrible doing it. Years later, when I was an adult and decided to cut my hair short with sideswept bangs, my mother would throw this memory back in my face, “sure, now you want bangs”, still incapable of understanding that it wasn’t about her, but about me wanting to define my own body and style. She did the same to my older sister in high school, dyed her hair blonde – it took so much bleach to lighten her naturally dark hair color that the hair looked fried afterwards and we were all amazed it didn’t fall out. Never mind that my older sister never wanted blonde hair to begin with, it was antithetical to her personality, and she won’t even go near the hair dye aisle now.

There are the moments where my mom was so unreasonable that everyone felt helpless, like the day I was alone in my room, my sisters in the living room talking and watching television – doing I don’t know what – and my mom was sleeping in her room because she worked graveyard shift at this time. Suddenly, inexplicably, my mom came into my room in a rage, “how dare you call your little sister stupid,” she scolded me, she continued to berate me for being cruel and mean, even as I told her, baffled, I didn’t know what she was talking about, even as my sisters argued with her, “no one called anyone stupid. She wasn’t even in the room with us.” My mother wouldn’t listen, she knew what she heard, she grounded me and, matter settled, left back to bed. My dad got home from work not long after, and I was in my room still bawling, inconsolable and unable to work out what I’d done wrong. He asked my sisters why I was crying and they explained, and, again, my mom comes storming in my room yelling, “how dare you tattle on me to your dad!” I don’t remember much of what happened from there, my dad stepped in, they argued the rest of the night, and he would later assure me I wasn’t grounded. It was the only thing he could undo from that day.

There are other, harder to define moments. The nights my mom would argue with my dad, we’d be in bed, school in the morning, and she’d turn on all our bedroom lights, rip the covers off our beds, and scream at us to get out of her house, that she was putting us all out on the streets and it was our father’s fault. I remember vividly the fight between my parents that happened in the day, everyone awake in the house, I collapsed in the kitchen as my mother ranted that we all hated her so she should leave and we won’t have to deal with her anymore, and I cried and trembled, overwhelmed with the thought, I don’t want anyone to leave, I don’t want to lose my family. I had to get out, so I did, walked right out of the house, not sure where I’d go, and my mother panicked and raced after me, put an arm over my shoulders, coaxed me back to the house. The moment the door closed; she was yelling at us again for not loving her enough and I realized I couldn’t leave, I was trapped. There was the gambling addiction, every Christmas we would be prepared, “mom lost a lot of money at the casino last night, we might not have a Christmas this year” – we had learned not to expect anything anyways and that every gift came with a quid pro quo and years of ‘remember I did this for you’. My older sister and her then-boyfriend, now-husband, watched my mom gamble away more than a month’s mortgage and spend the entire night chasing it back.

I’m thinking about all of this more recently, I think, since I started writing some fanfics for the Bungou Stray Dogs community. One of the main characters of the show is named after and inspired by author, Dazai Osamu, a man that died prematurely from a double suicide. This is treated tongue-and-cheek by the anime and its original manga through Dazai’s many failed suicide attempts and his odd flirtation strategy of asking ladies to commit double suicide with him. I kind of like this approach to the topic, it might on the surface seem insensitive to make a joke of something so serious as depression, but humor can be therapeutic and give us an easier way to broach otherwise difficult subjects.

I was in high school when my older sister and I were allowed to be in on the conversations about my mother’s mental disorder, both undiagnosed and untreated. We’d all speculate, my father and his sister, my mother’s sister, my sisters and I, the favorite theory was bipolar disorder, but we may never know. My mom refused then and refuses to this day to seek help. There were little things about her past before marrying my dad that we were allowed to know as we got older, too. Like, how she’d been put in a hospital that wanted to keep her there for further treatment – they knew something was wrong but didn’t know what, this was during a time when bipolar disorder was unheard of and they called similar diagnoses ‘manic depression’ – and she had to threaten legal action to get released. When she was eighteen, she had married a man knowing he had a terminal illness in order to help him get his green card, he died two years later, and she still considers him the great love of her life. We’re told by the media, movies like A Walk to Remember, that this is romantic, but in reality, it’s an unhealthy fixation on a relationship that was doomed from the start. She idolizes the memory of it, puts it on a pedestal as the standard for all of her other relationships to compare to, but it isn’t realistic. It was a relationship with a known expiration date, it wasn’t a real commitment, nothing had to matter because it would all come to an end soon, and they never reached the hard parts of a marriage – children, growing old, changing bodies, financial struggles, loss and disagreement. She went through a deep depression after he died and it reached a point that her sister had her placed on a suicide watch and thus began her long and sordid history of depression.

There are a lot of fanfics in the BSD community that explore a darker tone to Dazai’s depression, to varying degrees of accuracy. I mostly steer clear of them. There is one writer in the community that I won’t name, they’re an amazing writer with beautiful technical skill, and they do an impeccable job of showing depression exactly as it is for those who live it and those who live with a person that suffers from it. I left a one-word comment on one of their stories, the only positive thing I could say, and I couldn’t write anymore without the comment turning into an emotional lecture, I don’t know that author’s personal emotional state, but I also won’t read any more from them. It wasn’t the accurate depiction of depression that turned me off from the story, but the depiction of Dazai’s depression being known by all the characters in the story, including himself, but he won’t seek treatment for it, and all of the characters are shown to enable his depression and put up with his abuses that stem from his disorder. In the story he was placed in an intimate relationship with the character, Chuuya, and Chuuya is painted as the patron saint of boyfriends, willing to overlook Dazai’s every episode, draw him back from the ledge and bandage up his scars with an endless patience and gentleness. I couldn’t move passed the romanticizing of this relationship dynamic. Chuuya is shown to be noble and celebrated for his self-sacrifice and unconditional love that compels him to stay beside Dazai despite everything Dazai inflicts upon himself and Chuuya, and more importantly, despite Dazai’s refusal to get treatment.

My mother’s emotional state was constantly our responsibility growing up. She was sad because we didn’t love her. She was angry because we were ungrateful. She was miserable because we couldn’t see all that she did for us. If she hurt us with her words, if she lashed out at us irrationally, it was our fault, because we didn’t do everything right. Never mind that what was right could change within a minute in a day. Too often when someone in your life is suffering from a mental disorder, you’re made to shoulder the blame, either unintentionally by them as they suffer from their illness or intentionally by well-meaning individuals outside of the situation that don’t know better: you just need to give them love. If they take their own life, it’s your fault, you didn’t love them enough.

It was the Friday before Mother’s Day, I was in my early twenties, finishing up my degree in Anthropology (after changing my major, I don’t know how many times). My parents were long since divorced and my mom lived alone in the house where I grew up, still shrouded in all of those dark memories. My mother’s sister had recently left town after a short visit, she had called me a few days earlier to let me know my mother lost her job that week and was struggling to get out of the depression. In retrospect, she’d been sinking for a while now, after the violent dog and so many other incidents like it left us all with too many scars to overlook and we didn’t know how to walk back into that house, how to feel safe there. She’d covered herself in tattoos, cut her hair short, wore different wigs to work every day, she’d gained a lot of weight and was chain smoking so much there was a permanent haze in the house. None of these things should be thought of as red flags for everyone, it should be taken on an individual basis, but for my mother they were all signs that she was spiraling. She didn’t like who she saw in the mirror and was desperately trying to cover it up, find someone she did like. I had promised her I would come over, make her a dinner for Mother’s Day, and I would take her to see a movie. I was on my phone with my aunt when I pulled up, snowballing ideas for what to do if things got serious and if we needed to think about placing her on a suicide watch, how that would work. I rang the doorbell; it was outside of the gate she put around the front yard for her dogs to go in the front yard.

No answer.

Rang it again.

Still no answer.

She knew I was coming over.

I opened the gate, went to the door, the door was cracked open, my aunt was on the phone in my ear, “what’s going on?” I opened the door fully and my mom’s dogs came to greet me. The house was in disarray, furniture toppled over, papers scattered across the floor, so many of the details are blurred out of memory, I remember distinctly a ceramic statue broken on the floor but I couldn’t tell you what it was a statue of. I could hear a low intermittent moan coming from farther in the house. I followed it down the hall to my mother’s room, into her bathroom, where she was collapsed, naked, on the floor of her shower.

I told my aunt I had to go, I hung up and dialed 911. In the moment, I didn’t know how panicked I really was, my voice unnaturally high, my body warm and shaking and electric with adrenaline. That feeling hits me again, sometimes, when I don’t expect it. There was white like foam around my mother’s mouth, her eyes stared wide and blank at the ceiling, her every breath was that guttural moan as she attempted to draw air in, an autonomic action, she was completely unresponsive. Her body was on autopilot, and so was mine. I’d been rehearsing for a long time what to do in that situation, it’s the only way I made it through everything that needed to be done. I gave the dispatcher the address, answered her questions, “I think she did something to herself but I don’t know what…no, there’s no pills nearby…no, I don’t see anything in the trash…she’s been severely depressed…she has a history of depression…”, between pleading with my mom, “please don’t leave me, please stay with me, mom,” and wrestling her dogs into the front yard and out of the house. The dispatcher told me the ambulance was on its way and asked if I wanted her to stay on the line and I begged her not to hang up, not to leave me with nothing but the moans of my dying mother, she didn’t say anything during that time, was just silently present as I talked to my mom and waited for the paramedics. They couldn’t come in until I got the dogs out back, I cursed and screamed at the unruly mongrels and felt an irrational anger that my mom never got them properly trained.

I took a seat in the kitchen, let the paramedics work and my brain shut down. I called my aunt back, told her what happened. The paramedics came to ask me questions, I tried to answer them but I didn’t know and my aunt was correcting me over the phone, so I handed her over and let her talk to them. They took my mother away to the hospital and I was alone, in that childhood house, that held so many horrible memories of my mother’s untreated disorder, and every aspect of our lives that it colored and perverted. Every Mother’s Day was always fraught with anxiety, I think it was my mother’s least favorite day, her mood was always sour, and no matter what we gave her or tried to do for her, it wasn’t enough. Even the year before, the Mother’s Day when she told us exactly what to get her. She was so happy with her present, a sterling silver ring with our birthstones imbedded that cost us all a pretty penny – I was paying my own way through college, my older sister was paying rent on a Starbucks salary, and my little sister didn’t have a job – but a week later we were ungrateful brats again. There was one Mother’s Day when I was maybe ten or eleven, we’d set her up roses and two cards – one from my father and one from her daughters. I was watching television and waiting for her to come home from work to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. She came in and years of practice had taught me to recognize she was in a dark mood, a cigarette on her lip, her posture tense, muttering under her breath about how nobody loved her, nobody cared. She stalked to the desk, ripped the cards in half without opening them and threw them on the ground in front of me without sparing me one glance or word, and stormed to her room, slammed the door behind her.

We would later find out that my mother drank antifreeze, a method that has about a 5% survival rate. She was in a coma for about a month. It was another few weeks before they took the respirator tube out and her throat recovered enough that she could talk in small sentences, and not without effort and pain. She told us she filled a cup with the antifreeze, showed us with her fingers set apart how high she’d put it in the glass, when she finished, she washed the cup and stuck it in the dishwasher, hiding the evidence. She’d always heard antifreeze was flavorless but it tasted awful – they add flavoring to antifreeze to deter people from accidentally ingesting it. She’d thought it would be quick, but it’s really an excruciatingly painful and long, drawn out way to die. She’d stripped in her deliria and taken a shower because her body felt so awful, feverish and almost on fire, as it was shutting down and her nerves fried from the chemical reaction. I wrestled for a long time with the ethical delimma of my choices in that moment after finding her, and there was a thought that stuck with me through it all: What did I get my mother for Mother’s Day? I saved her life, and it was still the wrong gift.

It isn’t noble or romantic to stay with someone who refuses to get professional treatment for their mental disorder. There is no amount of love or patience or understanding that will heal them. In most situations, the harder and braver thing to do is walk away. None of us is a perfect person and none of us should have to bear the burden of another person’s unwillingness to get help when they need it. It took me a long time to come to terms with the notion that there is no one to blame in this situation. It isn’t my fault that I can’t give my mother the love she craves. It isn’t my mother’s fault that she can’t see the love that her daughters wanted to give her. But it is her responsibility to get help. If she refuses help, no one can force it on her.

It’s been years now since this happened. My mother is now as recovered as she’ll ever be. Her mind isn’t as sharp, and she struggles with controlling her muscles and the devastating damage to her nervous system that will never fully heal. She remains undiagnosed and is not receiving any kind of professional guidance or treatment. There have been new, dark memories, added to the old ones, in those times when we tried to be supportive and “there for her” during her recovery. Episodes that remind us she doesn’t want to change and she never will. So, we keep our interactions to a minimum, answer when she texts, try to help her when she asks for it, check in every so often. She lives on the other side of the country with two cats and goes regularly to the neighborhood karaoke bar. In a weird way, she seems happier with this set up, this distance between her and all of the pain that my sisters and I seemed to bring her, that constant demand for love that we couldn’t fulfill, maybe it really was all our fault and we were the ones to blame, or maybe it’s because I’m not living with her depression anymore.

I don’t know if I’ll call my mother on Mother’s Day, but for anyone else out there with a complicated relationship with their mother, it’s okay if you decide not to call your mother either.

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iseultsdream · 7 years ago

Photo

Mar 15, 2018 - The Ides of March ...and a very long story -photo taken Jan 11, 2018

Years ago when I was in my 20's I almost died in this pond. The memory of that day has stayed with me as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. I think having a near death experience sears that event into your memory in a way that you wish other memories could be retained.

This pond sits in a isolated spot which is not accessible by vehicle. It is usually approached on foot, by by bike, or on horseback. The land around it is slightly elevated, giving it a bowl-like appearance. There are a couple of houses now on one side, mostly hidden from view in the woods above the pond, but back when this story takes place there were none.

Back then I lived on a small farm, about 1/2 a mile from the pond, in a house without electricity, which was located down a long, mostly rough dirt road, a mile from the main paved road. It was a simpler time on the Vineyard then, so this was not as unusual as it might sound. On my farm I had a small herd of Nubian dairy goats, a few Muscovy ducks, a flock of chickens of various breeds, a couple of hives of honey bees, and an old horse named Jinx who had been left on me to care for which turned out to ne for the rest of her life. I shared the house with a couple of cats, 4 Afghan Hounds -2 adults and 2 puppies- and a now ex-partner of mine.

Across the dirt road from the house was the big farm field, the same one I now walk around on an almost a daily basis. Back then the fields were unfenced, and for a time no one lived on that farm, so it became, in a sense, an extended part of my little farm. I would let Jinx graze out there freely, and the dogs could run around in the field, although usually under my supervision, since being sighthounds their keen eyes were always seeking the far horizon and what exciting adventured might lie out there.

Spring is slow to come to the island due to the moderating effect of the cold ocean that surrounds it, but that sunny March morning there was a hint of early spring in the air. As I did some spring prep in the garden, the puppies were playing together in the near-by field. I was keeping an eye on them as I worked. One of the times I looked up, I noticed that they had wandered further out into the large farm field.

When I caught up to them, they were near the top of one of the low hills that surround the pond. They were excitedly hunting for mice in the clumps of dry winter grass, and almost didn't look up when I reached them. I watched them for a moment, while I lingered there in the beauty of the field, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face. After a bit, I lifted my gaze to the pond below. The pond still retained a good portion of ice cover with an inch or two of snow covering the ice. The edges had started to melt back, and the open water had reached about 4-5 feet from the shoreline in most places. As I looked down on the pond, a hole near the center of the pond caught my eye, and I wondered what had caused that, but that thought broke off quickly when I was shocked to see something move in that hole. With growing horror I recognized it as a distant neighbor's dog, a large white German Shepherd. Initially, the white dog had blended in with the snow-covered ice. For a few seconds I took in this dreadful scene, and then quickly I rushed to gather up the puppies, and took off racing across the rough field back to the house. Thankfully, my partner was at home. Out of breath, in a frantic voice, I described the situation. In trying to think of what to do, all that came to my mind were ladders and ropes.

Well..this was the point when a different decision should have been made, but neither of us considered any other option.. We couldn't call for help. There was no phone in the house, and there certainly weren't any cell phones back then. To get help it would have required driving a mile over the rough dirt road out to the main road, and then somewhere further to find a phone. It felt like by then the dog would be dead. Besides I always consider myself good in a crisis, so I felt it was something I could handle. When I look back on it all now, and that happens every single time I encounter a frozen pond, or hear on the news of an ice rescue, I realize how little I understood of the extreme dangers that lay ahead, in that moment of youthful enthusiasm and determination.

So, we took off in his truck withe a ladder and ropes, straight across the bumpy, still frozen field. Upon reaching the top of the hill above the pond, we jumped out, grabbed the ropes and the long ladder, and with great difficulty hauled it all down to the shoreline.

In the time it had taken for me to get back to the house, the weather had changed. March is always a mercurial month here. The feeling of spring had dissipated. The sky was now darkly overcast, and a cold wind from the ocean had come up. Standing next to the edge of the pond, it felt like we had been plunged back into winter.

We could now see the Shepherd clearly, clinging to the edge of the hole with her front paws. Her eyes now intently fixated on us. It seemed the only way to reach the main body of ice would be to get into the water and hike yourself up onto it. Time was running out, so, without thinking further I found myself chest deep in the coldest water I had ever experienced. I was totally unprepared for the sudden shock of that icy water which seemed to suck all the air out of my lungs. It was almost impossible to breathe at all. Despite that, I continued on, but when I reached the edge of the ice, piece after piece broke off in my hands. It became quickly apparent that this was not going to be the way to reach the dog. After getting back out, we noticed that on the far side of the pond( which in the accompanying photo is across the pond to the right of center) there was a section of ice still attached to the shore, so we dragged everything over there.

Here is where we made our second, and most serious mistake. I had the idea of sliding the ladder onto the ice, and tying a rope to it, then I would move along the ladder to the hole and then somehow get hold of the dog's collar. In writing this now, it all seems crazy, but in an emergency situation like this, if there is no other help, you go into it figuring that you can do it, or at least you have to try. Somehow though, in the midst of this rushed effort to get out to the dog, we forgot a very important element. We had tied a rope to the ladder, but forgot to also tie another rope to me.

I moved along the ladder by straddling it in an almost prone position, and then pulled myself along it. As I slowly approached the hole in the ice the dog became more animated. She had started to whine, and was making more desperate attempts to reach me. When we had laid the ladder on the ice, we found it was too short to reach the hole, so we came up with the idea of once I was almost out there my partner would try to slide the ladder forward a few inches at a time towards the hole. Each time he pushed, I had to hold on tightly, so as not to fall onto the ice. We progressed forward little by little, but just before I reached the edge of the hole, the ice suddenly gave way under me, causing the ladder to upend and send me plunging into the hole with the dog, who immediately grabbed hold of my shoulders with its paws and held on. The ladder plunged into hole also, and disappeared quickly under the ice, dragging the unsecured rope with it.

This happened so suddenly that the shock and horror of my situation didn't register immediately. At first I just tried to get back up on the ice around the hole, but as with my previous attempts from the shoreline, the ice kept breaking away. I could see the fear and shock in my partner's face who had plunged himself into the water at the shoreline trying to reach the edge of the ice to get up on it, only to run into the same breaking ice problem.

I remember treading water, since it was well over my head. I was cold of course, but I think the wool vest, and felt-lined boots I had on may have slowed a bit the dangerous chilling of my body. I remember feeling a brief moment of panic, which fortunately didn't last too long, as our desperate attempts to get me out kept failing. No one knew we were there, and at that time of year it would only be by chance that someone would happen onto us.

As the situation began to feel more hopeless, I began to realize that I just might die there. In my head I started seeing newspaper headlines about two foolish people and a dog who happened out onto to March ice, for whatever imagined reason, and were found dead. In my desperation, after more futile attempts to get onto the ice, for a very brief instant I though maybe I could swim under the ice to the open water since it wasn't that far, but thankfully something stopped me from considering that in any serious way. I was told later that I would most definitely have died if I had tried that.

I remember there was a point where I wasn't as aware of the cold anymore, and almost felt euphoric. As I treadled water, wondering how I would ever get out of there...or if I would..I started to feel very tired. I remember so clearly watching a large flock of Red-winged blackbirds, just having returned for the spring a couple of weeks before, suddenly flying in and alighting in one of the near-by trees filling the air with their loud,distinct and welcome spring song. I remember feeling absorbed for a few seconds in the exquisite beauty of the sight and sound of those birds. As icy water slipped through the layers of my clothing, I knew time was running out and hypothermia was setting in. I remember wondering if the sight and sound of those birds would be the last thing i had a sense of before succumbing to the cold water. Perhaps that may have been part of what suddenly pushed me into a renewed effort to try to get out.

With waning strength I returned to trying to heft myself up onto the ice, as it continued to break away. All the while the dog held on, digging its claws into my shoulders. And then one of those times I got a bit further up on the ice, and the buckle on my belt caught hold of the ice, giving me just enough traction to get my whole body all the way up onto the ice. For a moment, I couldn't quite believe I was out, but quickly realized I was not out of danger since the ice could break again at any moment. I looked back at the dog who was paddling frantically now at the edge of the hole, and without thinking, I quickly reached back, grabbed her collar, and somehow, with a strength I never would have guessed I had, I dragged this big, heavy, wet dog up out of the hole and onto the ice with me. When I think back on that now, I am still amazed that I was able to do that.

Fortunately, the frozen surface held as I slid myself across the ice, dragging the dog with me. We had to get back into the water where the ice had melted back from the shore, and then finally with incredible relief, we were back on land. I could hardly stand at all,and my hands felt like useless clubs. The dog couldn't stand at all. The truck was at the top of the hill, so my partner carried the dog, while I, with great difficulty, struggled up the hill behind them.

We got the dog back to its home, just as the owner of the dog was arriving home with groceries. We were soaking wet, and I had almost lost my voice completely from the chilling in the icy water so it was difficult trying to explain what had happened. We told her that she needed to help the dog get its temperature back up to normal. She seemed a bit confused about all of that, and so casual, that I realized that she wasn't taking in how dire a situation it had been.

The dog survived and was fine for a while. I'd occasionally catch a glimpse of her in the neighbor's yard, or trotting up and down the dirt road. It made me happy to see her. I was saddened to hear many months later that she had died hemorrhaging while giving birth from an unplanned pregnancy.

I took my temperature when I go home and it was 92. If it had dropped anymore, and I had still been in the pond, I most likely would have become unconscious, and then drowned. I got in a warm shower, which I found out later, is apparently not the safest method to use to warm up from hypothermia, but I didn't know that at the time. I just wanted to get warm. For about a couple of weeks afterwards, I felt very weak and had no energy for anything. I felt as if I were recovering from a long, debilitating illness. For a few months, I had terrible recurring nightmares which always consisted of me trying desperately to get out of a hole in an ice-covered pond. Thankfully, I don't have those anymore.

Side note: Not many people have heard this story, except for family and a few friends. I realize no matter how many times I tell it, I am unable to find the right words to truly and vividly describe what it really felt like to be trapped in that ice cold water, with a feeling of no escape, and the sense for a bit that I just might die there. The local newspaper would have covered the story, probably using it as a warning to others as what not to do, if they had been told.

After that experience, you couldn't get me out on an ice covered pond ever again, even if I was reassured that the ice was thick enough. And in case, you might wonder what t do in a situation like this. First of all, if you are able, call for help. Don't try this alone. But if you accidentally fall through ice,and are stuck in a hole as I was, apparently, the best thing to do is relax your body and let it float up into a more prone position in the water, and then start kicking your feet which should propel you forward onto the ice. Stay prone, and try to slide yourself forward until you reach more solid ice.

#pond #ice #near-death experience #falling through ice #survival #island #martha's vineyard

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calabronzo · 6 years ago

Note

All of these, but also:

There are days (especially if I haven't talked for long hours or I'm tired) where every time I open my mouth words just don't make sense. I have to repeat myself a lot and speak slower, which can be difficult if you get stressed or anxious.

When studying new languages (I'm majoring in German), the best approach is to divide the words in little parts you can remember. If I can't understand a word and connect it to an imaginary meaning, then I won't ever remember that word and I'll always say it wrong.

When I read, most of the time I'm not reading, but remembering a word I've already seen before. If I've never seen a word written before, I'll have trouble when reading it, even if I use it daily when speaking. Let's say, I read words as if they were pictures: I see a word, I remember the meaning, and then I remember how you use and pronounce that word. If I don't remember the meaning or I don't know the word, I'll read every single letter and slowly put the word together, which is hard and takes time.

Because of that, doing the spelling of a word is a no.

Long words in any language are also a no. Sometimes you start with a long word, you get it wrong, you try to repeat it one or two times, and then you change word (lol).

If your character has read a lot during their life, chances are they will know more words and so they'll have less problem when reading passages with words they already know. But I also have photographic memory, so this may not work for everyone.

89 and 98 are the same thing when I try to read them out loud. High numbers, which you don't use daily, can and will get tricky. (I'm fine until I reach 30, then it gets confusing.)

If I'm reading out loud, chances are I don't know what I'm reading. If you ask me what I've just read, I probably won't be able to answer. When reading normally, the connection I make is (graphic) word > meaning, while when reading out loud it becomes word > meaning > sound, and my mind gets so fixated on how to pronounce the single words that I forget the general meaning of the sentence.

It's easier to read when someone else's reading out loud next to you.

Also, just because reading can be difficult it, doesn't mean that I don't like or enjoy doing it. Even if learning languages can be difficult, I doesn't mean I won't take up new languages. Our minds are powerful, finding ways to solve or get around your problems is something you develop fast.

Hi! I'm writing a story where one of the main characters has dyslexia and picks up on visual patterns better than the others because of this (which becomes a major plot point) I was wondering if you have any resources or advice for writings dyslexic characters accurately and respectfully?

Hi, darling! Thanks for your question and your patience

How to Write Dyslexic Characters

What is Dyslexia?

Dyslexia FAQ

Living with Dyslexia

What Does the Dyslexic Person Feel?

Dyslexia Reading Simulator

7 Books Featuring Characters With Dyslexia

10 Movie and TV Characters with Dyslexia

Go ahead and check out some of these links, then let us know if your questions still aren’t answered. Additionally, if any of our followers (or anyone who happens upon this post) have personal experience or opinions to add, we’ll try to promote that information!

Thanks again, and happy writing :)

– Mod Joanna ♥️

If you need advice on general writing or fanfiction, you should maybe ask us!

#dyslexia #character reference

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nettlestonenell · 8 years ago

Link

Afterword

Here I am, five years to the day of when I posted the go-for-broke chapter of Don’t Give Out With Those Lips of Yours where Marion ‘dies’/is sent away to Germany, posting the final chapter of the entire Don’t series, as well as an afterword.

I have always thought of myself as a persuasive writer—certainly with regard to writing, that is what has most often drawn me to the process.

It might seem strange to say, a persuasive fiction writer, but it makes sense to me: getting the facts, figuring out the character, persuading a reader to buy into the fact that the story is genuine, [even though it is] set somewhere they’ve never been (time or place), and that the characters are believable and ring true.

Persuasion plays an even greater part in fan fiction. Can I, as an author, sell you on decisions this character—whom you may know quite intimately—will make? Do their words sound like them? How about the setting, the diction?

Not many know it, but I promised Glorious Clio that 2016 would see the conclusion of the Don’t Series. And I meant it when I said it. Well, 2016 proved a lot of things, a great many of them disappointing, and on this count I, too, failed 2016.

But here it is, February 9, 2017, and it’s DONE.

Funny, as Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree actually began in direct relation to my finishing the long work Death Would Be Simpler to Deal With—and fearing what came next.

What would I think about? What would I scribble notes about on random scraps of paper? What would I write?

It was 2010, the year of season one Sherlock in the US. The idea of an Alternate Timeline re-boot hung heavily in the air. And me? I couldn’t think about anything but Robin and Marian MOST OF THE TIME. Go to a concert—imagine every song through that lens, for example. I was still really, really burnt from the show killing Marian, and the failure to even follow through dealing with it on the scale it deserved. But mostly the show killing Marian. And Robin. And…[footage not found].

Look, Marian and Robin die OLD, their deeds accomplished, their lives fully LIVED. That’s how it works. It’s not JFK’s Camelot, a sort of short, limited run. It’s a lifetime. It’s-- Anyway…

I knew about AT or Uber-fiction from the Xena fandom, at the time the most famous of which was Melissa Good’s Dar and Kerry stories (Xena and Gabrielle’s dynamic transplanted into present day).

As for WWII? Anyone who examined my childhood would say that I was destined to create something about that era. Myself, I was raised in the post-war 50s. Yes, I am Older than Reblogginhood—but I’m not that old. But when one lives rurally, time does move slower, and despite my parents being born 1939 and 1941, they were raised more like turn-of-the-century babies. My mother recalls the installation of electricity in her home, a home that never saw running water. And so, despite living in a world with Original Madonna and Thriller, at my house we were listening more often than not to “Wonderful Songs and Inspiration” on Cincinnati’s WSAI (one of the program hosts was George Clooney’s dad/Rosemary Clooney’s brother). Big Band songs were often the standard, the soundtrack of a lot of our lives.

My father (more on him later) consumed WWII-centric film and television round-the-clock. From early days I saw war films (I may not know all their titles, but if Hollywood made it, chances are I saw it—multiple times), I went to bed at night to the sound of anti-aircraft guns, or submarines diving.

In the days of the big three networks, it was public television that most often showed my dad’s John Wayne films, Audie Murphy, documentaries, and (bless them) screwball comedies and serious dramas infused with pre-war or war time life of (often) civilians.

And that proved to be my jam. The lives of regular people, un-enlisted people, in the midst of war. Often, this means women. Sometimes, it means prisoners. And there’s simply not enough written or filmed about them for my taste. If the soldier’s role in WWII is well-documented (perhaps, even, in contrast with other wars, over-documented), the civilian/non-combatant story is nearly silent, with the exception of Holocaust literature.

So as Papa Nettlestone watched his war films, I was always like a research assistant, looking into the corners of frames, fixating on incredibly brief scenes and unnamed characters who seemed to fit into that class: ‘regular’ people and how they managed life during that war.

Shows like Jeeves and Wooster (and those period-filmed screwball comedies) showed me a pre-war lifestyle the wealthy in both America and Britain took part, or at least a facsimile of it.

And the timeline—the intersection of this period of human history: that a title-stripped Russian aristocrat raised in the opulent (and it could be said) out-of-touch Court of the Tsars could find himself in the war, become part of the new world following that war.

That an English lord born during the hoop skirts of the American Civil War, could see the colonization of India, women get the vote—and live to see the fashion of WWII, and the German’s plans to exterminate an entire people. Hot dog, that compelled me. Such drastic reorganization of the world, of society, of all European aristocracy. Still blows my mind.

But credit also must go to Clio, who stuck with me once she found Death, faithful in communication and reviewing. I knew she loved Hogan’s Heroes (at our house, also, required viewing), that team dynamic. I loved it, too, the soldiers now rendered non-combatants by virtue of the fact they are imprisoned—yet finding clever means of resistance. I loved The Great Escape (a film that has plenty for both me and my dad). Thomas Carter a definite character ‘descendant’ of Steve McQueen’s Cooler King, Hiltz.

I love stories about people hiding downed RAF pilots (Mary Lindell in One Against the Wind). Hiding Jews. Fusia Podgorska (Hidden in Silence) who hid thirteen people in her house’s attic for two and a half years, feeding and supporting them while she was still in her teens. Eight months of this time, German officers and their nurse girlfriends occupied the rooms directly below that attic. Charlotte-freaking-Gray (please, just the film version) getting stranded in France without a full cover story, unable to tell a soul who she really is, scheming to find a way to her crashed RAF lover, and living a constant knife’s-blade-edge away from being discovered.

Papa Nettlestone is a 1939 baby. He never really saw his father (that he would remember) until the man returned home after the war (Purple Heart, Battle of the Bulge). Papa N was six years old at the time. Their relationship was never less than damaged. So he’s that bridge between Then and Now, my dad, as is Zara--but he’s also quite strongly the story’s Carter.

Although what he would guaranteed say to me if he were ever to find and read these stories (which will never happen), is that they should contain battlefront action. And that it’s a great shame that they don’t.

Mind you, when I began writing this I had no thought to cultivating a series of stories. Apple Tree was meant to be a one-off as they say in television, not a back-door pilot.

It was just meant to get me over the hump of concluding Death. But, as with any good (I would say) short story, the final lines of it conveniently spiraled outward.

And then Clio said she would read the story forever in one of her reviews.

And that? That was clearly a challenge.

And Carter proved to be the necessary plot propulsion key.

I don’t know how long it took me to fully ‘break’ the story (obviously, via the series, certain plot beats were already there—but how to re-imagine them?), it happened over time.

I remember where I was standing in my house when I realized not only that Guy should burn down the barn, not the house, but that Marian wouldn’t die but would be sent away to a camp. (Originally, those two plot points happened more back-to-back in the narrative.)

I went with four stories primarily because that’s how many lines from the song I wanted to use. Purely dumb luck that it worked out so well.

I chose the Channel Islands after seeing an advertisement for the Island at War DVD series in a mail order catalog, and reading the small blurb saying the Nazis had occupied British islands, which left me suitably dumbstruck. I know A LOT about WWII for someone who has never studied it, as I said above. I’d never heard of these islands, much less their war-time past.

So, I looked them up.

Now, keep in mind: when I began this odyssey in November of 2010, the Internet was not what it is today. Today I can sit and watch YouTube video after YouTube video of Channel Islands travelogues. I can *see* Sark. Then, Google could find exactly ONE image to show me of Joe Kennedy (Carter). The Channel Islands had neither an official webpage nor a very good Wikipedia entry. I was largely flying blind. I wasn’t even certain the estate I’d imagined as Barnsdale (and its house) could feasibly be located on Guernsey.

The internet has vastly improved in Channel Island content in the intervening years. (Somewhat, likely, due to interest in The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society published in 2008, but of which I was unaware until a reader brought it to my attention in the review section of-–I believe—Lover’s Lane.)

As I learned new information I tried to make use of it—without mucking up anything I’d shared in the narrative prior.

Finding Sark was, quite frankly, the kind of plot/setting gift any writer would endlessly thank her muse for. It is, and I say this as a person having never been there, the almost perfect 1:1 stand-in for Sherwood.

I do have regrets. I regret not better outlining how the Sheriff even caught wind that Stoker’s sub was coming to Sark in Lips (sylvi10 caught me out on that giant oops when it was far too late to fix).

I regret that fanfiction.net turns all my double dashes (--) into (-) single ones. That its cut and paste interface erases my (*,&,+)s that are meant to help me insert lines where breaks need to be.

I regret not allowing for more of a story between Mitch and Eva, that I didn’t get to make better, fuller use of Freyga Tuckmann and most particularly ReichKaptain Lamburg (at one point there was a whole side story during the break in Lips right after the wedding that focused on the unit and Lamburg, with R/M only in the deep background).

I regret misplacing the notes (I will find them someday!) that name Allen and Eleri’s two daughters.

As a (fan? is that the right word here?) of A Tale of Two Cities, I regret not having Robin reference Dr. Manette’s being ‘returned to life’ in the wake of his own ‘death’ and Marion’s ‘death’ and rediscovery. (I will not elaborate here on the Sidney Carton/Charles Darnay similarity to Marion/Magda, but I will recognize that I see it in the narrative, and that reading a lot of Dickens in my formative years is doubtless to blame.)

And while I don’t at all regret the format/design of ‘Til I Come Marchin’ Home (I 100% believe that it is done in the right, and the only, way to best relate the stor(ies) at that point), I do recognize that it is a format not at all conducive to reading easily in choppily posted, stretched-out-over-time excerpts.

I do not regret, but will take a sentence or two to explain that if at times words for things or spellings alter, such as sometimes tire, others tyre—color or colour, it’s because I always thought of the original series as a sort of US/British hybrid. US in the sense that so much pop culture is from there, and a series as openly anachronistic as BBC Robin Hood is going to have that aspect to it, Hollywood sort of creeping in here and there, the word ‘Okay’ being thrown around. For that matter, though he’s become a German Kommandant, the Sheriff, to me, still pronounces his English the same as Keith Allen doing Vaisey. He still barks LEFT-tenant at Guy, though a German would say LOYT-nant. Robin still says ‘punch’ like Jonas.

I try not to regret that there’s a lot of Love in this story, a lot of couples. The BBC series is responsible for a lot of that, I think. Sometimes I wonder if it were to be placed in a bookstore (and not shelved as fanfiction) if it would get sorted into the ‘Romance’ section.

I did write it for myself—make no mistake, this is 5000% the story I Want to Read, and one of the reasons I wrote it down (that I write anything down) is because it started to become so immense I was having trouble keeping track of it all in my head.

I had gone to an October yard sale the year of the first story (some of you know this story), I bought a cassette tape of Time Life’s “Romantic Memories of the War Years”—filled with pre-war and war-era Big Band. A four tape series, they only had the first one. Because at that time I was doing a sort of Robin/Marian overlay to almost anything I thought about, I overlaid them on those songs, and it was a potent fit for me.

I had Glorious Clio on board, and soon enough sylvi10 joined in, and—much later—reblogginhood. I mention them in particular because while I was writing the story for myself, their comments—as do any comments—caused me to turn my attention to certain parts of plot and character, and the narrative changed in specific ways directly related to those reviews. (Which is a definite endorsement that readers should consider writing reviews.)

Allen Dale bloomed as fully as he did in the way that he did due to sylvi10, I’ve no doubt of that. Chatting with her about the stories, hearing her thoughts on Allen, her investment turned my brain to his corner, caused me to think more about him than I might otherwise have done. (Allan does tend to take over stories I write anyway, tbh.)

I had at least one reader caution me about putting Robin and Allen as the two main characters in the fanfiction description for Marchin’, saying it would make people think the story is about a romance between the two. But I couldn’t not list Allen as second-most-important in that story (and at times, first). For a great deal of Marchin’ is Allen’s story. He’s at a point in his grief and dealing with the war where he’s finally agreed after years of swallowing it down to become proactive. Where he’s realized that his path to handling what he did in the war is to pursue facing it, whatever the consequences.

Perhaps his personal life triumphs/finding the love of his life are his ‘reward’, then. The good that came to him from his agreeing to hunt down and conquer--face the bad. He would not have re-met Eleri, after all, had he not traveled back to put his memory of Annie to peace, and avenge and memorialize her death. And it is in Eleri, who is able finally to understand what he was during the war, to whom he needn’t hide any longer, that he needn’t be two-faced anymore.

There’s a definite Allen/Marion parallel (not 1:1 in any sense) in the series. From the first moment they meet when he, just, misunderstands 1000% about her, to the life that she leads (like him) where no one knows all the contradictory and self-transgressive it involves. And she misunderstands him, too, thinking he’s nothing more than a short grift con man.

But it’s Robin who, while he doesn’t see all about either, knows both for being more than is shown.

I wrote Edward/Miranda entirely for myself. I fell so HARD for them and their narrative. But some of the latter sections with them (particularly their backstory in Marchin’) is directly resultant of reblogginhood having commented that she would read about them if it were written. That made me feel okay (because by the time you’re that far in to writing a series of this scope you can find yourself TOTALLY distracted by audience expectations) to write those portions, which were, to me as a reader, a joy in every way. So, thank you for that.

I learned some things: I learned that if I, with the RL I have, with the lack of RL time-to-myself, can not only find time to write, but to finish, this is an accomplishable goal for anyone. If you want it.

There’s a lot of writing advice getting blogged around on tumblr, but being a writer can be boiled to the simplest terms: the thing about writers is, They Write.

You can go to school for writing for as many years as you like, and your instructors will tell you this, they will expect this of you, but until you embrace it yourself, you won’t really get it. Writers write.

Look at these ridiculous timelines:

Apple Tree – Nov. 1, 2010 - November 10, 2010 – completed in TEN DAYS!

Lover’s Lane – November 11, 2010 – January 18, 2011, it’s 67K words. In just two months’ plus one weeks’ time.

Lips – January 20, 2011 – March 24, 2012, 239K word count. Fourteen months. That is within spitting distance of the length of HP and the Order of the Phoenix, for reference, which has 257K.

The first stories are ridiculous because of how MUCH was accomplished, and how quickly.

I posted the final chapter of Lips from the hospital, after having a baby—largely because I knew from experience I wasn’t about to get many chances to work on Don’t anytime in the near future.

So, I came to Marchin’. Of which contemplating it is hysterical to me, because I had always expected it to be only just slightly longer than Apple Tree. [laughs maniacally]

Marchin’ – April 1, 2012 – February 9, 2017. (Completed, though not yet fully published on fanfiction.net) Final count will show it just over 220K words. 30K more than HP and the Goblet of Fire. [Yes, I realize the almost five-year timeline to finish this was really, really, not acceptable. Way tooooo long to expect anyone to still be hanging around. I am not Susanna Clarke. And not only because I never got close to the 308K final word count of JSAMN in a single one of the discreet stories.]

And please don’t forget the little bit of holiday side-fic of Zara and Carter, with gang-based Christmas flashbacks. Don’t: The Ghosts of Christmas Past, published January 2012, at 5K words.

And to be accurate, I was occasionally writing and posting other fic while also writing Don’t (including fic outside of BBCRH).

I learned that I can write to an epic length (an important discovery for a short story writer), I learned how to craft a chapter (feel free to tell me I failed if you disagree). I learned how to juggle 10K plot strings and tie them off in the ending.

I learned that in the beginning writing is easy, slick as soap in an empty-but-wet bathtub; words can pour onto the page. You’re building. But then something clicks over in your plot, and suddenly you’ve got a lot of things to juggle, a lot of stitches not to drop.

You have to navigate among and around what you’ve built. Writing speed slows, writing time can get eaten up referring back to what you’ve written before to make sure all your pieces fit. To make sure you’re still holding the strings of all your marionettes.

I learned (I already knew a little about this before) that sometimes, when the words are gross and sticky and not coming out onto your screen you must fight to put them there anyway. That 97% of scenes/writing is clumsy and workman-level rather than craftsman quality. But you have to put down the bones and sinew before you can go back and build on that and add the plump flesh, the other parts of it that add beauty and poetry.

You have to trudge at times before you can dance. And if you’re not willing to slog through, you’ll be done (but not finished), your work will stall—and you’ll never dance.

As for process, I wrote these straight through, beginning to end. Does that sound crazy? I don’t know. I got into the way of that due to posting updates online, I suppose. In the early days, I would always be posting something a little earlier in the narrative than what I was presently working on. But at some point that stalled out and I was publishing in tandem with what I had just done, having no other writing ‘banked’.

As for the ‘finale’, I will confess that portions of Carter’s journals used there were written—as many as five to six--years ago. And a lot of the reunion scene speeches were also conceived and written before the last chapters of Lover’s Lane were posted online (that was posted Feb 2012).

I don’t mean that as a brag, only, to say that the storyline has always been pretty closely orchestrated and set for some time. Not all the particulars, though.

Clio said something recently about it being difficult to get back into the swing of writing Don’t, but you know, I’ve never really been out of it all these years. I wrote the unconventional narrative format of Death as what I expected to be my way to work through Marian’s on-screen murder.

And I started Don’t even before I completed the ending of that story. And creatively and in any daydreaming, I have lived solidly in that world ever since. Spare time? Think about Don’t. Can’t sleep? Think about Don’t. People, that’s a long time. Am I over Marian’s death? Probably not, but that frustration point is more like background noise at this point. But Don’t’s been with me long enough that I don’t think it will ever leave.

I’ve been stalling a long time (telling myself to finish it first), not going back to Story 1 and reading straight-through sequentially to the end.

It’s startling to think I don’t have to put it off anymore.

Don’t has received its share of criticism—not necessarily hostile criticism (thankfully). A reviewer thinking Marion’s reaction to Robin upon seeing him in Story 1 is too stoic (yes, I may have been watching too many stone-cold Barbara Stanwyck films, but I stand by the characterization), LOTS of feedback on how Marion was not in ‘Til I Come Marchin’ Home, the notion that all four stories are too sad/depressing, just to name a few.

It was always a deliberate intention to keep Marion absent for most of Marchin’. She is, after all, a ghost at that time. And readers should feel the Marion-shaped hole she left just as much as do the characters. Even saying her name is at times too much a trigger for them. And almost every side-flash scene of Marion when she appears post-war refrains from using her name in a familiar way. As though she no longer even thinks of herself as Marion.

I do believe her absence and the emotion of her post-war storyline is more bearable when all of Marchin’ can be read as a seamless whole rather than in parts and pieces and stops and starts.

As for sadness—well, okay. Maybe? I’ll say it’s hard for me to judge. If it is sad, to me it is an exquisite pain, a pain felt on the way to coming joy. But then, I always knew the end. I always knew the pain would not end in loss and futility.

And the end, frankly, may not satisfy all. [spoilers] Everything that happened (even, took place pre-series) to our beloved Robin and Marion can’t be fixed, simply, by mind-blowing sex following their reunion.

But their scars and insecurities still present shouldn’t be taken as unreclaimable. Only, the time it takes to regain such things in a relationship isn’t covered explicitly in the plot.

Real world studies have been done about those imprisoned in the camps. Contact me if you want some links. Everything from (obviously) PTSD to a myriad of health complications plagued those liberated, often for the rest of their lives. To pay true respect to what Marion is to have been subjected to, is to admit that there is no easy fix for it, not simply a ‘spunky’ disposition that can overcome it.

As for why Marion stayed away, when taken as a whole, pieces of that puzzle are (without direct mention of Marion) everywhere within Story 4’s narrative (and strong correlations exist to it in earlier stories), spoken about, by, or with regard to everyone tainted by the war, from Allen to Miranda to Djak to Carter (and others).

As for the long timeline between Marion’s ‘death’ and her being located alive, I respect cries of ‘too long!’, but as a person older than reblogginhood, I say: a decade, when life is at its most distracting (as with small children to care for), passes as less than two years’ time in one’s carefree singleton twenties. Time simply shortens later into life.

From Story 1, Don’t has always been about the conundrum of sexual loyalty, just as the song it was crafted around. A loyalty that goes (according to the original song’s lyric) both ways, just as the woman is asked not to sit under the apple tree, the man is later on admonished (*significantly, but curiously, this lyric is absent from The Andrews Sister’s most-famous version of the song) “Watch the girls on the foreign shores, you'll have to report to me, When you come marchin' home. Don't hold anyone on your knee, you better be true to me… you're gettin' the third degree, When you come marchin' home”

Clearly calling out the woman’s mate who is currently serving overseas.

So the sexual loyalty question in WWII goes both ways. Let me be clear: I don’t necessarily believe jealousy and compromised sexual loyalty are a 1:1.

I would, in fact, mount a defense of BBC series Robin as not necessarily motivated by jealousy toward Guy. At least not ‘simple’ jealousy. (ie: you have Marian! And I don’t!)

With as much in-series as is NOT said between Robin and Marian (recall: he tells her he loves her when she’s dying/dead/unconscious—and when she recovers he doesn’t bother to re-state it), a partial dynamic of Marian/Robin’s relationship is what goes unspoken between the two of them. Yet Guy is held back by no similar scruples. He may pursue BBC series Marian openly, speak with her openly, offer her safety, a home, financial and societal security. In short, as given, Guy represents a future for Marian. (And to most people/certainly her peers and her betters, an ACCEPTABLE future, as Guy is allied with the present power structure and law-in-place).

In this, BBC series Robin is frustrated (and Don’t series Robin even more so). What can he offer Marian? What can Don’t Robin offer Marion? Even less. He has nothing of stability, no home, no financial means he can access. He cannot even offer her (with any certainty) that he, himself, will remain alive and accessible to her.

I confess, I kept from placing Marion into a fait accompli sexual relationship with Guy primarily because that felt like more weight than the story was prepared to bear, and secondarily because I find the idea of Geis’ sexual frustration really enjoyable, and it drives him very particularly as a character. A Geis who agrees to be put off by Marion repeatedly, when nothing truly stands in the way of his forcing himself on her is far more interesting than Geis as Marion-rapist. (Now, Geis as Anya-rapist is interestingly fraught in its own way, and faithful to the BBC series, as well.)

Sexual loyalty through the lens of female characters whose agency is compromised by something like an Occupation exists as well. Marion and Eva (on the BBC series more of a contrast than a comparison) here become two versions of a similar story. Yet the chance arose to give Eva, the more sexually transgressive (for the era depicted) with a bastard child and a confirmed sexual relationship with the Kommandant, offered the chance to give that character a happy ending sooner than that of her former mistress.

Early on, in a world where so little can be counted on, the question of Marion’s loyalty is of paramount importance to Robin, more so one might argue, than whether, even, she reciprocates his love.

The sexual aspect of her loyalty early on in Apple Tree and Lover’s Lane is almost always their departure point for argument. Marion expects him to have faith in her. But Robin, as would any of us (like the rest of Guernsey), logically assumes she is sexually involved with Geis.

Robin believes that sleeping with Geis would equal a betrayal of English values, and therefore, of him.

He carries the wound of Marion, at the time of their break-up fight, attempting to (in his eyes) use sex to manipulate him before she intends to leave him behind for America. And he knows, historically in their relationship, that Marion has never viewed sex in the same light as he has (and was socially expected to do).

Which culminates in the argument on Sark before Marion is returned to Geis following her kidnapping, wherein she attempts to get him to see that on the Islands during occupation, believing her agency is uncomplicated and without consequences in any sexual liaison is merely an illusion.

Hopefully, the series is more than just this debate/discussion. Certainly, to me it’s about more than sexual jealousy, but certainly that was an inciting catalyst.

Then again, maybe the overriding issue of sexual loyalty is just a notion I contemplate to try and defend the large number of hook-ups in finalizing the series…

But Don’t is also about heroism. At its very core.

I have personally long been fascinated by certain ‘hero’ narratives that see the heroes returning to normal life, such as the man instrumental in the Warsaw ghetto uprising who survived the war, moved to Florida, and successfully opened a chain of grocery stores. Or the Daniel Craig character/ real-life figure of the Jewish commando, Tuvia Bielski, who hid people in large numbers in the Polish woods in Defiance and went on to live a life in New York, running a small trucking company for 30 years--where his own children were ignorant of what he had done during the war.

For a long time this kind of “post war information”/return to normalcy always bummed me out. But as I’ve aged, I’ve honestly come to believe that this is wherein true heroism lies.

To know when to stop fighting. To manage to reclaim something of a ‘normal’ life. To enjoy the accomplishment of what was being fought for, the fruits of your wartime labors—and particularly for the oppressed people groups in WWII (Jews, the Rom), to partake in the society, culture, and family life/continuation of your people, as that is exactly what your enemies were trying to prevent you from doing.

To thrive in the wake of your oppression.

And in my age, I think I’ve realized that even though these heroes, these people who accomplished remarkable things during the war, then stop behaving quite so obviously heroic (no longer action movie stars) the heroism that they then face is a quieter one, one of learning to cope and process what the war did to them.

And really, it’s not flashy, but it is no less compelling. No less transformational, and dramatic as can be.

Some readers may still wish to argue that twelve years is too long a time, that it is impractical that Carter’s grandson is not well-acquainted with all that took place in the narrative. Rest assured; I’ve read more than my share of war and post-war narratives, of combatants and non-combatants alike, and the thread of survivors never again speaking of what happened to them, or simply never coming back home (though they lived) are more common than not.

Sometimes they find a way to speak of what happened to them, they speak only to others who experienced it, they go on to help curate a memorial—that safe space where they can speak and share about their experiences; they write it down, they paint it.

I’ve had two feedback responses that I think are important enough to include here for the general reader.

The first involves the gang not attempting to canonize Marion as a hero during the time she is missing/a thought that Marion should not feel quite so awfully, or make such drastic decisions based upon her wartime life choices.

Historically, honestly, that would have been pretty unlikely. The taint of collaboration would have overwhelmed any ‘redeeming possibility’ of Marion's resistance work as the Nightwatch (which it would not be simple to convince anyone she 100% was; the wrong accent--the fact no one ever really saw the Nightwatch, the fact Vaiser put forth that it was really Joss Tyr just for starters), and the fact Marion was female, in the 1940s; the world at large would hold the likelihood of her having been Geis' lover (recall: the importance of sexual loyalty) far above the slim chance that she was also the Nightwatch. Such things as promiscuity (especially with the enemy) weren't taken lightly, nor forgiven in females. Robin’s connection to her would have been colored by the notion she had been a scarlet woman, and him, doubtless unable to resist being in her thrall. (Honestly, as backward a notion that man is defined by an inability to resist his private parts as that a woman is in all situations responsible for what befalls hers). In fact, into the 1980s and 90s, the Channels were still fighting over who collaborated and who didn't. (Jersey records account for at least 900 illegitimate babies born to Islander mothers and German soldiers during the Occupation. As recently as 20 years ago the Islands were still in denial of this, despite Public Records being released that proved the numbers.) It was very divisive, a true crisis of the islands, and remains so to this day. So while I think, in later decades, yes, the world could embrace Marion as a hero, could believe her tale--those alive during the war, living out those years and trying to survive the wake of its ending, would not have been in a state of mind to accept her. In that starkly black and white, right and wrong, mindset of the times, she would have been condemned on all accounts. She would have had to be dead for real for her to be lionized, or even thought acceptable in Britain. Additionally, the National Secrets Act, which kept Robin & Co., and likely Carter from speaking about their war work for DECADES (if ever) following the war's end would have prevented anyone from talking about the Nightwatch, their time on Sark, etc., under penalty of imprisonment, and/or threat of a charge of treason. Not to mention being socially ostracized.

And Marion is that great sort of pragmatist/realist that fully understands this. And she's right, really. At least in that she's right that collaboration was not at all tolerated in the wake of the war. The taint she fears for Robin would have been 125% a real thing. He would have been tainted.

And we all know how skeletons in the closet are found and often via spin made into skeletons when they may not really be—in the political (or as he calls it, public) world. In fact, despite the majority of Islanders alive during the Occupation having died (and some, emigrated elsewhere) the Channels are still trying to work through and figure out how to accept WWII collaborators among them, how to speak of them historically. As said, it is still a tremendously divisive issue. So Marion's right in her conclusion about what association to her would bring about (even if her Nightwatch identity were known), but she's wrong in her understand of Robin. She's always hoped for that public life of doing good and legislating for Robin (no doubt because Edward was her standard for how a good man behaves/takes action), and she's right that Robin would excel at it, but she has never been able to get her head around the idea that Robin doesn't have any interest in that, playing that game, being that person—no interest in matters of state and diplomacy. It is that tragic flaw of a mistake/miscalculation she makes over and over again.

It may seem to go without saying, but let me thank you (any of you, all of you) for reading. Let me shower laurels on those of you who reviewed. I did write this work for myself, no doubt about it, but the encouragement of hearing from others reading cannot be undercut. It is an immense support to know as an author that your words matter to someone else out there.

And if you’ve been reading and you’ve never commented or checked-in, by golly, you’ll never find a better time than now.

I made some promises to myself, for when I finished Don’t. To buy all four CDs of Time Life’s Romantic Memories of the War Years (digital files of the original versions of many of the songs on them not available). To commission some fan art. To work to get the entire series posted to AO3.

But right now, I’m learning something new. I’m learning how to deal with surviving in the wake of completing a long, long work. As I mentioned earlier, when the end of Death came, I was already working on Don’t.

But, what now? What next?

I will never be over Robin/Maria(on). Of that you can be sure. But will I write more BBCRH? It seems doubtful, unless I do so to conclude at least one unfinished story (hi, sylvi10!). Don’t is certainly my ‘last word’ on the BBC series (I think). While I’ve not ‘gotten over’ them killing Marian (etc.), I have at least worked through it.

There was a time I thought to play around with writing “Widow Hood”, wherein Robin is killed in S2 in the Holy Land, not Marian, and Marian is the one left to reassemble the gang (re-recruit Will and Djaq back to England) and we sort of see if she can accept Guy into the gang, as the show had Robin doing, if she can forgive Allan’s betrayal, and see if she can overcome Robin’s loss (as the show had Robin ALLEGEDLY doing in S3). But I think my pursing that (at least as a whole) is pretty unlikely at this point.

What I do know, is I feel confident I can write to a longer form now, and manage chapter breaks to my own satisfaction if not others’. And somewhere out there, the promise of The Perfect Hat is waiting for me.

#the don't series #afterword #neftzer #'til i come marchin' home #fanfiction

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debbieandulics · 8 years ago

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Why Dogs Bite

Even if you don’t have a dog you probably know someone who does. It’s very common to have dogs as pets. With so many dogs, it is inevitable to also have dog bites. A lot of people do not realize that most dog bites occur in the home or a familiar place. Most dog bite victims are family or friends and about half of the victims are under the age of 13. Stray dog bites equate to a small percentage of dog bites in spite of it being a popular belief. These facts tell us something; that with education and awareness, many dog bites are preventable.

More often than not, when a dog bite occurs, the owner exclaims, “my dog has never bitten before” or “there was no warning.” There are many reasons that can cause a dog to bite. Since dogs communicate differently then humans, they cannot directly tell us when they are in pain, scared, or even just stressed out. But they do have body language. And being aware of a situation and observant of a dog’s body language can potentially save someone from being bit. Many people miss these cues a dog displays before a bite.

Actually, the most non-medical dog problem owners seek help for is aggression.

Aggression occurs in wild animals to protect and guard. Animals that live in social groups control interactions and peacekeeping with aggression and dogs fall into this group. “And in truth, biting is a natural and normal means of canine communication and defense.” from Pat Miller’s article “How to Correct a Dog Who Bites” in the Whole Dog Journal. There are certain behaviors that dogs express to show this aggression and they can increase in intensity. According to PetsWebMD, “It can be just milliseconds between a warning and a bite, but dogs rarely bite without giving some type of warning beforehand.”

Reasons Dogs Bite

Pain:

Any dog in pain can bite. You may know your dog has chronic pain or an injury. In this case, be very careful handling the dog. Even changing a bandage can bring about a bite. Instruct children to stay away from injured areas. If your dog is acting differently or nippy, you should have a Veterinarian check your dog first to rule out any medical conditions. This is even more important when dogs get older since their pain threshold can decrease, they can become less tolerant, and they can also become confused. Don’t assume you would know if your dog is in pain. Illness and injuries can progress quickly and can be much worse by the time there are obvious signs.

Fear:

Dogs can be afraid of people, other dogs or animals, or certain situations. Typically they will exhibit a submissive stance and will avert eye contact and tuck their tails. If a dog has fear aggression (or defensive aggression) they will want to avoid the stressor before becoming defensive. They might show rapid nips as a warning. The fears can range from fear of having feet touched to fear of an abuser. It might take some time but most fearful dogs can be worked with lessen their stress. Another option is to stop putting your dog in the situations that cause the fear. Some dogs are naturally shy but you can help them build confidence.

Maternal

A mother who has just given birth needs to have place where she feels safe. This safe place should have minimal distractions so she can focus on her puppies. Limiting visitors and handling of the puppies is necessary during this time.

Protective:

Dogs naturally protect members of their pack. When in a family, a dog can become protective of its family members and close friends. Having a protective dog can be desirable but you don’t want it to escalate to the level that you cannot have visitors. This can happen too when there is a new baby in the house. You don’t want your dog to be so protective that relatives can’t come over.

Territory:

Just like their relatives, dogs often protect their territory. It may be the boundary of your yard but sometimes it can extend further in the dog’s mind. Certain breeds such as German Shepards, Rottweilers, and Akitas are bred for strong territorial traits but sometimes dogs cannot differentiate between a stranger and someone who is welcome. Chaining dogs outside keeps them separate from their family. Since they are highly social, this causes the dog to be highly stressed all the time. Chained dogs that are not properly exercised (pacing in a circle is not exercise) become extremely frustrated and bored. Keeping a dog chained outside is a recipe for disaster. According to the American Humane Association chained dogs are 2.8 times more likely to bite and approximately 25% of fatal dog attacks were from chained dogs.

Frustration:

When dogs get frustrated, they can lash out. If they are too excited but held back, they can become aggressive. They can also start to associate being restrained to frustration. Leash aggression is a common term that explains this perfectly. Some dogs are just fine with other dogs except when they are on a leash.

Possession:

Similar to guarding territory, dogs sometime protect other things they used to have to compete for such as food. It is not uncommon for a dog to growl when a person or another dog comes around when he is eating. But they can also guard toys, bones, pet siblings, and even people. Dominance aggression is when a dog listens to one or more adults but guards items from the rest of the family. This can be worked on but always teach children to leave dogs alone while they are eating or chewing on a bone.

Redirected aggression:

When a dog is over stimulated and displays aggression towards another animal or a human and another person interferes and the interfering person gets bit, this is redirected aggression. The dog becomes fixated and cannot realize you are just trying to help. Your dog is scared at the Vet’s office; you reach down to comfort your dog but get bit instead. This is redirected aggression and not personal at all. The bite was the result of a chain of events the dog couldn’t control. You can eliminate the stressor by checking in and waiting with your dog in the car next time.

Incessant teasing a dog beyond its limits is another way to get someone bit. Children and even some adults are guilty of pokes and prods, putting things in a dogs face or on them. These things can push even the friendliest dog to say “NO” the only way they know how. Also, excessive punishment should never be used and can easily make get you bit.

There are some other factors such as breed, genetics, temperament, and the amount and kind of socialization the dog had.

Dog Bite warning signs:

Dog becomes very stiff and still

Ears laid back

Direct intense eye contact

Hackles raised (the fur along their back but this doesn’t always mean aggression)

Yawing can also indicate stress

Lunging

Growling

Snarling (growling while showing teeth)

Snapping

Dog bite prevention begins at home. People who are responsible dog owners will learn what they can and make adjustments to decrease the risk of a dog bite. It’s not that there are only good dogs or bad dogs, it is much more complex than that. Dogs can have good days and bad days just like us. How long does it take you to calm down after a stressful altercation? Why do we expect our dogs to brush it off instantly? Why do we correct them for growling? This is how they tell us they are stressed and something needs to change. Start paying close attention to your dog’s body language and how it changes under different situations. Exercise and play are important components for a happy healthy dog. This also is a way to get out excess energy that won’t then turn into frustrated nervous energy, plus it strengthens your bond. Training and socialization are also important. However, choose your trainer well as some recommend fear and submission with harsh corrections. This method can work but it could also make a dog more aggressive. It does nothing to minimize stressors or modify behavior. It only makes the dog associate pain from the owner when it has a stressor, reinforcing negativity. It can also make the dog skip warnings to avoid corrections and go straight to a bite. Positive reinforcement training and positive behavior modification may take a little longer but make the process more enjoyable and also helps to increase your bond.

If your dog shows signs of aggression:

You do have options! Depending on the stressor, you might just be able to eliminate it or avoid it. Or you can manage the behavior until you have a behavior modification plan. A professional can help you with this and not all trainers are certified to deal with aggression like a behaviorist. You can re-home the dog to someone who can do the above. Worst-case scenario, you can have the dog euthanized if all else fails and the risk stays high for biting. The good news is that most dogs can be helped.

Dogs and children:

Children are much more likely to be severely injured by dog bites. Madeline Gabriel has a website named Dogs and Babies that has so much great information. From her blog “Do dogs Bite Out of the Blue” she states, “Snaps and bites seem to surprise parents because parents consider that vast in-between area of increasing discomfort as “Fine” because the dog is not overtly growling or running away, leading to conclusions such as, “The dog was fine and then he bit the baby.” Really, unless the dog clearly looks relaxed and happy, he is not “fine.” This doesn’t mean your dog is going to bite your child right then or ever, but it does mean that your dog needs some help to better manage in that situation… Because parents didn’t notice the early warning signs that would have prompted them to move the child or change the situation. Once you know how to look, you’ll spot them every time and you will have the power to intervene long before anything happens.” She also brings to light that when we see happy kids playing, we tend to miss dogs body language even more.

The Centers for Disease Control has suggestions for reducing dog bites and creating safer communities; educating children on dog bite prevention, advocating for effective dangerous dog ordinances that are breed neutral but give animal control officers the tools they need to do their jobs, and to provide spay/neuter assistance and education to the public. There is no way to completely stop all bites from ever happening but learning canine body language and being aware when dogs are around can prevent many potential bites from happening.

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