#was that even if i even remotely wanted kids. passing on adhd would be a Heavy consideration of if i should have them or not

[fuckthatbitch240]

Hello, my name is Esmay. I’m a 30 year old from Arizona. I’m currently stuck in a horrible predicament. I’m 7 months pregnant, & I have an 8 month old infant daughter. I moved my daughter & I to a Domestic Violence shelter TOS here in Payson AZ. Things were good. Up until 2 weeks ago. I did what I thought would be a good thing for a family that barely moved in, I was translating for them. They couldn’t speak English. Well, this family got close to the kids that were there, they kept the tv control in their room & it became to be an issue due to the family spoiling the kids. The other mothers were now being ignored by their own children. There was one kid that was impacted the worst. This was a 4 year old boy with ADHD. He started telling his mother how much he hated her, & refused to listen to any of her demands. He wanted nothing to do with his mother. Well here I go trying to figure something out between them. So the non English speaking family could understand that my roommate didn’t want them to give her children candy or popsicles at night. Initially the family seemed to be understanding. Except they kept on feeding the kids popsicles, & it got to the point where my roommates kid was running away from his mother & hiding in their room. So seeing as things haven’t stopped my roommate decided she’d better go talk to the staff. Well, she went to them & explained that she didn’t care if the kids played with them. (mainly the 17 year old girl.) So, of course the shelter agreed to speak to them. Now mind you around this time, I haven’t spoken to them because they were walking around acting like the whole house belonged to them. The 17 year old always had the TV on in the middle of the night with the volume up to 85. The 15 year old boy was constantly eating our food. Even if we had written our name on our stuff. If you buy it or get it from their pantry it has to have your name or initials written on it. That way no one can take your food. Or so they claim that those are the rules. Anyways, like I had previously mentioned, I’m 7 months pregnant, anytime I would try to go to the kitchen this family would literally go out of their ways to congregate around the kitchen island & make it difficult for the other families to get their food to cook or even to go outside. I started losing weight rather than gaining it all because they wouldn’t get out of the way & I was tired of all this drama. So one of these days my roommate & I get an over night pass. We needed a break from all that chaos. I think we left for 4 days. Something like that. I know for 2 of those days my daughter had gotten sick & that��s why I booked myself a hotel room so she wasn’t getting the other kids in there sick. So once her fever went down we went back. I had noticed that our cabinets were basically empty. That family had eaten most of our food. I decided to stay out of it. The food wasn’t worth it to me even if I was upset about it. I knew I could go and buy food when I got hungry. Fast forward a couple of days, my daughter & I had been basically keeping to ourselves and hanging out in the room. I only at 2 times a day for like a week. Once at 5 in the morning and my other time was midnight. Those were the times I knew I could get to my food without being bombarded at the kitchen. My roommate decided she was going to put her kid on a schedule to keep him busy but unfortunately those plans fell through. Her plan before bed was he was allowed to watch a movie so he didn’t get nightmares. Well, again.. we could find the tv remote so that wasn’t even an option. Now to the day I left for the 2 weeks. I was sitting in the living room with my daughter watching tv because I downloaded an app that worked as a remote & the family came home did they’re thing bang stuff around, bombarding the kitchen, & talking extremely loud & basically talking shit about us. Mainly the 17 year old girl. Up until this point the mother had never told her daughter to have some respect. But the 17 year old girl had no intentions on listening to her mother. To be continued.

[enrapture]

It’s 6:49am as I’m writing this

I feel like symbolically I’m at a public pool during summer time. A lot of kids /adults young and old around. Life guards on their little high chairs. They’ve blown the whistle to not swim for at least 10 minutes. And everyone is sitting around the pool waiting. I think it was because of chlorine or something I’m not too sure. I know they used to say wait before eating (idk if it’s a myth or not) but I remember getting told that in shows and sometimes in passing. Besides the point. but if you ever lived in Georgia (idk if it’s the same in other places Georgia is where I was born and raised and what I experienced when swimming at public pools) is that they’d blow the whistle sometimes and have you sit along the edge and wait til you can swim again. Well, there were times where my brother would push me in the pool when we weren’t supposed to be swimming and I got whistled and yelled at about it. But he thought it was the funniest shit in the world. Now I didn’t drown I was an okay swimmer at the time and got back up but it took A LONG TIME for me to master swimming because Mind you, as a kid I drowned A LOT…. sometimes my siblings would dunk me under and hold me there or not help me when I was struggling and sometimes my family would dress me up to go swimming and throw me in the pool with my cousins at their house and I remember having panic attacks at a very young age…. Haha I remember the first time was a bathtub my siblings held me under. I was a baby…. Anyway that’s a little tiny as fuck crumb of a very larger scale of trauma I have to share with you / for you in regards to this but I feel like my thoughts are (me the child who’s pushed in the pool) and I’m drowning in the water (my thoughts are drowning me tonight. So many overwhelming emotions and feelings about so many things. Feeling like I’m not being listened to when I express something that bothers me and a few other things that I won’t go into detail because you’re a reader you don’t care you’re just looking for something to pick at me at or be nosy. But ir sucks when you feel lonely man. It sucks feeling like you talk but it’s all not heard or felt it’s just blown away in the wind in passing. It sucks speaking to deaf ears I guess is what I’m trying to say. I feel like the child who got pushed in the pool (my thoughts overwhelming me feeling like a black hole suffocating me out of my oxygen and everyone around me watches and won’t lend a hand or anything to easily help me out of it fuck just by listening at the very least and then what’s supposed to be considered the life guard in the situation symbolizes myself like just sitting not knowing what to do as if I’m a teen who just signed up for a credit to get it over with to look pretty but not actually do anything so to speak like what it seems like a lot of life guards are idk though. But yeah all I can do is watch myself from a distance slowly but surely struggle and idk what to do in that instance. It sucks feeling alone man. It sucks feeling like no one really cares. It sucks feeling trapped in so many different ways. It sucks thinking about things that you can’t change. Thinking about things out of your control. It sucks going to a job you hate and living in a tiny as fuck bum fuck area that has barely any jobs. It sucks feeling used. It sucks feeling like you’re fucking crazy for feeling things deeply. It sucks feeling like your adhd ruins relationships/friendships with people because you get passionate about things and wanna express yourself but always feeling like you talk to much, are too much, are too fucking weird. It sucks feeling like you have absolutely no one…. All of it is shit or at least feels like it Right now. I know this too shall pass. Believe me I know… i I guess I just feel so alone rn and I feel like no one cares, wants to know or will even remotely care to listen. I feel like no one gets me or wants to understand me and I’m just …. Here dealing with all this and it’s suffocating to say the least. All the things contradict one another. :( it doesn’t help

And before you say seek therapy it’s more complicated than that if you understood the whole entire segment. You don’t know til you know. Til I tell you the entire thing. Anyway, enough of my bitching since I’m considered apparently a ‘bitch’ on this site, I’m going to try to sleep even though I think I’ll be up for the next few hours staring at the ceiling and crying off and on like the little bitch I am. I hope everyone has a great rest of your day. And thank you, if you’ve gotten this far enough to take the time to read this. As I know this is unnecessarily a lot… and if you end up dm’ing me afterwards about all this, know that I appreciate it. ♡

[loquaciousquark]

Talks Machina Highlights - Critical Role C2E91 (Jan. 21, 2020)

Good evening, everyone! Sorry about missing last week; @eponymous-rose​ was out of town and I had some other commitments. Regardless, here we are! Brian is looking handsome and cold, as are Sam & Travis on the couch. Everyone is wearing coats. Is the heat broken?

That said, tonight’s guests are Travis Willingham & Sam Riegel.

Brian starts us off asking Sam if he’s remaking the Wire in Beverly Hills. Sam basically embodies that hello fellow kids meme tonight in a hand-knitted beanie from his wife, a bomber jacket, a yellow tee, and skinny jeans. They quickly photoshop in smoke trailing out of his mouth. We’re just a few minutes in and this is off the rails already.

Announcements: The next issue (#5) of Vox Machina comics comes out Wednesday, Feb. 19! It’s also available online at Dark Horse Digital and Comixology. And that’s it! Huh.

Episode 91: Stone to Clay

Brian tells us this is the first time ever to have Sam & Travis alone on Talks. I’m stunned and so are they. Sam says, “between me, Brian, Dani, and Travis right now, there’s four tens on this show right now.”

We’re already into questions less than ten minutes into the show. Truly this is a remarkable night.

63 in game days and 21 episodes passed between Caduceus’s first mention of Stone (episode 71) and Fjord connecting the dots. Travis blames the internet connection and his really bad ADHD night, as that was the night he and Laura remoted in from the hotel.

Brian tells us that when Ashley used to skype in, she could only see Matt & couldn’t see or really hear anyone else.

Travis says there was a huge delay for him between mouths moving and the audio coming through, and then that audio was pretty distorted. Laura could handle it okay, but Travis just heard a jumble and couldn’t parse it.

Sam took a CBD bath the other day and found it exactly as relaxing as a normal bath. Sam & Travis commiserate about taking baths only to have their knees pop out of the water. Tall people problems smh

Caleb & Nott completed the spell in less than a week, including dealing with the Angel of Irons & brokering peace treaties. Travis though the laughter was going to be Helas.

Travis says he definitely didn’t hear the name the first time (he remembered dust but not stone from the lava pits). “Look! Yes! No, I was not listening before! Thursday nights are my times to enjoy my friends and food! Marisha is an amazing note-taker; why would I ever take my own? This is how I got through college!”

Sam says he keeps a mission checklist in his head and has for ages. He has a page in his notebook labeled “To Do” that includes things like visiting Kiri or Shakaste, in case they have downtime and need ideas.

Travis asks if he continues writing in his (apparently) very small handwriting, and Sam says he has to leave room for Laura to draw all her dicks. They all marvel that she is actually a very good artist.

Travis honestly still thinks the Stone name is a huge coincidence, especially since Taliesin didn’t have access to Fjord’s last name when he created Caduceus’s last name and backstory. Sam challenges Travis that even if that were true, doesn’t he think Matt will find a way to tie it together?

Travis says Fjord doesn’t want anything to do with the last name and it’s not even his real name. He’s not convinced this isn’t a coincidence.

Travis did a lot of research into orphanage naming conventions when coming up with Stone. He does have a backstory as to how the orphanage manager picked Stone as his name.

Travis thinks Matt would have emphasized the Stone name more sooner if it had been a true connection and not coincidence.

Brian: “He does like to take credit for coincidences, doesn’t he?”

Nott didn’t think there was a catch in the ritual; Sam was more surprised they were allowed to achieve the milestone at all. He was shocked it happened so soon in the story and that the spell is relatively easy to cast.

He didn’t know it would fail, but there was a moment when he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go through with it. Travis agrees everyone was shocked when it didn’t work.

Fjord’s current stance on faith and destiny hasn’t changed since the last time he discussed it. Faith is a slow thing for Fjord and he really does think the name is a coincidence.

Sam as a player is excited to see what comes next for Nott; “if she had been transformed into Veth at that moment, I would have been excited to see what comes next. The fact that it’s still Nott makes me excited too. I’m excited to see more of Nott since she’s the best character in the M9.” He also confesses he was a bit relieved, in part because it’s delayed the inevitable. At some point she must decide if she is going to stay or go with the M9.

Cosplay of the Week: @kajicosplays​ on instagram of a lovely lady Percy. Brian: “Isn’t it fun when Taliesin’s characters live?”

Deep down, Nott knows she will do the transformation at some point, but at that last moment where she had to make a decision she had to check in with herself to make sure she was ready. Sam Riegel as a D&D player also knows that you have to trust your DM and make choices.

Brian misreads the word “ribbing.” Sam teaches Travis what rimming is. We all learn a lot about each other.

Sam thinks Fjord can realize when the time comes to set jokes aside. He thinks Fjord was very respectful. Travis has honestly forgotten that the conversation took place.

Travis has Dani answer from Fjord’s perspective. It’s actually pretty insightful, talking about how Fjord recognized someone hesitant to give up these newfound powers that have become intrinsically tied to self-worth.

Fjord has always been loyal, and Travis sees his protectiveness of the M9 as a logical extension of this.

Right now, he has found some agency & self-direction and is hopeful to share that sense with everyone else (he especially mentions Yasha).

Sam & Travis start quoting from Half-Baked. This is chaos.

Nott does want to stay with the M9, but she also wants to go home for sure, both of those things. The kiss with Caleb wasn’t necessarily a goodbye; it felt like the closing of a chapter. It felt like something to mark the end of the experience.

Now they’re quoting Beverly Hills Cop. Oh, boy.

“You look like you wrote Pitch Perfect.” When did this turn into a roast?

Fjord has no memories earlier than the orphanage (The Driftwood Asylum). There were a couple dozen kids there aside from him; Travis thinks some of them might have been named Stone. It also operated as a small child-labor workshop for carpentry & woodshop stuff. “It was a terrible place all around.” He has no images of parents or being dropped off.

Sam thought the Nott transformation would be more endgame, though he feels it makes sense that it’s not. “While Nott transforming into Veth was my original goal, what’s great about these long games is that your goals can change two or three times before the end. Now I can explore all these other things: does she want to go back and be a housewife? How does she rectify her obligations to her husband and child to the life that she’s made with the M9? It’s so exciting and interesting.”

Brian asks a hypothetical: if she could transform back but lose all Nott’s memories, would she do it? Sam: “Oh, that’s tough. I don’t know.”

Fanart of the Week: a lovely piece by @pen_draws with everyone in the hot tub.

Travis is very trepidatious about returning to the open ocean after rejecting Uk’otoa. He wants to make sure the third temple is sealed. It feels like it would be too easy for someone not to come and try to collect the job he left half-finished. He also wants to go back to Darktow.

Sam doesn’t know if Nott is still in love with Yeza, although she definitely still loves him. He’s playing with the idea of a high school sweetheart being exposed to the world and then going back home. But Yeza’s amazing, a great guy, perfect. “I guess we’ll find out when/if she turns back into Veth.” Sam feels guilty talking about him. “He’s a fictional character and I feel guilty that he might be watching the show.”

Neither Nott nor Fjord trust Essek. Travis: “He just went from being cold and aloof to being really warm. I know there’s been time and he’s lived an isolated life, but...time will show if he’s being genuine. All of our haunches were up. All of us were on level five alert.” He’s being so helpful that Travis doesn’t trust Mercer with him.

Fjord never ever considered becoming a paladin of the Traveler. “No. Fuck no!” The Wildmother reached out and directly intervened to save him. Travis gets super creepy bad vibes from the Traveler’s relationship with Jester (Sam agrees).

Nott feels more pressure when her own problems become the focus. It’s hard for her to open up and talk about her feelings. She’d rather pick up on other people’s problems. Sam also acknowledges it’s more pressure on him (and anyone) as a player when the whole table is looking at you.

And that’s that! Is it Thursday yet?

[zionmarches]

hello all ! i’m asya, i’m 22, i use she/her pronouns and i’m very nervous excited to be here !! i haven’t been in an rp for well over a year now so i might be rusty pls bare w me<3

❛ ♫ · » jordan fisher, nonbinary, he/they «  wow …  zion march  just  told  me  that  their  band,  cold stare,  got  accepted  into  that  battle  of  the  bands  thing.  wait,  you  don't  know  them?  i  could've  sworn  i  saw  you  two  together  at  that thrift shop on higher hithe street.  well,  nevermind.  they're  twenty-three,  and  they're  the bassist  of  the  band.  when  they're  not  playing  music,  you  can  usually  find  them teaching music class at the local secondary school. i  think  you'd  like  them—  they're  so cheerful,  but  …  also  kind  of  obnoxious, i  suppose.  you'll  know  it's  Z  if  you  ever  meet  them,  because  they're  the  walking  embodiment  of  sunlight bouncing off of stained glass, giving even more life to what was already beautiful. 

zion comes from a large family of ten: their mothers, three sisters and four brothers, all adopted, with him being the second youngest. this environment definitely lended to his large personality. with so many kids, there was always constant competition for any and everything-- space, attention, the remote control. that said, their home couldn’t have been more loving. his mothers, who zion considers to be the most incredible people on earth, provided everything and more for their kids and for each other. 

he was diagnosed with adhd at a young age. his moms, by then, knew what sort of things were outside the norm for hyperactivity in kids and zion fit the bill. from as early as kindergarten, teachers would send him home with letters complaining about his inability to be still in class, outbursts during quiet time, and failure to take in simple concepts that his peers understood immediately. as he grew up, he became incredibly self conscious about this fact. for one thing, no matter how hard he tried (he tried, he tried, he tried), he was always just barely scraping by in his classes. it was a massive cause of stress and self doubt all throughout secondary school, to the point where he cried when told he’d passed and would be graduating. for another, their loud and fidgety presence wasn’t always welcome around their peers. being friendly with others was something that came naturally to zion. being friends was a whole other issue entirely. of course, he’s always had his siblings, as well as his three best friends who would later go on to be his bandmates, but for someone as extroverted as zion, they couldn’t act like it didn’t hurt to be seen as annoying (at best) by other kids his age.

zion isn’t quite sure he was really alive until the first time he played bass. with so many kids to keep track of, it helped his moms to have them engaged in activities in and out of school. for a while, zion’s thing was whatever one of his siblings was doing. football, art lessons, gymnastics (briefly), things that he did just because he’d never really given much thought as to what he liked. that much changed when one of his brothers started taking guitar lessons, so zion decided he would take guitar lessons. when asked what kind of guitar he wanted to play, not-quite-ten zion just sort of.. guessed. in this, they were incredibly lucky. from the first note he played, harsh and out of tune, he felt a joy unlike any he’d experienced before. it turned out, learning to play music traditionally wasn’t any easier for him than learning long division. he announced to his moms that he would be quitting lessons and teaching himself. and that’s what he did. in his off time, he played and played until his fingers hurt or someone told him to stop. he watched videos, listened to new music, practiced all he could until he could replicate bass lines to all of his favorite songs and then some. to this day, it remains one of his proudest accomplishments. 

when it comes to gender and sexuality, there’s a lot up in the air for zion. it wasn’t until late in his secondary school career that he even began to think about those things. they’d never been in a relationship, even now, and thought that theoretically, when they did it could very well be with anyone who was kind and made him laugh. “the gender thing”, as they called it when talking to their parents about it, didn’t come up until after graduating from university. they, of course, gave zion ample resources to help in figuring things out, but still he figured it was something he would come into in his own time. it’s not something they really acknowledge outside of their circle of family and close friends, aside from the cursory “he/they” in his social media bios.

zion’s family was more than a little well off - they had to be, to afford taking care of eight kids - which gave them a lot of freedom in life. even having moved out of the house, his parents still took care of him and his siblings. if it was what he wanted, cold stare could be his full time gig and he wouldn’t suffer for it financially. that wasn’t, of course, the case for all of his bandmates. so, zion went back to school, studied music and education. it wasn’t any easier for them than it had been in secondary school, but now they had a goal in mind, and the determination to push him the rest of the way. after graduating, they took a job as the music teacher at the local secondary school. ideally the job would have just been a way to make himself useful to society when away from the band, but the reality was so much better than he could have hoped. zion loved teaching. he loved his classroom and how he could make it a place for kids to feel safe, and welcomed, and understood, all while learning about music. it was a dream come true.

zion’s family has only continued to grow over the years as his siblings went off and had kids of their own. they’re an uncle several times over, and love their nieces and nephews to pieces. tight at their schedule might be most days, they never hesitate to break the flow of things to spend time with his family, as they’ve always been the most important thing, second not even to music

despite having enough money to shop elsewhere, zion buys most of their clothes from local thrift shops and flea markets. this is because his sense of fashion is, in a word, atrocious, and he finds the best gets there. he dresses the part of emo-kid-never-met-a-color-that-isnt-black on stage, because he figures the music should speak louder than his knee length muppet socks, but elsewhere he’s mostly a high waisted corduroy pants and bright yellow windbreakers kind of guy.

they adopted a cat when they moved out of the house. her name is iris (after the song) and she’s their best friend. they spoil her much more than is reasonable, but deny it whenever its brought up.

[honeylikewords]

Frank being a dad to Peter is my all time fave! To consider: little kids are always brutally honest so we can assume Peter was the same, even when it came to frank's crush on the kind single mom who lives across from them. the night before Peter asked if frank "like liked" her, he chuckled and ruffled his sons hair "think I do bud." He didn't expect Peter to march down the hall the next morning, ring the doorbell and loudly announce "my dad is in love with you, will you come over for dinner?"

GOD THIS IS SO C U U U U T E 

(please don’t tag as k@stle, thank you!)

Peter is just really blunt and really honest because 1) I’ve always headcanoned Peter as being a combination ADHD-autism spectrum, so honesty is just his go-to and he can’t, on a very fundamental level, get his head around why lies or “tactfulness” are supposed to be good things 2) He’s a kiddo, so kids are just straight up and don’t see why lying is needed (unless they’re being Crafty(TM)) and 3) His dad always taught him to be forthright, sincere, and truthful, so he’s not gonna LIE and go against everything his dad taught him!

So when he catches his dad smiling a lot after the nice lady brought them a casserole, or how Frank will make an extra effort to wave at her when they meet in the hall, Peter starts to catch on. He recognizes that kinda behavior from TV and from how the older people he’s met and talked to describe their feelings, and so he puts the pieces together in his head.

“Dad,” he says, one night, as they’re sitting on the couch, Frank watching the news and Peter coloring in his Paw Patrol coloring book, “Do you like the lady who brings us tater tots?”

“From over in 4b?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, scribbling one of the dogs a firetruck red hat. “Her.”

“Sure I do, buddy.”

“Right, but do you like her?”

“I just said I did,” reiterates Frank as he clicks the remote to change the channel to Food Network. 

“But do you like like her, Dad?”

Frank takes a moment, pretending to be very invested in this episode of “some person cooking some kind pasta dish with unnecessary zucchini”. Then he smiles and Peter can see the creases around his eyes rise as Frank turns his face away to hide his smile behind his hand.

“Yeah, bud. I think so.”

“...That’s really great!”

Peter climbs up out of his spot on the couch and crawls over to Frank’s lap and gives his dad a big hug, grinning up at his shyly smiling father, Frank desperately trying to pretend his isn’t as happily flustered as he is.

The next day, Peter has his slightly too big backpack on and waddles over to the apartment door for 4b, then rings the doorbell. Fast footsteps are heard and the lock clicks open to reveal a girl of Peter’s own height and age, peering out at Peter from the crack in between the door and the frame.

“Hi, Peter!”

“Hi,” he smiles back. “Is your mom home? I gotta tell her somethin’.”

“Yeah!”

She runs off to get her mother, then returns to the door, guiding her mom by her hand. The woman looks slightly confused, but more in a happily-exasperated way than an annoyed one. She waves at Peter kindly and asks him what it is he needs.

“I gotta tell you somethin’!”

“Yes, Peter, what is it?”

Peter adjusts his backpack straps and looks up at her with a big, broad, crook-toothed smile.

“My dad said he like-likes you, which also means he loves you, and I think he’d really like it if you love him too, so I think you should come to our house and eat dinner and have a playdate, or real date, I dunno! Anyway, bye.”

He turns around and starts walking back to his apartment, only to look up and see Frank leaning out the doorway, bright red across the face. Frank had been trying to flag Peter down to get him back inside for lunch, only to overhear the whole conversation.

Frank makes sheepish eye contact with the woman frozen in her doorway, her daughter still holding her hand, and Frank balks, making the most embarrassed, uncomfortable smile in his life.

“A-huh, urgh, uh, kids, am I right?,” Frank says with all the shame in the world ringing in his voice.

He then grabs Peter and guides him back inside the apartment before shutting the door in a nervous gut-reaction to hide from the consequences of his son’s need to tell the truth.

Frank is getting ready to give Peter the scolding of a lifetime for “spreading rumors” and “twisting the truth” when he hears a gentle knock at the door and his stomach drops with anxiety. He peers out the peephole and, oh, god, it’s her, and she’s standing at their door, rocking back and forth on her heels.

He shoots Peter a look that reeks with “one peep and you’re grounded ‘til you die” energy, then opens the door shyly, rubbing his neck.

“Heeeyyyyy.”

“Hi, Frank.”

An uncomfortable, silent beat passes between them before both start talking at once.

“About what happened--” “Peter sometimes says things--”

“You first,” she says, seeming flustered.

“Well, uh, I just... I didn’t say that to Peter. I didn’t say I love you. That’d be way too weird to tell my six year old.”

“Oh, absolutely,” she agrees as she gives Frank a warm, slightly skewed smile.

“But... you know, I... I did say that I like you.” Frank takes a deep breath, trying to swallow his shame. “And I meant that.”

“...Oh, thank God.”

“What?”

“Because I was coming over here to say that maybe we should go out. You know, on a trial run.”

Frank grips his door, making it squeak slightly under his strong hands. He blinks at her once, then twice. Then beams, broad and wide, from ear to ear.

“...You forreal?”

“Well, yeah,” she replies with a sweet shrug, seeming so cute that Frank wants to cut all pretense and just kiss her. “I mean, we shouldn’t let our kids get too involved--”

“‘Course not,” Frank agrees.

“--But I think it’d be... nice to see you more, Frank. So how does dinner sound? My place? Seven, tomorrow?”

“...I would like that.”

They hover in the door for a second, unsure of what to do, until she leans forward and, ever so subtly, kisses his right cheek, making Frank tense up with an overabundance of emotions and stimulus. She gives him a tender smile, then makes her goodbyes, headed back for her apartment.

As Frank closes his apartment door and lets out the breath he’s been clutching onto for dear life, he turns to see Peter peering at him from behind the couch, smiling ruefully.

“She kissed you, Dad,” he says, pointing. “She like likes you, too!”

“Pipe down, boy,” Frank grumbles with a grin. “Come eat lunch, and no more matchmaking ‘til you’re twenty.”

[waitingforyou21]

3/3/2021 11:47 A.M.

I love being in bed so damn much, sometimes I think it’s my favorite place to be in the world.....No obligations, nobody to answer to—just comfort and softness and releasing tension <3 I think about my dream bed all the time: it would be an Alaska-sized mattress with a tempurpedic topper (and if I really got to dream, it would be remote controlled like Syd’s brother’s so that you could sit up 90 degrees if you wanted to. This is such a useful feature because you never have to fuss with the pillows when you need to sit up), the sheets would be made of something that gets cold and stays cold easily (because I am chronically overheated) and the duvet would be big and puffy (and also cold). There would be a couple other blankets on there—maybe some for sentimental value—but my weighted blanket would be on top of everything else. I would have my perfectly-fluffed pregnancy pillow and my heating pad always nearby, and of course Muffin, my stuffed animal I was given before I was born and will never let go. Also, I’d have a bunch of pillows (none of the decorative ones) around me even if I wasn’t using them, because I love to be securely surrounded when I sleep. As a kid, I would set up all my stuffed animals around me in a circle at night when I was scared, and then I moved on to only putting a pillow on my back for a sense of protection. I don’t care much about the colors of my bed or anything, but I’d want it to look as sentimental and comfy as possible—shitty handmade pillow-cases, maybe some old quilts.

I have had such an awful relationship with sleep for most of my life, and only recently (after getting on mirtazapine) have I stopped dreading bedtime and started loving the comfort and safety of being in my own bed. At age 12-13 I had panic attacks (with at least weekly episodes of sleep paralysis) every night without fail for about 7 months straight. It only happened at night when I got in bed—I would suddenly not be able to get a deep breath and it wouldn’t go away until I passed out from exhaustion. I would just pace back and forth throughout the house while my mom stayed nearby because I didn’t really know what anxiety or panic attacks were and I just thought I was gonna die. My mom couldn’t keep doing this with me every night, so I would often just be up on Minecraft playing on the Hypixel server until I couldn’t physically keep my eyes open anymore, would sleep for a couple hours, then pop a Vyvanse and be a robot for 9 hrs at school. Or I would just completely cry myself to sleep. I dreaded bedtime because I knew I’d just be laying there for hours without knowing how to shut my mind off at best, being unable to get a deep breath for hours or have horrible sleep paralysis at worst. I really wish my ADHD was approached/handled with more care and compassion, because being on Vyvanse at that age really fucked me up. I wish my parents would have believed me when I complained about feeling completely numb and having no personality at school when I was on Vyvanse (and even Ritalin). Or they didn’t seem to care when I would complain about how much pain I was in, or how little I ate. I could never sing properly in choir and I had tics like my dad—needing to stretch or swallow repeatedly and freaking out when I couldn’t. I remember kids getting excited when I didn’t take my meds because I was so much more fun and outgoing. I hated taking them but I was so productive when I was on them, and that’s all that mattered to my teachers and parents. It all started when I began to not turn in any assignments and to get bad grades on everything in 4th-5th grade, because I never studied and never knew when anything was due.

I was publicly humiliated for the first time by a teacher in 4th grade, Ms. Franks. It was grandparents day, and we were doing some busy work and finishing up little assignments, making arts and crafts with our parents/grandparents, etc. Those who finished early got to leave class to be a guide for the grandparents in the front office. I don’t remember why exactly I lied, but I was almost done with my work anyways and didn’t see a point to finishing it right away, so I told a little white lie and said I was finished so I could get out of class. I got down to the office with my friends and was there for only a few minutes before I hear my name on the intercom asking me to go back to class. My heart instantly sank as I knew I was in trouble and I was so scared. I walked back and immediately, in front of the whole class and multiple parents, Ms. Franks screamed at me for being a liar and said it was so unfair of me to get to go have fun. I bawled my eyes out and was so humiliated, I still don’t know how a grown woman could do that to a 9yr old who never misbehaved. Then I got yelled at again in 6th grade in front of the whole class by my English teacher, because I lied and said I was done with my work when really I was very behind. I knew I had to ask her a question about the assignment for weeks, and I procrastinated doing it because I was scared of being yelled at and humiliated. And rightfully so. And then I would go home and get in even more trouble from my mom (and my dad but he has never really been a parent to me, I just can’t make myself attach that concept to him) I had to lie to her all the time and she really made middle school a living hell for me. I would always have to tell my friends at school in advance that I was about to get my phone taken up for awhile. My mom would always threaten me and I dreaded coming home as much as I dreaded going to school. But school was better because at least I had some friends that would make me laugh and be kind to me. But that was only in public school, because once I got to Oakridge everything really got miserable for me. Girls were so damn mean. I wasn’t safe at school, and I wasn’t safe at home. I was such an easy target because I never defended myself, I just wanted to be treated kindly or left alone. I wish I would’ve gotten a little violent; I wish I would’ve known I deserved to be respected instead of just taking the abuse. I still love my Mom and my dad, and I don’t have high standards for parents of that generation. I love me so I can love them—I love them so I can love me

[fuckthatbitch240]

Hello, my name is Esmay. I’m a 30 year old from Arizona. I’m currently stuck in a horrible predicament. I’m 7 months pregnant, & I have an 8 month old infant daughter. I moved my daughter & I to a Domestic Violence shelter TOS here in Payson AZ. Things were good. Up until 2 weeks ago. I did what I thought would be a good thing for a family that barely moved in, I was translating for them. They couldn’t speak English. Well, this family got close to the kids that were there, they kept the tv control in their room & it became to be an issue due to the family spoiling the kids. The other mothers were now being ignored by their own children. There was one kid that was impacted the worst. This was a 4 year old boy with ADHD. He started telling his mother how much he hated her, & refused to listen to any of her demands. He wanted nothing to do with his mother. Well here I go trying to figure something out between them. So the non English speaking family could understand that my roommate didn’t want them to give her children candy or popsicles at night. Initially the family seemed to be understanding. Except they kept on feeding the kids popsicles, & it got to the point where my roommates kid was running away from his mother & hiding in their room. So seeing as things haven’t stopped my roommate decided she’d better go talk to the staff. Well, she went to them & explained that she didn’t care if the kids played with them. (mainly the 17 year old girl.) So, of course the shelter agreed to speak to them. Now mind you around this time, I haven’t spoken to them because they were walking around acting like the whole house belonged to them. The 17 year old always had the TV on in the middle of the night with the volume up to 85. The 15 year old boy was constantly eating our food. Even if we had written our name on our stuff. If you buy it or get it from their pantry it has to have your name or initials written on it. That way no one can take your food. Or so they claim that those are the rules. Anyways, like I had previously mentioned, I’m 7 months pregnant, anytime I would try to go to the kitchen this family would literally go out of their ways to congregate around the kitchen island & make it difficult for the other families to get their food to cook or even to go outside. I started losing weight rather than gaining it all because they wouldn’t get out of the way & I was tired of all this drama. So one of these days my roommate & I get an over night pass. We needed a break from all that chaos. I think we left for 4 days. Something like that. I know for 2 of those days my daughter had gotten sick & that’s why I booked myself a hotel room so she wasn’t getting the other kids in there sick. So once her fever went down we went back. I had noticed that our cabinets were basically empty. That family had eaten most of our food. I decided to stay out of it. The food wasn’t worth it to me even if I was upset about it. I knew I could go and buy food when I got hungry. Fast forward a couple of days, my daughter & I had been basically keeping to ourselves and hanging out in the room. I only at 2 times a day for like a week. Once at 5 in the morning and my other time was midnight. Those were the times I knew I could get to my food without being bombarded at the kitchen. My roommate decided she was going to put her kid on a schedule to keep him busy but unfortunately those plans fell through. Her plan before bed was he was allowed to watch a movie so he didn’t get nightmares. Well, again.. we could find the tv remote so that wasn’t even an option. Now to the day I left for the 2 weeks. I was sitting in the living room with my daughter watching tv because I downloaded an app that worked as a remote & the family came home did they’re thing bang stuff around, bombarding the kitchen, & talking extremely loud & basically talking shit about us. Mainly the 17 year old girl. Up until this point the mother had never told her daughter to have some respect. But the 17 year old girl had no intentions on listening to her mother. To be continued.

[feilongfan]

A day of Jimmy Logan Run

Source: http://instagram.com/j.spankybunch

Channing Tatum is on the road to promote Logan Lucky since August 6, 2017. He visited many poor American towns and here is a story by artist Josh Spanky Bunch who met him on Monday August 7th.

It was raining hard in Evarts, and the world seemed very small. The landscape was dark green, and muddy water puddled up in every low place. The white, rental vans pulled cautiously, into view, the shiny paint contrasting sharply, with our surroundings.

I watched him get out slowly, tired, and road weary. It was early morning, and Channing Tatum, was in the middle of nowhere, Harlan County, USA. In a momment, he had pulled on a smile, and extended a friendly hand, to all who greeted him. He took time, to make eye contact, with each person, and asked for names, as he juggled a black Sharpie, between hands. His small team was kind, and seemed to be a natural extension, of him.

His motorcycle waited for him, at the trail head, and his energy began to mount. Within minutes, he was in full gear, with no sign of fatigue, and speeding through the trails, with childlike abandonment. It was easy to see, that he was an experienced rider, and that he was taken, by our Eastern Kentucky Mountains.

He, and his team, were gracious enough, to invite me to lunch with them, and we enjoyed a wonderful, home cooked meal, with the Crider family. It was a traditional Appalachian spread, with real mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, roast and breaded chicken. At no point, did I feel out of place, and I never saw him, reaching for conversation.

Channing was warm, and engaging. He was genuine, in his interest of everyone around him. I could see, that he saw his small crew, as a group of equals, and that they all addressed him plainly. He passed the dishes, and displayed exquisite manners, and charm. We all found common ground, and he picked up my nickname. We laughed over stories. And he belly laughed as I showed him a video of 6 year old Gavin Miles and Trooper Shawn Darby mowing down cadets with simunition rounds. He listened compationately to Gavin’s story. It was very exciting. He was an open book.

I’ve had some other experiences, with celebrity. I have been in the room, when their egos sucked the air out of it, and talking with them, felt like lifting weights. His friends call him, “Chan”, and it was obvious, that he didn’t feel like he was a “Big Deal”’.

We talked favorite books, and politics, and Harlan, and art. I found out that this was a textured guy, who is family centered. We talked dirty diapers, and getting kids to sleep. “Dirty diapers, and sleepless nights, are the kinds of things humility is made of…that will keep your world small”, he joked. It was clear, that he had unconditional love, for his family, and that they came first.

We talked about my art work, and the opioid epedimic, lost jobs, and the need for hope. “I’m buying a couple pieces of your work”, he said……..I was over the moon.

I was also, soaked through, from the torrential rain, as everyone else was. They gave me, one of his under t-shirts, and I glanced at the tag. It was from Wal-Mart…..He was human, and I was a little dry.

As we left the beautiful, bed and breakfast, he was rushed by fans. Somthing caught his eye…a lady…visibly pregnant, was trying desperately to reach him, running up hill, across the broken sidewalk, in flip flops.

“No…No… please, don’t run!”, he called out, to her. “Let me come to you!” I knew, with the constraints, of his schedule, he had no time for this, but he stood, and took every selfie, and signed every autograph.

Channing was kind enough, to agree to visit, the Troops on the ground at Post 10. He wanted to know about Trooper Shane Jacobs, and his, “Shop with a Trooper” program. He was interested, in how we combat poverty, and hoplessness, in one of the most remote, and poverty stricken places, in the country.

We pulled into a full parking lot, at the oldest state police post in the state. Channing, unconsciously, dried his feet, before stepping inside, and eagerly greeted all those, who enthusiastically met him. He was now, well off schedule, and I knew it. Every minute he patiently spent here, was costing him significantly, in man hours, and productivity, but he was in no hurry.

He found my desk, in the back, and we talked about the authentic Bobby hat, that my friend, Mark Greenslade, had sent me. It sits prominately, on top of my hutch. He openly shared with us his childhood struggle with dyslexia and ADHD.

This amazed me because his job requires so much reading, comprehension and application. Channing, and his team, interviewed Shane, about the “Shop with a Trooper” program, and he kindly pledged his support.

“Coats are important, when you are cold, and when your parents are selling food stamps, to support their drug habit.” I told him. We made our way, to Cloverfork mine, located in the Kits community, of Harlan. The mine was shut down in 1957, and left, exactly the way it was, when the last miner returned his accountability tag, to the board. The owners believed, that they might return here one day, reincarnated, and forbade it, to be altered.

Channing, and his team, walked around with me, over the “Red Dog” road, that ran through, the eerily, preserved mining camp. The cameras were rolling, and Channing was interviewing me, as an artist, a person, and about my take, on our way of life. We talked poverty, industry, and again…..hope. I was taken again, by how well he worked, with his team. He considered them his peers, and he valued their creative input. These folks were well knit, like a finely tuned basketball team, navigating a full court press. We made our way to the commissary building, and were allowed a rare, special access. The worn, wood door creaked open; the compartment smelled heavy, and empty. It was a bit surreal. I was reminded of the old Scooby Doo cartoons that I watched growing up in Slabtown……….as the climactic theme music just before a commercial break played in my head.

Channing Tatum and I, were on an adventure, in Harlan County, USA. A calender, on the wall of the commissary, was frozen, in April of 1957. The shelves were still stocked, and fine baby clothing lingered, unused, in the dust covered glass cases. An ancient, cast iron, cable driven, freight elevator, sat full of cobwebs. Channing approached it, and climbed inside. The caretaker of the mine, told him that it still worked….By the condition of the elevator, I was quickly able to deduce, that this was a fact, not tested…….lately.

I joked with Channing that, while millions of women would doubtlessly disagree, being stuck on an elevator with him, was not on my bucket list.

Channing is a lover of history, and an intellectual. At this point, I had long discarded any sense of his celebrity. I was hanging out with a fellow history buff, in a place, that time had forgotten. We explored the dimly lit compartments, in equal awe, of the ruin, and preservation. I felt like I was a sidekick, in an Indiana Jones film…..not because of Channing’s fame, but because of his adventurous spirit.

As we parted ways, I collected my thoughts. This was a man, who has a feverish, love and respect, for his wife, child, family, and friends. He is his own man. I confess to his many fans that if your a fan…..your adoration is well placed. If you have the pleasure of meeting him you will only be an even bigger fan. The phrase “down to earth” doesn’t begin to do he and his coleagues justice. Maybe it was that I saw him subconsciously wipe his feet at every doorway or give so freely of himself. I think it was because in him I saw an authentic man……not an actor……that I wanted to be more like as a human being.

I went home that night and as I tucked Kambree, Kinsley and Karamya Tate into bed I told them a story about a man that I had met that shared with me stories of his many travels in the world and he even had visited the Amazon where he hunted with a bow. I hope that I see Channing again because he is the kind of guy you would want to cook out with and have as a neighbor and talk books and adventure. For one day in Harlan……….a place full of beauty and despair a movie man came to town………and the people with eager faces had hope in their hearts that they might catch a glimpse of Hollywood……….a place as far from them as the moon. For those who met him it will be a story that lasts a lifetime. Thank you my friend.

I hope that you will all come out to Share and support Channing’ s new movie…..Logan Lucky! It is much about our mountain spirit and was proudly filmed in Appalachia….a lively tale about a former coal miner turned Robin Hood. I can’t wait to see it.

[welcometophu]

Revelations 1

Twinned Book 1: Commit to the Kick

Revelations 1

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Alaric is wary when Pawel pulls into the driveway of a small farmhouse. They left PHU on Sunday afternoon, right after his second game of the weekend, and they’ve been on the road in Vermont for several hours. The last shopping area Alaric spotted was at least twenty minutes back and when he’d commented on how remote they were, Rory pointed out that the similarities between hippies and Clan were strong. Conor snickered.

They all climb out of the car, and Pawel stands with his hand on Conor’s shoulder, while Alaric stands behind them.

“You don’t need to be afraid of anyone here,” Rory says, and heads straight up the stairs onto the porch, then pauses only long enough to knock once on the door. He pushes it open, calls out, “We’re here, Gram!” He motions for the others to follow, then he steps inside.

Alaric lingers as long as he can, only following after Pawel and Conor both go up the stairs. He can smell magic in this place. Not just the ozone-bright scent that filled the car with Pawel and Conor both there, but a more subtle scent like clean, fresh cotton. It’s pervasive, and it makes him want to sneeze.

He steps inside cautiously, nostrils flared. He expects to smell wariness and concern; instead he’s enveloped in a hug from a short woman who hugs as hard as any Clan and smells like bright outdoors and calm.

She presses her cheek to his, then draws back, both hands on his shoulders. “Don’t be nervous,” she says. “Everyone’s welcome here, no matter the Talent. And we’ve heard about you already. You’re as good as family.”

Alaric looks to Rory, who holds his hands out and shrugs. “This is Gram,” Rory says. “Allison Baker; she’s Dad’s mom, and when you meet Nana later, that’s Dad’s other mom.”

“We’ve never been a traditional family.” Gram pats his cheeks, then finally steps away, leaving Alaric awash in that fresh, sweet, outdoor scent. “From what I know of your folk, we’re probably more like that.”

“You don’t have one big house at the center,” Alaric says slowly.

“No one’s above anyone else here,” Gram responds. “Although most of us have our specialties. This happens to be the library house—our family’s always had a thing for books, and Susan’s downright obsessive.”

“So are you,” Rory bends down to kiss her cheek. “Mind if I take Pawel downstairs? We’re only here tonight and tomorrow morning, and I want to get started. Ric, Gram will show you and Conor to rooms—Pawel and Conor are going to have to share, and I figured I’d share with you.”

Conor looks up at Alaric, his gaze narrowing, and Alaric just looks back. He’s not babysitting. He didn’t plan on babysitting, and he doesn’t know this kid particularly well. Conor’s head tilts, expression sharpening before he smirks slightly.

Gram shows them to the rooms, then Conor helps Alaric haul their overnight bags upstairs. Conor bounces on the bed in his room, says, “You’re not planning on just leaving me here, are you?”

“Do you need watching?”

“Not really, but Dad’d say I do. I’m pretty smart. Talented, too. I make sparks, especially with Alan.” Conor has a tablet in his hands, and despite the conversation, he’s playing some kind of a game at the same time.

“Who’s Alan?” Alaric gets the feeling he’s being suckered into a conversation with a purpose, and when Conor peeks at him, he’s even more positive. He smells of curiosity and just a hint of amusement.

“My husband,” Conor tells him, chin lifting slightly.

“You’re too young to be married,” Alaric says firmly.

Conor smiles then, his scent bright and happy, like Alaric passed some kind of a test. “I know. But we got married at recess and that’s cool, because someday we’ll get married for real. He’s my best friend. Are you going to marry Rory? You hold hands.”

“I’m Clan, we touch a lot.” Alaric sinks onto the bed; he’s obviously not going anywhere at this point. He might not want to babysit, but this kid’s not Clan and he’s probably too young to just be let alone. Besides… Alaric doesn’t want to piss off Pawel. “And Rory’s… you saw Gram.”

“She hugs,” Conor says sagely. “And she smells like sunshine, which is weird. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You can smell her?”

Conor tilts his head, puts his tablet aside. “Not exactly. I smell magic sometimes. Like Alan smells like lightning and smoke, but only when I’m around. And Dad smells like the edge of a candle flame, which does have a smell, kind of waxy and hot and it tickles my nose. Rory smells like nothing, which is really weird.”

“Do I smell?” It’s a strange conversation to have; Alaric’s never thought about this from the other side. “You smell like lightning, like a storm’s about to strike.”

“That’s because I have too much magic.” Conor shrugs. “You smell like old smoke, like something burned a long time ago but never got washed out. It gave me a headache in the car. That’s why I kept trying to open the window, except Dad yelled at me.”

Alaric had thought Conor was playing with the window as it slid up and down until Pawel locked it closed. Huh. “Never met a Mage who smelled magic,” Alaric says.

“You’ve never met a Mage like me.” Conor hops off the bed. “And I’m bored. Did she say we could explore? Because I want to go do something, and Dad’s going to be reading all night. He really likes books.”

“Hang on.” Alaric pulls his phone out, taps out a text to Rory. Should I be helping? Conor’s bored. I could take him outside or something.

That’d be a big help. Pawel said he’s got ADHD and he gets bored easily. Keep him entertained. There are other kids around, too. He might like them.

More kids. Perfect.

It’s not that Alaric doesn’t like kids. There are plenty of them at home, some of them related, some not. Half of them aren’t human when he sees them, and that’s fine. It’s all so much easier when they’re the same ones who’ve been around since he was small. And Clan kids are independent from a young age.

Whereas these are kids who might never have seen someone who’s Clan. Alaric is wary.

“Now you smell like dog,” Conor grumbles. “Wet dog. It’s pretty gross.”

“Rory says there are plenty of other kids around. Let’s go find them.” And if Alaric smells like a dog, then fine, he’ll be a dog. He lets the hound take his place and pads on four feet out of the room and down the stairs, whuffing when Conor doesn’t follow immediately.

Heavy thuds behind him and a thunk at the bottom herald Conor’s arrival as he runs down the stairs and leaps off the bottom few steps. “Okay, that? Is awesome. I can’t do that. I mean, I can make sparks and lightning and I may have broken every light bulb in the room once—don’t tell my dad, okay?—but I can’t do anything like being an actual dog. Can you smell me? Can you track me? Do you think I could track you? Do you smell different now?” Conor gets down on his hands and knees and throws his arms around Alaric’s neck, pressing his face against his ear. “Now you just really smell like dog. All over dog, nothing but dog. I mean, if I didn’t know better, I’d think that you were just totally a dog.”

Alaric puts his paws up against the door and pushes, looks back at Conor.

“Oh, right, door. You can’t really do that with paws, can you?” Conor yanks the door open and Alaric lopes through and down the stairs. He can smell curiosity in the air, a rising scent, and a moment later there’s a shout. Several shouts. Rory wasn’t kidding about the kids.

There are a half dozen of them in a group, an older teen trailing behind them, and from the way they look around, Alaric’s pretty sure this is just the tip of the iceberg. Alaric guesses that the youngest girl is maybe four, her thumb in her mouth and dark hair curling across her face as she peers out through the tangles. The eldest of the children is still a tween, with that mutinous expression and crossed arms that seems to herald the onset of teenage years. He stands with his feet set and brows furrowed. Standing behind the children, the older teen is maybe a year or two younger than Alaric himself. He has a phone in one hand, typing with one thumb, while his other hand reaches out, fingers splayed.

One of the children—a five or six year old boy—rushes forward and runs headlong into some kind of a barrier. The child whines, and Alaric whuffs.

“Ask before you pet the dog,” the teenager drawls, not looking at them. “I mean it, Caleb. You know better. Never touch a strange dog.”

The smallest girl takes her thumb from her mouth, lisps, “Annette got bit.”

“Exactly. See, listen to Miranda. She knows what’s going on.” The teenager finally looks over at them, tilts his head. “I’m Shawn. You’re the guests Gram said was coming?”

“Is she your Gram too, or do you just call her that?” Conor asks. “Does everyone call her that? She’s Rory’s Gram, but that’s how he introduced her to us. I’m Conor, and we’re just visiting. This is Alaric.” He puts his hand on Alaric’s ruff, pulling it away when Alaric bares his teeth. “I’m not afraid of you,” Conor says quietly. “I know you won’t bite me.”

Pawel would probably fail Alaric if he bit Conor, so yeah, Alaric won’t bite him. If he keeps poking though, he might be tempted.

Shawn points to each of the children in turn, reeling off names. “Miranda, Camden, Caleb, Barbie, Jeff, and Simon.” He keeps his hand out; Alaric can smell the ozone in front of him, can almost see the barrier that Caleb keeps pressing against. “Is that a shapeshifter?”

Conor’s eyebrows go wide. “He is Clan and yes, he’s Alaric.” He nudges Alaric with his foot. “Maybe you should be a boy for this.”

Alaric shakes his head, whuffs as strong a negative as he can. If he’s about to be overrun by kids, he is not going to be human for the experience. Instead, he lies down, puts his head on the ground, then carefully rolls over and bares his belly.

It’s humiliating to go belly up for this pack of young Mages, but he doesn’t have any other way to say he won’t bite.

Shawn lowers his hand, and Caleb barrels forward, skidding to a stop on his knees next to Alaric. He bends down, presses his face to Alaric’s ruff. “Good doggie.”

There’s a tug on his ear, and Alaric rolls his head to see Miranda there, petting him. “Soft,” she lisps, and he snorts.

“Shawn.” At the sound of Gram’s voice, the children all roll away from Alaric, and Shawn pauses mid-crouch, straightening up.

“Yeah?”

“Take Conor with you and make sure he gets fed. I suspect his father will be occupied straight through dinner tonight. Conor,” she turns her attention to him. “Shawn will give you the rules, but  this place is a magic safe zone, as long as the magic you do is safe. Please do not do magic without someone else there, and no rituals. Only your own intrinsic magic during playtime. Do no harm.”

Conor’s eyes are wide, and he raises his hands, fingertips spread. Sparks dance along the tips, and he shows them to her; the air is awash in the scent of ozone. “This is okay.” It’s not a question, more a bewildered statement.

Gram nods, smiling gently. “It’s okay, Conor. We’re all Mages here, or families of Mages. Magic is fine. Ask questions. You may think you know a lot, but if there is anything you want to learn, take advantage of being with children like yourself.”

“Sorry Alaric, they’re more interesting.” Conor slips away from Alaric’s side and steps into the group of children. Miranda grabs his hands, pulls them down and immediately shoves one finger into her mouth, making a face as the sparks continue. Conor snickers.

Alaric rolls back to his feet, hunches his back and pushes himself into humanity. Caleb watches him, wide-eyed, as he stands, then runs to join Shawn when he calls.

Gram’s hand falls on Alaric’s shoulder as the children rush off. “I didn’t think you’d want to babysit,” she says quietly. “Shawn’s more than capable, and he’s only one of the teens here. He can call in plenty of reinforcements if he feels he needs to. They’ll be fine.” She tugs slightly, motions for him to follow her around the back of the house. “On the other hand, Conor is right. His father and my grandson will likely be busy for hours. Is there anything you need while you’re here?”

“You’re not afraid of me?” The side of the house is lined with a garden of late-blooming flowers. The scent is bright and fresh, mixing with the sunshine that Gram seems to exude. Alaric rubs at his nose, tries to tamp down the sensitivity to smell.

“Did you think we would be?” Gram leads him to the back where camp chairs ring a fire pit. She gestures, and the pit lights with a bright bonfire. As she sinks slowly into one of the chairs, she looks back at where he stands warily, arms crossed. “You did,” she answers her own question.

“Clan and Mage,” Alaric says. He takes one of the other chairs, leaving space between them.

“Clan and Mage,” she echoes. “It’s a poisonous thing to perpetuate, don’t you think?” She sits back, her hands clasped. “On the other hand, separatism is dangerous, and here we are, more like Clan than other Mages, I know. We like our space, we like having the ability to be ourselves. We don’t feel the need to engage in everything that modern society offers, but we also don’t want to divorce ourselves entirely.”

“Rory says you’re hippies.”

She laughs softly. “He’s not wrong. This commune was started when I was seventeen and first in love with my wife. It wasn’t entirely new. We were typical Mages, with our own neighborhoods within towns nearby. Ten of us banded together—my parents, myself and Susan, and six of our friends—to buy this land and create our own space. We’ve grown since then. There are easily a few hundred of us living here, and we believe in communal family. It takes a village to raise a child. Don’t raise your eyebrows at me—Clan aren’t the only ones who believe in free range children.”

“It’s not what I expected,” Alaric admits.

Gram leans forward, tucks her hair behind her ear. “You’re not what I expected either,” she says softly. “I’ve met Clan who are more beast than anything else. I’ve met Clan who can’t handle the smell of magic. But you’re settled here, and you have a tangible connection to my grandson.” She gets a hand up before Alaric can say anything. “I’m not saying you’re romantically involved, and I’m not asking.”

“He’s like a brother,” Alaric says, and that makes Gram snort.

“That only defines the connection in your mind,” Gram says. “My point is, you’re not locked in the ways of your Clan. You’re not our enemy, and we aren’t yours. And if there is anything we can do to support you, we will. If you’re Rory’s family, then you’re ours as well.”

Alaric licks his lips, inhales the warmth of her scent. “I appreciate the offer,” he says slowly. “Thank you. We just buried Orson last Saturday and right now, the thing I need most is a chance to be quiet. To just be.”

Gram gestures at the fire. “All I have planned for the evening—aside from dinner—is sitting by the fire with a book or possibly knitting. You’re welcome to keep me company.”

“Do you keep your own sheep?” Alaric asks, and Gram lifts an eyebrow. “If you do, I’d like to see them. See your process, if you card and spin. I dye. And knit. And weave.” The words spill out, his hands clenched as he says them, expecting derision.

Gram pushes to her feet, motions for him to follow. “You seem like you won’t mind a walk, but I’m going to take the golf cart,” she says, heading for a building. “If you’re interested in textiles, then we have quite a lot to talk about. And I’ve got someone for you to meet.” She glances over her shoulder, raises an eyebrow. “Maybe we can talk about doing some trading eventually. It’s always good to meet another community that does its own fiber arts.”

Alaric’s fingers itch with the need to do something, and this is so familiar in such a different place. It’s strangely perfect, so he hurries after her. This is something he can offer, something he has experience with. And it’s comfortable. Comforting. Which is just what he needs.

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[anaxolotladay]

i absolutely despise the 180 that my parents have done since i was a kid. not that it isn’t for the best, i’d rather have THIS right now than deal with what they used to do.

but i just.... hate how they went from constantly angry and neglectful, blaming their kids for all their problems, didn’t believe in politics or mental health, to now hyper-woke hippies who Feel The Bern and hate Big Pharma but volunteer their time to feeding the homeless and donating food to friends of families in need.

and like again, people are allowed to grow and change. as i said before, i far prefer this version.

but now that we’re all old enough to run a house and fend for ourselves, it’s like my mom is playing house like she always wanted to, and my dad has depression.  and it feels like we’ve just swept everything that happened for fifteen years under the rug.

it was never abuse, they were just toxic. and i’ve been telling myself that for years, because there’s a huge difference. i genuinely don’t think there was ever any... intentional malice. like in their heads, they were doing what they thought was best for us. to an extent..

but it doesn’t erase all the times my mom shouted “fat” and “lazy” at my sister and i, or her immense need for control, like how i wasn’t allowed out with friends for eight years, was only allowed to bring them over so she could feign Sugary Sweetness at them all. she always wanted to be called “aunt” or “mom” by my friends, and i fucking burned for years every time one of my friends said they “loved my mom”. throwback to that time, the only time in eight years i’d been invited out w friends alone and got driven by my zayde, she drove around the entire town for an hour until she found me and screamed at me from the top of the hill to get in the car with her, bc i hadn’t told her where i was gonna be. i wasn’t even allowed to go on walks by myself ‘til i was eighteen. i was passively suicidal for six years during forced isolation!!

and my dad, who just never got it when we were little and my brother had severe special needs. i used to get my mouth washed out with soap as a kid ( my first spiteful act i remember was telling him it tasted good and eating more of it so he’d stop using it as punishment ). and my siblings were far too young to remember-- he never hit me, but used to slap and spank my younger siblings at the time, my mom eventually cried enough for him to stop.  punishments that HE grew up with, and thought worked. my mom grew up with “the belt”, and refused to ever use that one on us, thank god.

but the thing is, is like.... my mom loved us, so hard. suffocatingly, but she always made sure to tell us so. and like looking back in the past, HER mental illnesses are so glaringly obvious, if only she believed in them at the time, and on top of all that, we went through periods of poverty, where my grandparents were driving 4 hours twice a week between states to bring us groceries and watch the kids. my dad was laid off at least two times that i can remember, my mom was working part time and trying to run her own business, i don’t think my mom ever stopped working two jobs until we moved back to new york.

in middle school, i ran the house. sixth grade, both my parents were working- my mom at her cafe, my dad in his basement office. i struggled in school, i had undiagnosed adhd, and i was making food and cleaning house and putting my siblings to bed before she got home. and my dad would come up during his breaks in foul moods, so to stave him from coming upstairs and yelling at my siblings for watching tv or me for not walking the dog, i tiptoed inside so he couldn’t hear footsteps upstairs. my sis has pictures they drew as a kid with my dad’s face red, because it was always red from yelling.

AND DURING ALL THAT, my brother had severe special needs, epilepsy that made him violent with my sisters and his schoolmates and adults that tried to touch him.  we struggled as a household. we didn’t always have money, we RARELY had food after middle school, there were winters of no heat and my parents were just... constantly stressed.

so there’s this horrible weird disconnect, where ten years later, it still hurts bad. i still get triggered hardcore from the doors my brother used to slam ( and the storming footsteps of my dad chasing him up to scream at him about it before slamming the door in his face on the way out ), and from the silent treatments my mom would give me / my siblings for days or weeks, where i had to arrange rides with friends or make the family meals because my mom was so offended by something that had happened that she shut down. but the amount of stress that my parents had to deal with?? raising four kids, moving three times, getting laid off from jobs, fighting with or mediating other sides of their family, the violence, the mental illness, the lack of insurance--- i don’t WANT to forgive them for everything they put us through, but how can i not? would i have snapped in a situation like that??? where’s the breaking point?  they weren’t great parents, but between the really awful bouts was also them trying, doing good things for their kids and family. it’s so complicated, but they both cared about us, and about eachother, deeply. 

lately, it feels like they don’t care about trying anymore. my mom touts how “domestic” she feels when she makes meals now, and how we should be “so proud of her”. we have food now, about 50-60% of the time-- we can afford it. in fact, monetarily, we’ve been comfortable for a few years now ( i mean now my dad’s job is up in flux and he could get laid off again at any day but that’s another story ), the only reason we DON’T get food is bc my folks didn’t want to teach any of us to drive, and my mom won’t buy things that she can’t eat due to her trillion allergies and experimental diets. and even when we do get food, we aren’t allowed to USE the kitchen because my mom’s business runs through our FDA home-processor-licensed home kitchen. 

then there’s the matter of taking care of my grandmother with dementia- i helped care for her here at our house the summer my zayde, my mom’s father, passed. i did fucking everything that summer, but so did my mom. we ran the house while people grieved. we wiped old lady ass and stayed up night after night through my bubbe’s screaming fits. and now my mom manages the remote care, and funds, as the executrix of her family. she dealt with more than i’ve ever had to manage in my life.

now, my mom’s in these peppy happy moods where all she wants is to “do things as a family!”, something that for the last nine years has been met with resistance from 4/6 people at all times, and ended with it not going the way she envisioned and her breaking down about it to my brother before giving the rest of us the silent treatment for 36 hours. supposedly now, she’s better. but i still don’t trust her to behave. i don’t trust her not to force us to parent her. and i DON’T want to do things “””””””as a family”””””””. because my bubbe and zayde, the only two parts of this family that weren’t complicated, are gone, and my mom needs a therapist but uses her kids as one instead, and my dad is miserable and depressed and still has bursts of random rage on random days, but is the only one whose job is steady. and i just... don’t trust anything these days. bc the longer all six of us are here, the more likely-- as happened every school break before this QUARANTINE-- my parents are to slip back into their old habits.

and through all of this, i feel like i should have moved on, because they changed. in my heart, i know i’ve already forgiven them, but i just.... i’m miserable. i’m confused. and there’s no way to “prove” how bad they ever were because they stopped hitting after age 5 and perform Social Sweetness to be seen by everyone as better than they are ( even if it’s what they wish they were ). i want to buy into it, myself. desperately. more than anything else, i DO want to forgive them.... but i just.. can’t.

[ihearducksaregoingquackers]

Sorry for long post, but anything you can say will help. Deeply personal.

Tumblr is a super weird experience for me, with just who and what I am. To kind of put a million labels on me at once (the labels that I know of), I am a seemingly-but-not-always white-passing light-skinned Egyptian Muslim capable of growing an afro who is heteroromantic, bi-curious, demisexual-ish (I can be sexually attracted to anyone, but I’d almost never take clothes off unless it was with someone I was in love with), cisgendered male, was essentially raised on Western (mostly American, some British) media influence with English as a first language and hardly able to speak Arabic despite it being my native language, legally an American citizen, with diagnoses of depression, anxiety and ADHD, with an education background of partially physics, animation and partially game design at a university level (the partialies are due to dropping out because of depression). Also, I was ‘a gifted child’, aka I was naturally adept at science and math, and dropped the humanities like a hot rock as soon as I could.

And that’s what I can think of off the top of my head.

(The rest is put under ‘keep reading’ because the post is super long. If you have the time or energy to read this and just say anything to help, I’d super appreciate it. If not, I appreciate you reading this far. If you didn’t read this far, I still appreciate you following me anyway, because it helps make it feel like tumblr is worth doing, even though audience isn’t the reason why I use tumblr in the first place.)

This, of course, not only leads to huge amounts of internal anxiety with regards to “who or what the fuck am I”, being Egyptian and Muslim but having been raised and immersed in Western and Christian or Athiest media. But following the diverse blogs of Tumblr makes it even more confusing. Specifically black tumblr, not because there’s anything wrong with black tumblr, but black tumblr has made me ask myself questions that I never would have thought to ask myself. But all sorts of tumblr (especially social justice tumblr or educational discourse tumblr talking about geography or history) have had this effect on me too.

Like, what does it mean to be African? Am I African? I actually had to go up to my mom and ask that question, because it bugged me so much and I just didn’t have the answer, and there’s an apparent distinction between Africa and North Africa, where Egypt is in North Africa. But also, I can grow an afro. When I was still in the states and working as a cashier at a dry cleaning place, I actually asked a couple of black co-workers if they thought I could grow an afro. When they responded with “yeah, I could see a Jew-fro”, I had to show them this video of me getting the largest afro I’d grown shaved. They were surprised, to say the least (and it was totally worth the look on their faces). But like, black tumblr has a habit of calling curly hair ‘black hair’ and I somehow feel like I can’t own my hair? But I’m technically African, but does that allow me the same courtesy?

And, like, obviously I don’t want to be That Asshole™, cultural appropriation is such a huge thing and I don’t want to promote it in any way, shape or form. But I have curly hair, I can naturally grow an afro, been able to do it my whole life, how do I embrace that without accidentally promoting cultural appropriation? If the answer seems obvious, there’s the ‘sometimes-but-not-always white-passing’ thing which I go into detail later on. I also know that black tumblr isn’t intentionally looking at my obscure, one off tumblr that has 57 followers and saying “let’s make this ONE individual paranoid about what he can or can’t do or say about his hair”. I’m not egotistical or narcissistic enough to think my opinion matters that much to an entire tumblr culture for them to try and send me a message, but I feel that there’s enough of a message for me to at least be concerned about what my actions might unintentionally say.

It also doesn’t help that my family hasn’t really learned about taking care of afros since I was kind of a pariah in wanting an afro and my family insists I look better without one and that what little I’ve learned about taking care of afros I’ve learned from black tumblr. Also, depression makes it hard to get out of bed or even take a shower, so taking care of my afro is kind of out of the question at the moment.

There’s also another awkward one of “How Arab am I?” That question is multi-layered, partially due to my westernization through the media I consumed, my faulty ability with the Arabic language, the fact that I’ve had too many Egyptians in Egypt ask me where I’m from (I’ve answered with ‘Egyptian but raised in America’ which gets people to not ask more questions).

And then there’s also the part of what does it mean to be Egyptian as well. Like, specifically Egyptian. Should I be proud of my ancestors? Is that even *my* legacy? Or has my legacy been so muddied by the multiple empires that have conquered Egypt that I can’t lay any claim to it? My family trees can also be traced back to Tunisia (Carthage specifically), Morocco and Lebanon (I’m quarter Lebanese so that’s sorta the easiest to trace), but that’s only looking at two straight lines and an obvious link and almost none of the other branches of my family tree are really explored. Like, my family almost entirely hails from Alexandria, I have great grandparents that fought in World War 2 for Egypt and that’s quite a few generations of living in Egypt, so potentially one of my ancestors was Ancient Egyptian, right?

But THEN there’s also the legacy of Egyptians, the muddied part I mentioned because, at one point, Coptic Christians were the dominant population before Islam became a thing, and then Egypt became part of the Islamic Empire, which resulted in 80% of the current Egyptian population being Muslim now. But also, Ancient Egypt was a thing. And Ancient Egypt traded with Ancient Greece and that’s it’s own bag which I don’t even have all the information on that. Let’s also not forget the Jewish Egyptians that exist in the world. Or the fact that Jews had to run away from Egypt (God, that one Hannukah I attended with my ex-girlfriend was awkward).

There’s also the whole fetishization of Ancient Egypt by essentially everyone, but also holy shit Ancient Egypt was so advanced for its time too, which no wonder why people are obsessed with it, but then it kinda gets weird and it’s super complicated to get into right now. There’s also debate about the skin colour of Ancient Egyptians too, and like, if it’s discovered that they were dark-skinned, do I have no right and no claim to my ancestry?

And THEN there’s what it means to be Muslim, and how some of what I’ve been told clashes heavily with liberal western political ideals (imagine my ass being conservative, HA!). That also clashes with my status as bi-curious, which used to be bisexual (still heteroromantic) but now, isn’t? I don't know, I’m still very much in this “I have no idea what my sexuality is” stage. Being bullied from an early age and learning to take ‘gay’ as an insult has superbly affected my ability to even consider being called gay. I get REELED at the idea of being called gay or kissing another man, but there’s that bi-curious thing due to some events that will not be described (no abuse, I promise). There’s just so much shit that clashes from these different things. And I don’t even know how to fit the pieces together even remotely.

The ‘seemingly obvious answer’ of ‘you can be all of that’ doesn’t apply when you hear shit like the Egyptian government tracking down gay people through gay dating apps and are actively living in Egypt. I’m not even LOOKING for that kind of thing with another man, and it’s not even a potential future thing in my mind either, since, you know, demisexual-ish. But there’s still that occasional attraction? It’s weird. Just, being me with regards to these things is weird and I can’t fit the pieces together, not on my own. And, also, I always have to ask the question: with being so marginally LGBT, do I even have the right to consider myself as part of the LGBT+ community? With all the stuff that the LGBT+ community go through, how could I, as a heteroromantic bi-curious demisexual, even CONSIDER being a part of the LGBT+ community? It’s such this deep question, and I only have the label of bi-curious because I don’t even know anything that more accurately describes what’s happening in my head, you know?

Don’t even get me started on Arab mentality of mental health issues, which further complicates things with my liberal western ideals. Just don’t.

There’s also that fun time my sister accused me of being ‘too westernized’.

God, and then, just, I look at Egypt and I can’t find much to be proud of my people? There’s stuff that is improving, no doubt, but it’s so slow and gradual that it might take a few lifetimes in order for things to even measure up to something I’d consider good standards. But again, are these the ideals of an Egyptian who wants the best for his country, or a foreigner who can only see through the lens of his own privilege? The number of times people have said that “[I am] not Egyptian” because I don’t like a certain Egyptian dish or don’t say a certain thing or whatever other standards I have is absolutely infuriating.

I wish I was one of those people who didn’t need labels to identify themselves. I wish I could just say “I am who I am, that’s okay with me”. But I can’t, I’m just not that kind of person. I’ve had the label of ADHD from when I was first diagnosed as a child, and also Egyptian too. Also, being ‘so smart’ as a kid, ‘so obedient’, ‘quiet’ etc. as a child. But I was bullied too, I had two or three friends for my youngest years that I remember (I remember nothing from before age 8 aside from literally three memories), and what I can now put a name to, dangerously severe depression. I survived, which is really all that matters, but I only have vague memories of being a child and a teen.

Anyway, let’s ignore that tangent and get back on track with the labels. Sometimes-but-not-always white-passing. Having lived in the states and being able to experience the looks that some people give me, whether I’m white-passing or not depends entirely on the person who sees me. My name isn’t ‘obviously Arab’, so people kind of have to guess where I come from. I’ve been mistaken for white for sure, but I’ve also had an older black woman tell me “shalom” as she was getting off the bus “because of the nose” with a hand motion, thinking I was Jewish. Then there was the elderly white psychiatrist, lemme just set the stage.

I walk into an INTAKE with this elderly white psychiatrist, not even a session, this is purely an assessment part. He asks questions, gets my name, gets my original nationality, age, guesses correctly that I’m Muslim. He asks if I drink, I told him no, because I haven’t. His IMMEDIATE response: “Oh, that’s good, because if you did, they’d have to take you out back and shoot you in the back of the head.”

I got so scared, I forced myself to see him for three sessions because I had to make sure that he wouldn’t think the reason why I didn’t go to my first appointment was because of his racist ass. Then every time I went to that clinic, I was scared out of my mind that he’d accuse me of not seeing him because of that (my Philipino therapist, who I’d been seeing for weeks before that, was in that clinic so I couldn’t just up and leave, also she was really good and I needed that stability). You could also bet your ass I didn’t report it to management because, again, I was so scared I was gonna be shot by some white dude with a gun if any of that came to light. After that, the anxiety was too much for me to bear and I went to see another psychiatrist. This was in Maryland, 45 minutes away from DC, and since I don't know anything about gun laws in those states, I have no guess about what might happen.

I didn’t exactly hide the fact that I was Egyptian from the people I became friends with, but still, I feel like I should have assessed what to say first. The question always came up “where are you from” and I’d be forced to answer “Egypt” since any other answer is kind of dishonest.

There’s just a lot on my mind. What does it mean to be me? What does it mean to have all these different backgrounds? Who and what am I? Having lots of time on my hands because my depression has essentially made me bedridden does not help in the slightest because I have no way of finding out those answers. And being bedridden doesn’t mean ‘I have time to think’, because I’m too busy actually dealing with my depression (and, some days, surviving my depression) to be philosophical in any way, shape, or form.

This is kinda selfish of me to do, but I'm queueing this because I desperately want people to see this and just, help, in some way. I might even reblog it and schedule it at another time because holy cow I need some advice.