#weaning them off their blood but still so dependent on them

[s0fter-sin]

vampire bats share mouthfuls of blood to other bats they’re close to if they weren’t able to feed and now i need old vampire!ghost sharing a bloody kiss with fledgling!soap, giving him mouthfuls of blood bc his fresh fangs are too sensitive to bite with

it’s been so long since he was turned that ghost’s forgotten the deep ache that comes with growing fangs and he almost worries when johnny goes to bite into the meal he’s brought him only to whimper and pull back; only the slightest pinpricks of a bite left in the man’s neck, barely enough to bring blood to the surface

it’s only when johnny whines and massages at his gums that ghost realises his oversight; crooning at his sweet mate in reassurance. he’s not upset that he couldn’t feed, at the unintentional rejection of his offering. he’ll make the pain stop

ghost pulls the man to his mouth and sinks in his fangs, sucking in a heavy mouthful and drops the now paralysed prey back to his feet; his throat steadily gushing with blood and spilling over his body

he cups johnny’s face, looking into his eyes, teary with pain and hunger, and purses his lips to carefully drip the blood into his mouth. the pain immediately vanishes from his eyes, replaced with pure bliss as he opens his mouth wide; curling his tongue to catch every drop. ghost presses his mouth to his in a hungry, blood-filled kiss; tongues twining together as they share the taste

johnny sucks the last of it from his lips and ghost guides him down to lap at the prey’s neck; licking up the blood he was too weak to draw himself. he’s ravenous with it, his whole face covered in red as he licks up the spill and suckles at ghost’s bite

ghost’s filled with an overwhelming pride at having provided for his mate in an even deeper way than just hunting for him. he spilled the blood johnny’s drinking; fed him in the most intimate way their kind knows and he’ll do it a hundred times over for his love

[honey-minded-hivemind]

blood of the dragon au

im partial to parent logan or raven ngl

with platonic yan dad logan you get a free protective uncle victor

but with platonic yan mom raven you get protective siblings rouge and kurt

also reader having both good and bad days were their recovery is concerned, the good days their more then happy to embrace their culture and learn how to actually use their wings and claws on bad days however it tends to depend on what they can get away with hiding. readers still harboring the shame in their hybrid features their village led them to believe and so on their worst recovery days occasionally they would start to feel self conscious about themselves and how they look and end up taking a step or two backwards with their recovery it’s better now that their around other hybrids

but sometimes they can’t shake the thoughts that they still don’t fit in, their only just starting to understand a few key sounds and warbles they other hybrids make and they still don’t really grasp the culture they’ve missed out on and are only now being taught about after all

lil bit of angst for you

I can imagine Reader would feel like an outcast even amongst the hybrids. Reader doesn't understand their language, even though they're slowly learning it, and Reader doesn't know what they do or how to do it, or even how to fly... They want to understand, but they also, kind of miss home? They know home wasn't great, not with the Vikings and constant death and dragon or hybrid raids, but it was all they knew. Some days Reader feels ashamed of the state of their wings and claws, and other days they feel okay. Yet even looking into the ice around them makes them self conscious, wondering how they must look to the others... Other days Reader wants to rip their own wings off, and be done with being so different from everyone...

The platonic yans keep trying to encourage Reader, helping them exercise their wing muscles and letting their claws grow out, yet they know Reader is struggling to adjust. They know Reader is attached to their fee human possessions, but they feel they need to take them away or wean Reader off of them, if they want to break Reader's human conditioning. Teaching Reader their language is a slow process, but it does work, albeit a little awkwardly the first few weeks. But it will all be worth it, to have their new hatchling free of their human-made fears and ideas and free to be themself, as they should have been the entire time...

I can see Logan or Raven being Reader's parent. I'm sure either one would be a good parent, and either way, Reader gets Kurt and Rogue as their friends/siblings. Who would you rather it be? Or there a third option you might want if you can't choose between those two?

[rattyioli]

Post partum aggression in rats

So I mentioned a few posts ago that I was going to make a more detailed post about Pesto and the fact that she's experiencing some postpartum aggression after giving birth.

So what is postpartum aggression in rats? it's honestly exactly what it sounds like, instead of going into a depressive state like postpartum depression, rats will go into an aggressive state. This is mostly a carry over from Predomestication since in the wild just about anything that approaches a rat and it's babies shortly after it gave birth is doing so with the intent to eat them.

Obviously I have no intentions of eating Pesto or her babies, but it's still kind of hardwired in her brain to be cautious. I do have good news though! Now that it's been about 2 weeks since she gave birth Pesto seems to be cooling down a lot and is far less aggressive, haven't had her try and nip at me at all for the past couple days.

The nipping, Pesto only really got 2 good nips at me and they did draw blood. This is something that had previously never happened, the only time Pesto had ever nipped was when she was trying to take a treat and as such was very much so accidental, and not hard enough to leave a mark let alone draw blood. The past 2 nips did drop blood, but I don't hold this against her, it's not because she's a bad rat or a bad mom.

in fact it's a sign that she loves and wants to take care of her babies extra well! she's trying to protect them and make sure they're safe, and even though previously I was thought as a safe person, the hormones that come shortly after they give birth can change a rat's view on its owner.

like I said she has cooled down quite a bit, I was even able to pet her a little bit without her getting upset which is good!

Now continuing to breed a rat that has shown signs of postpartum aggression really depends on the breeder, I know some breeders are okay with it they just are extra cautious about handling her and her babies, but then some breeders also prefer not to.

I am on the latter side. I do not believe I will be breeding Pesto again, because it is harder to access the babies to do proper baby checks when the mother is experiencing Postpartum aggression, also because it is more likely that the mother will cull babies if she experiences Postpartum aggression, this is again not because she is a bad mother or a bad rat!

it's simply because she feels it's the best way to protect her babies, if something is going to try and hurt and eat them anyway it's better for her to take them out of the world so they won't have to suffer, at least that's how a rat will think of it.

It can also exasperate stress right after birth which again can lead to culing. if the mother thinks that she is under threat she's more likely to harm her baby's not out of malicious intent! but because she thinks it's safer for them that way.

I'm not sure if I intend to breed any of the does from Pesto's litter yet, Currently the main does that I plan on breeding are Alfredo once more, once she has had some time off after her babies have been weaned, and then once they are old enough I do believe I will be breeding her 2 Rex daughters.

since they already are showing very good temperament signs, of course this will depend on how they age. Even the sweetest rats can experience postpartum aggression, regardless of how much they might have loved their owner's prior.

as I said before Pesto seems to be cooling down so hopefully she will be fine with me handling her again soon. but this is something to keep in mind if you are breeding rats. like I said she is not a bad rat for experiencing this, it is just a hold over instinct from when they were wild

[aquoteamusetheword]

67 Stitches Later

 “Adversity is an uninvited, unwanted friend in the hands of an all-knowing God whose purpose is to wean us of our self-dependency and pride.” ~ Chip Ingram

 11/11/2013

 The Accident

 Around 5:30 pm I was carrying a large frame with broken glass. Despite my training and better judgment, I was not paying attention to what I was doing. I leaned back to answer a question and the staples that I should not have trusted to hold the glass gave way and a 3' x 12" piece of glass fell into my forearm. I screamed, not in pain, but because I saw it happening and could do nothing to stop it. I knew it was pretty bad. The staff handed me a wad of paper towels, we headed for the kitchen and they dialed 911. I was holding my arm above my head; there was a lot of blood but not a severed-artery amount of blood. My hand was tightening up, but all my fingers and my thumb worked. I took a second, thanked God for my calm, lack of injury, lack of pain and asked Him to comfort our staff. It was in slow motion! Like a car wreck. Alice (a staff member) called Leigh and was very calm. I talked to Leigh and thought I was pretty calm. I told her I would call her when I was situated and knew my destination. 

The Ambulance

The EMTs got me into the ambulance and informed me that North Fulton was the best choice for care. I called Leigh back and told her not to be in any hurry because I was sure it would take hours and for her to go ahead and attend her "Women at the Well" meeting and that I would call later. She said okay, that she loved me and to call her soon. When I got off the phone, Mark, (a mountain of a tattooed EMT man) said, "I am not trying to scare you but you sure are calm. That’s a bad cut." He was concerned that I was going into shock. I informed him that I had prayed and that I was in no pain, my hand still worked and if it was really bad the lights would be on and we would be darting in and out of traffic and running red lights. He laughed and his phone rang. His ring tone was Brandon Heath’s "Give Me Your Eyes.” I told him that was cool because I was part of a group of men that had just done life together this year and that song was the epitome of the prayer I asked them to pray for me. That I would see people as God sees them, not for what they do that angers or inconveniences me. That I would see their pain and offer unconditional love before I offer judgment. He asked if he could pray that prayer now as well as a prayer for my comfort and healing. It was an awesome prayer. He told me that he had grown up in church but fell away in his teens and college. After becoming an EMT, God started working on his heart. He would respond to gunshot wounds, domestic violence, drug overdoses, fatal car accidents, etc... He knew that if he was going to be the last person that someone saw on this earth that he had to be prepared to be God's hands and mouth. He is now involved in a church and leads a bible study with other EMTs. I prayed for him and his ministry. Time had flown by; we were at the hospital and I was not even thinking about my arm!

The Hospital

I was admitted at 6:15pm. The RN administered Dilaudid for pain and told me the doctor would be in shortly. I called Leigh, she was on her way (not the first time she knew not to listen to me) and she told me that our friends Lynn and Tom were on their way. She had been very busy. Our friend Barry’s men’s group was meeting when Leigh texted him, and they all prayed for me.  All of Leigh’s "Women at the Well" were praying for me.  Our small group was praying for me. It was unbelievable and very humbling. The doc came in and told me no phone calls during surgery. I told Leigh bye and he went to work. He was funny and had a bit of a potty mouth. Lynn and Tom arrived and sat through the sewing up process. Lynn smiled, held my hand and comforted me.  Tom occupied the doc with SEC football talk. Time flew by again. We were discharged before 7:30! Leigh was stuck in traffic so we filled the prescription and met her in Buckhead. 

Home 

The next morning, Jenni brought banana nut bread. Elizabeth came over to show Leigh signs to look for during my healing and how to dress the wound. My phone and Leigh’s phone were constantly going off with calls and texts from countless people throughout the day. Peggy and Roc brought homemade potato soup, Mikie's Big Burger provided veggie wraps, Carol made veggie burgers. My Dad called multiple times to check on me with concern and compassion in his voice. It goes on and on and on ....

 Conclusion

Sometimes God uses something like accidents to slow us down and show us how many people care about and love us. I was and still am humbled and honored by the outpouring of compassion and concern. I had no pain outside of what I would call discomfort. Everything that I needed was provided. Looking back, He walked with me every step of the way. I praise God that I see it in this light and give Him all of the honor, glory and praise.

Philippians 1:3, Ephesians 1:16, Philemon 1:4

[creepyscritches]

Seeing the tags on that alcohol post I reblogged and I just wanna pop in and explain how medicine views alcohol. Just like any drug, alcohol consumption has levels of intensity that doctors pay attention to.

Alcohol Use: casual alcohol use, normally reported as a background status. Can be relevant in patients w a family history of alcoholism or with certain conditions like Crohns.

Alcohol Abuse: misuse/overconsumption of alcohol. This is not alcoholism, this is abusing a substance--which seems weird to differentiate, but substance abuse does not mean addiction. The patient is just not making healthy choices at this stage. There are still health risks and complications with abuse, so this isn't a "nbd" type condition by any means.

Alcohol Dependency: this is alcoholism. Dependency = addiction in medical matters. This is when people often need medical intervention to be able to stop drinking safely. Don't hide your alcoholic friend's booze thinking you're helping--quitting abruptly at this level can lead to withdrawal symptoms I seen patients end up on ventilators from. Dependency is serious and can happen with most substances. Alcohol withdrawals include convulsions, altered mental status, psychological distress (this varies across patients), and in some cases even shock! Shock CAN and WILL kill you, this is no minor thing to shake off. Movies have lied to you, shock is not a "trauma after effect". Shock is your body stopping. Shock can be your cardiovascular system crashing. Shock can be a panic fight from your body after blood loss. Shock can stop your breathing. This is a very serious condition. Do not push people w alcoholism to quit cold turkey without medical help. It sometimes requires inpatient care to wean someone off of it and it ends up saving a life.

Medicine views alcohol very much as a drug, so we are prepared to receive and treat those who are struggling with it. The goal is to keep you from developing horrible conditions from alcohol use later in life, like alcoholic pancreatitis or alcoholic cirrhosis. Do not shame people for addictions and don't make substance abusers too guilty or embarrassed to not turn to someone for help.

The same goes for cigarettes, opiates, amphetamines, benzodiazepines, psychoactive substances, etc. I don't care if you think it's gross to use them, don't 1) inhibit people from feeling like they're worth taking care of or 2) make them think their only choice is to suffer. Be compassionate.

[firstfullmoon]

what are some quotes that are so visceral they feel like a gut punch to you?

“A man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing. It isn't like a mother's womb. It won't bleed. It won't stretch to make room for you.��

— Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns

“At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this? And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?”

— Ilya Kaminsky, “A City Like a Guillotine Shivers on Its Way to the Neck”

“I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat, what to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, and who to love, and how to tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I’ve been getting it wrong.”

— Phoebe Waller-Bridge, from Fleabag

“Les femmes de notre famille, nous sommes engluées dans la colère J’ai été en colère contre ma mère Tout comme tu es en colère contre moi Et tout comme ma mère fut en colère contre sa mère Il faut casser le fil.”

(The women in our family are all stuck in anger I have been angry at my mother As you are angry with me And as my mother was angry at her mother The thread must be broken.)

— Wajdi Mouawad, Incendies

“I know what I want: an ugly, clean woman with large breasts, who tells me: what’s all this about making things up? I won’t have any dramas, come here immediately!—And she gives me a warm bath, dresses me in a white linen nightdress, braids my hair and puts me to bed, very cross, saying: well what do you want? you run wild, eating at odd times, you could get sick, stop making up tragedies, you think you’re such a big deal, drink this mug of hot broth. She lifts my head up with her hand, covers me with a big sheet, brushes a few strands of hair off my forehead, already white and fresh, and tells me before I fall asleep warmly: you’ll see how in no time your face is going to fill out, forget those harebrained ideas and be a good girl. Someone who takes me in like a humble dog, who opens the door for me, brushes me, feeds me, loves me severely like a dog, that’s all I want, like a dog, a child.”

“I can feel myself holding a child, thought Joana. Sleep, my child, sleep, I tell you. The child is warm and I am sad. But it is the sadness of happiness, this appeasement and sufficiency that leave the face placid, faraway. And when my child touches me he doesn’t rob me of my thoughts as others do. But later, when I give him milk with these fragile, beautiful breasts, my child will grow from my force and crush me with his life. He will distance himself from me and I will be the useless old mother. I won’t feel cheated. But defeated merely and I will say: I don’t know a thing, I am able to give birth to a child and I don’t know a thing. God will receive my humility and will say: I was able to give birth to the universe and I don’t know a thing.”

— Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart

“I know that my phrases are crude, I write them with too much love, and that love makes up for their faults, but too much love is bad for the work.”

“I’m restless and harsh and despairing. Although I do have love inside me. I just don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it tears at my flesh.”

“But when winter comes I give and give and give. The excess of me starts to hurt and when I’m excessive I have to give of myself.”

— Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

“And that was what I felt when reading your book: that solitude.” “Imagine the solitude of the person who wrote it.”

— Clarice Lispector, from an interview

“suppose the body did this to us, made us afraid of love—”

— Louise Glück, “Crater Lake”

“When I put my hands on your body, on your flesh, I feel the history of that body. Not just the beginning of its forming in that distant lake, but all the way beyond its ending. I feel the warmth and texture and simultaneously I see the flesh unwrap from the layers of fat and disappear. I see the fat disappear from the muscle. I see the muscle disappearing from around the organs and detaching itself from the bones. I see the organs gradually fade into transparency, leaving a gleaming skeleton, gleaming like ivory that slowly resolves until it becomes dust. I am consumed in the sense of your weight, the way your flesh occupies momentary space, the fullness of it beneath my palms. I am amazed at how perfectly your body fits to the curves of my hands. If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth, to this present time, I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours, I would. It makes me weep to feel the history of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures, to reach up around my neck, to draw me nearer. All these memories will be lost in time like tears in the rain.”

— David Wojnarowicz, from The Half-Life

“A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.”

— Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects

“and cain said, There’s an idea I can’t get out of my head, What’s that, said abraham, There must have been innocent people in sodom and in the other cities that were burned, If so, the lord would have kept the promise he made to make to save their lives, What about the children, said cain, surely the children were innocent, Oh my god, murmured abraham and his voice was like a groan, Yes, your god perhaps, but not theirs.”

— José Saramago, Cain

“I’d like to jet-ski / straight out of this life because right now I am / way attached to real things like for instance / people how they are all so tender how they / love to just go walk around and someof them are / wearing pink now and it hurts me and they / bathe their dogs”

— Heather Christle, “This Is Not The Body I Asked For”

“The idea of deserving love. And then watching love being given to people who did nothing to deserve it.”

— Anaïs Nin, from her journal

“And he cries and cries, cries for everything he has been, for everything he might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the shame and joy of finally getting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities, for the privilege of behaving badly and being forgiven, for the luxury of tendernesses, of fondnesses, of being served a meal and being made to eat it, for the ability, at last, at last, of believing a parent’s reassurances, of believing that to someone he is special despite all his mistakes and hatefulness, because of all his mistakes and hatefulness.”

— Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

“The veals are the children of cows, are calves. They are locked in boxes the size of themselves. A body-box, like a coffin, but alive, like a home. The children, the veal, they stand very still because tenderness depends of how little the world touches you. To stay tender, the weight of your life cannot lean on your bones.”

“Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.”

— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

“I know we’ve just met but I feel like maybe / you’d feed me and tuck me into your big bed / and only touch me as you covered me with the comforter.”

— Kim Addonizio, “Party”

“The body has no thoughts. The body soaks up love like a paper towel

and is still dry.”

— Kim Addonizio, “Body And Soul”

“I don’t know how God can bear / seeing everything at once: the falling bodies, the monuments and burnings, / the lovers pacing the floors of how many locked hearts.”

— Kim Addonizio, “The Numbers”

“I keep wishing for you, keep shutting up my eyes and looking toward the sky, asking with all my might for you, and yet you do not come. I thought of you, until the world grew rounder than it sometimes is, and I broke several dishes.”

— Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Minnie Holland

“The unknowness of my needs frightens me. I do not know how huge they are, or how high they are, I only know that they are not being met.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit

“I used to be a hopeless romantic. I am still a hopeless romantic. I used to believe that love was the highest value. I still believe that love is the highest value. I don’t expect to be happy. I don’t imagine that I will find love, whatever that means, or that if I do find it, it will make me happy. I don’t think of love as the answer or the solution. I think of love as a force of nature - as strong as the sun, as necessary, as impersonal, as gigantic, as impossible, as scorching as it is warming, as drought-making as it is life-giving. And when it burns out, the planet dies.”

“As for myself, I am splintered by great waves. I am coloured glass from a church window long since shattered. I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

“I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED GENOCIDE TO STOP I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED AFFIRMATIVE ACTION AND REACTION I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED MUSIC OUT THE WINDOWS I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED NOBODY THIRST AND NOBODY NOBODY COLD I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED I WANTED JUSTICE UNDER MY NOSE”

— June Jordan, “Intifada Incantation: Poem 38 for b.b.L.”

“Maybe when I wake up in the middle of the night I should go downstairs dump the refrigerator contents on the floor and stand there in the middle of the spilled milk and the wasted butter spread beneath my dirty feet writing poems writing poems maybe I just need to love myself myself and anyway I’m working on it”

— June Jordan, “Free Flight”

“It’s not that I gave away my keys. / The problem is nobody wants to steal me or my / house.”

— June Jordan, “Onesided Dialog”

“What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does. With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.”

— John Berger, And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief As Photos

“I wept and wept. I had come to believe that if I really wanted something badly enough, the very act of my wanting it was an assurance that I would not get it.”

— Audre Lorde, from “Zami: A New Spelling of my Name”

“You kiss the back of my legs and I want to cry. / Only the sun has come this close, only the sun.”

— Shauna Barbosa, “GPS”

“It has to be perfect. It has to be irreproachable in every way. (...) To make up for it. To make up for the fact that it’s me.”

— Suzanne Rivecca

“I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love. I said no more severity. I said it severely and slept through all my appointments. I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary. I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad.”

— Richard Siken, Self-Portrait Against Red Wallpaper

“We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.”

— Richard Siken, “Snow And Dirty Rain”

“Love, for you, / is larger than the usual romantic love. It's like a religion. It's / terrifying. No one / will ever want to sleep with you.”

— Richard Siken, “Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”

“The hardest thing still remains. It remains the hardest, to bear all the tenderness and only to gaze on.”

— Ilse Achinger, “Mirrorstory”

“i killed a plant once because i gave it too much water. lord, i worry that love is violence.”

— José Olivarez, “Getting Ready to Say I Love You to My Dad, It Rains”

“Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy. Sometimes the men - they come with keys, and sometimes, the men - they come with hammers.”

— Warsan Shire, “The House”

“I’ll take care of you. / It’s rotten work. / Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

— Euripides, Orestes, tr. Anne Carson

“We have this deep sadness between us and it spells so habitual I can’t tell it from love.”

— Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband

“There is no question I am someone starving. There is no question I am making this journey to find out what that appetite is.”

— Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays

“I wish I could peel all my sadness in one long strip off my skin & toss it in a bucket. No one would have to carry it. It would just sit there & be punished. It would just sit there & think about everything it’s done.”

— Chen Chen, “Elegy For My Sadness”

“There is too much or not enough room in my stomach for everything we will do to each other.“

— Adriana Cloud, “Bento Body”

[leichefrau]

She was familiar with the look on the woman's face. And she took a moment to down her own cup before pouring herself another, offering to top off Rangiku once they'd taken their own sobering sip.

"Oh?~ Dismemberment isn't quite so interesting. Unless you're really into nerve reconnecting. My Schrift makes the finer details unnecessary in the short term. But you'd be amazed how important finer control can be when you're getting things put back together." She chimed playfully, as she COULD indeed, spend the afternoon talking about dismemberment. But she hardly intended to actually do so.

The topic of others had her pause. Considering it as she drummed her fingernails. "It depends on how long they were dead and how much time I have. If they've been dead dead for a while, then it can take a lot of work to get them up and running. Usually I just use however much blood is necessary to get them up and fighting. But that comes at a cost. Higher functions, and just some general deterioration." She took another drink, downing the second cup without so much as a pause.

"If I'm going to do that. I'd need to give them a lot of blood, and slowly repair all the damage. Of course it won't be perfect, but if I can get their marrow up and running they'll be fine. If the marrow can be salvaged, they can start making their own blood, and I can slowly remove my own. Then that leaves them with all their own blood. Even if they were completely dead, if I can manage that, I can turn them into a zombie, and then return them entirely to normal, though it's rough on them. But uuuusually I can handle it without shortening their life too much. Lets see..." She closed her eyes and thought back.

"I think.... the longest one of my released zombies lived was..... Seventy? So they only lost a few years off their life. From dead dead? They lost maybe forty percent if I could salvage their marrow or if it was still intact even less. If I had to rebuild their marrow or if there was vital organ complication, then that dropped them by a good Sixty plus percent." She folded her legs and let her cheek rest on her knuckles. Eyeing the woman as she paused, remembering.

"You weren't dead for long. Your marrow was still fine. Your heart had stopped, but your vital organs hadn't been too bad when I got to you. That captain of yours, with him and Cang fighting nearby, you were more or less refridgerated. If I'd weaned you off myself? You'd have been more or less fine. Captain too." She stated simply.

She knew the sensation that proceeded vomit – the way ones’ stomach would twist and knot at first; then that unassuming tickle that would creep up from the depths to linger in the back of ones’ throat. The taste of bile would soon taint all tastebuds; by then it was almost too late to prevent what was about to happen next.  

It had happened to her the day they had been summoned to the Twelfth, the first time Kurotsuchi- taichou had presented him with his report, hearing and reading in extreme detail what had happened to them – to her – had twisted her stomach, a cold sweat clung to her paled skin. As Kurotsuchi-taichou continued, relaying details not included in the report, she tried shaking off the sensation, nearly wanting to excuse herself in case she couldn’t prevent the impending disaster. But she had managed to keep herself together, even if later, alone in her apartment, the captain’s words replaying on repeat had her dry heaving.

She must have paled a shade at Giselle’s statement, the same cold sweat appearing on the back of her neck at the thought. Blood. Her skin prickled in bumps beneath her uniform, wrists retreating below the table’s edge so that the Quincy couldn’t see. Crave blood. Nails bit into flesh upon her palms, the pain a reminder that she was present, alive. Blood – her blood alone – coursed through her veins, her nerves, frayed momentarily, were controlled by her – and her alone. Her mind, her body, it was all hers – not Giselle’s, no one’s but hers.

A shake exhale escaped as she reached, a soft tremble in her outstretched hand as she grasped her sake cup, lifting it to her lips. The sharp taste soothed her, smothering the rising bile and preventing anything unseemly happening.

“…What appetizing dinner conversation. Perhaps over dessert we can discuss dismemberment,” She shot, a faint little smirk tugging the corner of her lips upwards.

Steading herself with a breath, she slowly raised her pale gaze to Giselle once again, “You said you’ve had others who have returned to normal…but I’m assuming they weren’t…” the word formed like a lump in her throat before she forced herself to continue, “dead. Like I was. Before you turned me…Right?”

It was still difficult to wrap her mind around, she remembered so little, even at the end it was foggy. Pain, unlike anything she had ever felt, even during her fight with those three arrancar’s beast – she had thought that injury would have killed her, but it hadn’t it. Maybe it had been the adrenaline that had numbed the pain back then, less of it coursed in her veins prior to her demise making the sensation of steel into flesh so much more acute.

“I guess…I’m asking…had you merely weened me off of your blood…I’d just have been dead, right?”

[scotianostra]

On October 4th 1843, Allen Mair was hung for the murder of his wife, Mary Fletcher.

A sad tale for all involved, this is a double hammy, Mair, aged 84, or 85 depending on the source. He became the oldest known person ever executed in Scotland, and the last recorded hanging in Stirling. Not only this, but Allen Mair, who obviously was a man who held his own importance above all others was also noted for his unusually long, bitter scaffold speech, as recorded in Alex Young’s book The Encyclopaedia of Scottish Executions 1750 to 1963.

Before you start feeling sorry for the old guy read on.........

The crime happened  at Candie End or Curshort parish of Muiravonside, on the night of Sunday 14th, or morning of Monday the 15th May that year, by” beating her with a stick or other weapon, by which she came by her death”.

In his youth, Mair had worked for the Earl of Selkirk, moving to America where he made a small fortune in the wool trade. Returning to Scotland, most of his money was soon squandered in petty legal squabbles, leaving Mair a poor man and what has been described in one source as  misanthropic, in other words, he was a crabbit auld bastard. 

Witnesses at the trial testified that  Mary Fletcher had been abused by him for years, including being starved as well as placed in a locked box-bed for long periods of time. one said she had visited Mary once or twice a day and that round New Year when she had gone round, Mary had complained of having a sore back and she noticed she was not walking very well. She also stated, in front of Mair, that she had not had any food from him, as he had a habit of keeping the provisions locked so she could not get them. He shouted at her and wished her in hell with her soul burning. It was claimed he starved her frequently, but her neighbours provided her with what food they could spare, but this was always done when he was out. Countless times, Mair was witnessed abusing her. 

The witness, a Helen Bennie last saw Mary on 14th May around seven o’clock when she gave her some supper. Soon afterwards she was aware of the sound of blows raining down and Mary crying out. They sounded to her like hammering. She heard Mary say for Mair to stop hitting her and to let her die in peace.

The next morning, having been too afraid to knock on the door, Bennie went round with some tea. It was then she saw Mary in the bed, bruised, blood covering her shirt and her arms bare. There was blood on the bed itself. She offered her the tea while Mair went to the minister’s house.

Mary told her Mair had beaten her. Bennie sent for a police officer and Mair was duly arrested. 

Shortly afterwards, Mary died.

While he was incarcerated in the condemned cell with his legs shackled to a chain rooted in the flagstone floor, he refused food for four or five days in protest. He soon gave up. Condemned prisoner Allan Mair appealed to the Secretary of State for Scotland, but it fell on deaf ears with him stating: ‘The law must take its course’. The conviction stood and the night before his execution he heard the scaffold being erected outside and said what a horrible thing it was to be hanged like a dog.

On waking at 5am on Wednesday, October 4, 1843, one of his keepers read the bible to him and later he was visited Rev Mr Stark. Mair told him he was going to address the crowd and tell them how unjustly he had been treated. At 8 o’clock the provost and magistrates entered the Court Hall and Mair was brought in soon afterwards accompanied by two officers as well as the clergymen who had seen to his spiritual guidance. He was seen to be bent almost double and was weeping bitterly.  A short passage was read to him form the bible while he rocked himself back and forth. During all of this he kept wringing his hands. Once this was complete, he was offered a glass of wine but refused, stating he would not go into the hands of god drunk.

The executioner then tied Mair’s arms behind him. He complained the ties were too tight. He was brought to the scaffold in Broad Street, but he was weak, so a chair was brought to him.

He shouted at the crowd he was innocent, that he had been ‘unjustly condemned through false swearing’.  He cursed those who had convicted him. He paused so the executioner stepped forward and asked him if he was ready. ‘No, sir, I am not done,’ he replied. Mair turned to the crowd again and stated, ‘I have been unjustly accused, falsely sworn against and unlawfully condemned.’ He went on for another five minutes by which time the crowd was becoming impatient.

Executed Today web site give part of his rant as...

The meenister o’ the paarish invented lees against me. Folks, yin an’ a, mind I’m nae murderer, and I say as a dyin’ man who is about to pass into the presence o’ his Goad. I was condemned by the lees o’ the meenister, by the injustice of the Sheriff and Fiscal, and perjury of the witnesses. I trust for their conduct that a’ thae parties shall be overta’en by the vengeance of Goad, and sent into everlasting damnation. I curse them with the curses in the Hunner an’ Ninth Psalm: “Set thou a wicked man o’er them” — an haud on thee, hangman, till I’m dune — “An’ let Satan stand at their richt haun. Let their days be few, let their children be faitherless, let their weans be continually vagabonds”; and I curse them a —

At this point the hood was placed over his head and the hangman adjusted the rope round his neck. He was forced out of his chair and while he was still muttering and wasn’t done raging. The old guy got his hands free and grabbed the rope, delaying his strangulation; the slipshod executioner had to fight off his prey’s clutches to hang him.

The last words I can find that he muttered were....

"I pray that God may send his curse upon all connected with my trial - I curse all the witnesses with all the curses of the 109th Psalm." 

The decision to hang such an old and probably deranged man horrified many. The Spectator offered mock thanks to Sir James Graham for sending a message of deterrence to Britain's octogenarians.  The weekly condemned the hanging as "an act of barbarism... which will stand as an instance of national debasement."

The second pic is from a  Broadside entitled 'Execution of Allan Mair, you can read the full transcript on the link below.

https://digital.nls.uk/broadsides/view/?id=14745&transcript=1

[olivetreehugger]

SnK Scouts/Veterans as Health Care Workers

Note: features Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Connie, Sasha, Levi, Erwin and Hange. A part two to my “SnK Warriors as HCWs” post found here. warning: mentions of blood, trauma, gore (it’s healthcare). Also, I know Hange is nb, I headcanon them as female, so I will be using she/her pronouns. 

Eren: this boy is definitely too involved in everything and has too many people depending on him at once to not be a nurse. The kid barely passed the NCLEX but that didn’t stop him from applying to every trauma center within a 25 mile radius of him. He got hired as a night shift trauma ICU nurse  and he frequently picks up shifts in the ER. He wears the cheapest scrubs he can find, often stained with ink in the pockets area. He isn’t a shitty nurse per se but there are tasks that still need to be done at the end of his shift and he gives a crappy report that’s missing too many details. Nurses hate picking up his patients, it’s always a mess. His charting is really spotty and he gets called into the manager’s office all the time to fix it. 

Still, he tries really hard to improve his time management and skills. He wants to be like his friends Mikasa and Reiner, who are the best nurses he knows. He wants to be involved in the traumatic cases and emergencies because he wants to learn as much as he possibly can. He’s really good at wound care, for some reason (hint hint). He’s kinda cocky sometimes too, which can be troublesome when Dr. Galliard is working. People know to steer clear of those two when they’re both  in the ER. Also, Eren always has a black cloud around him; whenever he works it’s gonna be a hella busy day in the hospital. Lots of emergency surgeries, intubations, codes and deaths. He’ll always jump in to help you if your patient is crashing, though, no matter how busy he is. 

Mikasa: she’s a prodigy. She was a straight ‘A’ student in nursing school, got a perfect 75 on the NCLEX and was immediately hired to the trauma ICU after doing a short internship there. She worked night shift for a year but her sleep schedule was so so fucked she started having night terrors, so she switched to day shift. Eren still calls her a traitor for it :/. She keeps trying to get him to switch over but he just hisses at her and threatens to chug a case of Monster energy drinks. She hasn’t given upon him yet, though.

This girl’s work ethic is beyond measure. She comes in exactly at 6:30 am, looks up her patients, takes report, gives a great update to the doctors when they round, and provides impeccable care to her patients. She knows exactly which treatments the doctors will order before they even speak. She’s incredible at inserting IVs--everyone in the hospital knows Mikasa Ackerman can put an 18g in a 90  yr old lady’s arm AND get blood return (just trust me, it’s flipping impossible). She has great skill when it comes to emergency situations and is a big believer in team work. If she notices your patient’s crashing and you don’t know what to do, she’ll calmly coach you and save your patient, too. All before lunch time. 

It doesn’t take Mikasa long to be promoted to charge nurse. When she’s in charge all the reports, paperwork and audits are completed before shift change. She divides the patient assignments really well and is very fair to the new grads. All around she’s an incredible nurse and leader on her unit, but don’t be fooled. If it’s been a rough day, Mikasa will get in her car and sob so loud her throat goes raw. A lot of people depend on her and working in a trauma ICU is really, really demanding. A lot of patients are demanding, rude and busy. She has a lot of trouble with stress management and is thinking of cutting her hours down so she can catch a break. Someone please hug her <3

Armin: for some reason my brain is just SCREAMING respiratory therapist. Like, I imagine this beautiful blond boy in gray scrubs (the color for RT’s in my hospital) going around helping intubate patients, giving nebulizer treatments and doing blood gases. I can just see him huffing and puffing when the attending doctor is overzealous about weaning vent support. -“Why are we changing the patient to pressure support? do you see how tachypneic he is on volume control?”

-“are you gonna put in the order? if not, your patient’s gonna be on PRVC all day, I’m not changing it without an order”

-“Doc, the patient looks like crap and their blood gas looks like death...oh, you still wanna extubate? ok, well I’m gonna leave the ventilator in here just in case. better yet, let me call a pastor in here, too.”

This kid is sassy af and he knows it. He’s smart af too, knows everything there is to know about the lungs and respiratory care. Knows every ventilator mode better than most doctors. Will certainly tell a resident off for ordering the wrong type of inhaler for a patient. He’s so damn intelligent that he even made the ice queen Annie melt like a popsicle. 

 He has no chill when it comes to his patients and even less chill (like -4078875874670) when a doctor gets in his way. For this reason, Armin has recently been toying with the idea of going to PA school so he can have a little more autonomy. He works al over the hospital, usually frequenting the trauma, CV, and medical ICU. The nurses there love him. 

Jean: Jeannie boy. Baby. Sweetie. He’s also a nurse. He is strictly dayshift and trauma. When he first started, he thought he’d do a year in the ICU and then go to CRNA school. He didn’t want to be around sickly patients with hopes and dreams and fears--it was too icky for him. But, over time, he learned that he LOVED trauma. Jean loves the controlled chaos that comes with the ugly, bloody messes that roll in through the ICU’s doors. He always gears up for trauma season (summer time) by bringing Dunkin Donuts iced coffee for everyone on the unit (day and night shift because he’s a supportive king). He gets really good at dealing with arrogant trauma residents and ortho docs who think they’re hot shit. When Jean sees a resident yelling at a nurse, he jumps in and threatens to have their license revoked. He will dig under their skin and page them incessantly throughout the day, too, just to get back at them. Jean is not a fan of lateral violence in the workplace, no sir. 

He always, always makes sure every room is stocked and new bags are hanging for the next shift. He has a thing where if things aren’t properly organized on the unit his brain just spazzes. He’s on the unit council and education committee because he also loves to teach the new grads. He also doubles as charge nurse, when management can’t be there (there can be one or more charge nurses amongst the staff, they usually work different days, though) He and Mikasa work so well together, teaming up to get tasks done, coding patients, running them down to get scanned, etc. People joke they’re the mom and dad of the unit. It makes them both blush <3 (Eren doesn’t like it, lol)

Jean loves to see patients healing from horrendous injuries, he’s constantly cracking jokes with the awake patients to try to make them feel better, and he’s really good at calming anxious family members down. Our boy just makes such good connections with people. He’s the guy you call when your confused patient is one second away from ripping his breathing tube out. He can convince the most restless, agitated patient to chill out. He’s got the voice for it. Also people love his mullet. It looks great. 

Connie: I really didn’t know at first but I feel like Connie would make a great physical therapist. He’s got great energy, he’s funny and I could see him dancing to Earth, Wind & Fire in front of his patients to hype them up for therapy. He’d be very sweet with them 

Sasha: I’m sick and tired of the food jokes, quite honestly. She’s more than that. In my mind, she’s an occupational therapist, helping disabled patients learn to feed, dress and clean themselves again. She works directly with Connie as they round on all their patients in the hospital, they make a great team!  She’s extremely patient and would make a very good nurse, but is unsure of where life is taking her. That is until she meets Niccolo the dietician in the cafeteria, and she falls hard. He encourages her to follow her heart and she does!  

Levi: Hm. This one stumped me. Levi is a bit...cold. It’s not like he has incredible social skills. He’s meticulous and focused and kinda mean? He reminds me of an anesthesiologist, tbh. Like he’ll sedate the shit outta you for surgery, makes sure you don’t die on the table, and then drops you off to the unit as fast as he can. He never takes off his mask while in the hospital and he scrubs maybe four times before surgery. He is very good at medication calculations and knows everything about nerve blocks, intubation, pain medication and sedation. He can look at a person and just KNOW what kind of sedative to give and how much. Your blood pressure will never bottom out while he’s there, he’ll warn the surgeon and immediately get that norepinephrine started.

 If Zeke is the one operating, Levi is on his ass to finish up the surgery ASAP and to not linger, because Zeke takes his time and ignores the tele monitor alarming in the background. After surgery, this 5′2 demon will scream at the 6′ resident about the importance of blood pressure management and sedation in neurosurgical patients. Levi plays no games and he also just really hates Zeke lol

He seems like a jerk but genuinely cares about getting his peeps through surgery. His favorite surgeon to work with is Hange Zoe, because she’s brilliant and fast, but also cognizant of her patient’s hemodynamics. Levi likes taking trauma cases as long as it’s with her. When he drops a patient off to the trauma ICU or goes there to intubate, he makes sure Jean or Mikasa are there because he knows everything is gonna go smoothly. He trusts them a lot. He likes Armin, too and even let him intubate a few times. On his breaks, he’s drinking tea and reading a Williams & Sonoma catalog or scrolling through cleaning Tik Tok lol.

Erwin: This man. This beautiful and hunky beefcake. Omg. I HC him as someone who went to nursing school, became a charge nurse on the trauma unit back in the early 2000′s and fell in love with it. Erwin would eventually fall in love with leadership and educating, too. He went back to school and earned his Doctorate of Nursing Practice (a practice doctorate). He managed the trauma unit for ten years before his brilliant leadership skills and wicked smart brain got him elected as the Director of Trauma Surgery recently. He is the first person with a nursing degree and DNP to ever accomplish this, so it’s very controversial. A lot of toxic doctors threaten to leave the hospital for this (because they’re assholes), but Erwin threatens to fire them in response and it usually shuts them up. 

He often holds lectures in the hospital auditorium. With a mind and voice like his, people are so drawn in by him. He advocates for nursing staff, for reimbursement when continuing their education, better staffing, parking, etc. He makes nice with doctors and gets them to sign petitions for the nurses to get these things. He’s a bit manipulative He’s also a fantastic manager and director, he’s really good at negotiating things. The nurses and residents all love him because he rounds on every ICU frequently, brings food, and asks them how he can help. He can be a bit daunting because of his height and deep voice but once he starts talking to you, you just get sucked in. All around an absolute king. 

Hange: This character reminds me of a trauma surgeon and intensivist (ICU doctor) we have, Dr. Omi. A great surgeon, really really smart, but takes absolutely NO bullshit. She will yell at you if you freeze during intubating. She wants you to recite every step before you take it, otherwise she’ll take the tube from you and do it herself. In surgery, she’s the same way. She wants you to learn, but by her standards. If she asks a question, you better know the answer or fess up right away, she doesn’t like the “uhms” of uncertainty as you try to search for a shitty response. Either you know it or you don’t. And if you don’t, she’ll teach you. Yeah she can be rough around the edges, but she’s got a big heart. She loves her trauma team. She buys them breakfast and gives them funny personalized gifts. One time, she bought an apply tree for Mikasa and brought it to her car at the end of a shift. Mikasa forgot to plant it and it died in her backseat. Hange will sometimes ask, “Mikasa, how’s your apple tree growing?” and Mikasa will lie through her teeth. “It’s growing!” Fess up, Mikasa. Those google search apple trees are starting to look familiar.

All around Hange loves to work and teach. She is a wonderful trauma surgeon and has saved tons of lives.  

[highwaydiamonds]

Um. Excuse me. You had cancer??

Yeah... I mean I guess I really haven't discussed it much on tumblr. I have a little bit, but only in vague ways, or rarely made veiled references in tags.

SO, get a drink, get a snack, because this is a bit of a saga, and you already know I am longwinded at the best of times. I'm going to do like Vizzini said, and go back to the beginning. I hope you're ok I'm making this public Shells, it seems easier to? And I'll put this behind a cut because I really do wax on ( and on).

It's the end of August 2018 and i appear to have gotten some kind cold/respiratory infection. I'm at work the first day of it and it feels like a cold. No big deal. (Also this is all pre-COVID so no I didn't have COVID). The next day I feel really awful, so I call off work, and figure all I need to do is rest and I'll be ok. Turns out, NOPE. The next day I feel worse- now I can tell I have a bit of a fever, my appetite was basically, " eat one baby carrot and my appetite is exhausted." Finally, I get to the point that I am having trouble lying down - as in I am becoming short of breath when I try to lie flat (sorry if I am using the wrong word - lay/lie was always a grammar issue that eluded me.) So, I decide, ok, i will be sensible girl and go get medical attention. But I am stubborn and feel the ER is overreacting, so I go to urgent care. i park in the front row of urgent car parking, but by the time I reach the intake desk I have to put my head down because I am so winded and a bit lightheaded.

They take one look at me and tell me, point blank, "we're getting a squad for you to take you to the ER." I say, " what? no, I don't need that, this is not that big a deal." They counter, " you could barely walk in the door and you you are having significant trouble breathing. We don't have the ability to see you here." So, for the first time in my life I have to go via ambulance from urgent care to a free standing ER.

I get to the ER - where they decide, OK, lady, you're a mess. Let's get some chest x-rays and we're gonna slap some IV fluids and I can't even recall if they immediately put me on IV antibiotics or not. But after two hours there they informed me, " hey.... So, we think you need to go to the hospital-hospital not the freestanding ER." I tell them well you better hand me my laptop ( I'm that bitch who takes the laptop with her juuuuust in case I am stuck in the hospital. you never know.) Because i am not going to a hospital until I figure out if they're in my health plan. I do so and then for the second time in my life, all in one night because sometimes I am an over achiever i guess, I go via ambulance to the hospital.

They admitted me and over the next few/couple/ hours ( it was hard to tell) I progressively felt worse. I had trouble breathing if I didn't sit absolutely straight up, and at that point I hadn't gotten good sleep for around 60 hours or so. Me being me I started to get teary and panicky, because I was so tired and wasn't sure what to do. I called for the nurse and she came in and then within the next half hour your girl got taken down to the ICU. By the time we arrived down in the ICU I was really getting panicky. My mom died in the ICU ( different hospital but still) and I knew the fact they took me down there was no laughing matter. I started to think about, " ok is this what death is like? this isn't what i thought it was going to be - this is panicky and scary and not all white lights and peace."

The next thing I knew - it was two days later, and I woke up intubated. Did you know that you can be conscious and intubated? I did not. I'll speed things up a bit here. I spent a total of 8 days in the ICU - I had one hell of a case of pneumonia, and there were a couple of other diagnoses thrown in ( nope, not cancer. promise, we will get there.) . The nurses I had were AMAZING. I was intubated for about 6 of those 8 days. Then I got weaned off of it. Funniest moment on the ventilator: Physical therapist comes around and says, " Hey let's get you up and walking, you think you can?" I nodded and shrugged my shoulders to try and communicate, " sure, ok!" It went totally fine, but there were nursing students, residents, other doctors and who knows who else looking out of rooms and over desks at the two of us just y'know... *walking down the hall*. I gestured to the people because it was just flipping weird. I had an audience at the exact time NOBODY wants an audience and it confused the hell out of me. PT advised me, " there aren't too many times ventilated patients are ambulatory. You're a bit of a curiosity so people want to see."

Once I got out of the ICU and was put back on a regular floor, I got to meet with other doctors re those other diagnoses I mentioned ( chronic things I just have to manage) I also mentioned that it had been a really long time since I had been to a GYN and as had been noted in the ICU I spotted quite frequently ( I have never, ever in my life been regular period-wise and it just got weirder over time, but I just didn't really consider it. So I asked while they were setting me up with new practitioners ( my previous doctor had retired) too please set me top with a gynecologist.

So I'm out of the hospital by September 10th, 2018. The gyro appointment occurs i want to say by mid- to late September. I go in and meet her and she's lovely. While I'm up on the table she says, " hey let's do all the things and get a uterine biopsy!" I say, " excellent, do the things!" We agree it's likely going to be nothing but hey we're smart people and we will play it safe. Huzzah Gyno visit accomplished! (if I were a gamer I'd make some kind of ladybits achievement unlocked now, but I'm not a gamer.)

Two or so weeks go by - or however long it takes to get those test results back (some of these spans are lost in the mists of time). Dr Boyle calls me and apologizes that the test results that she was sure would be nothing... they are not nothing. Turns out, it's endometrial cancer.

At that point you could have knocked me over with a feather. Shells, I wanted my mom to be there so badly, I can't even express it. She would have understood how I felt - she'd been there with her breast cancer. But at the same time, I was glad she wasn't there? I remember how heartsick my mom was to tell Grandmommy when Mom got cancer. I didn't want my mom to have to hear that news, to worry about that. Dr Boyle advised me that she would be referring me to a good oncologist and i should hear from them in a week or two.

Thus began MRIS and PET scans and ultrasounds, and blood work etc. The oncologist diagnosed that he figured I might be stage three, but it depended on my lymph involvement. It brought back memories of when Mom was diagnosed and when she told me she was stage three. I asked my Dad later, "what does that mean?" He told me, " there are only four stages, so what do you think?" This time around I knew what it meant. So, we put me down for surgery November 9th, 2018. That's two days before my birthday - so I joked that I was getting my cancer out for my birthday - hooray! My best friend actually flew in from texas for my surgery ( my best friend is a SAINT, and I love her more than pearls and rubies.)

Best surgery story from this experience: For my total hysterectomy (uterus and ovaries go sayonara and then also two signal lymph nodes in the chain of nodes on either side of the pelvis to se if there is any lymph complication.) I had to be tilted back - so with my head down to move as many organs away from the uterus etc during the laparoscopic procedure. I knew this going in, However, when I woke up back in my hospital room I looked at Bestie and said, " I hurt in places I didn't expect to hurt. Oh wait. My shoulders hurt because they're not used to being weight bearing, but the procedure was laproscopic - so why the heck does my vagina hurt?" Bestie in one of her best moments ever says, " I know why." I replied, " wait, YOU know why MY vagina hurts?!" She said, " yep. So your surgery was supposed to take 3-3.5 hours ended up taking 5 hours instead. Your uterus was really big. The oncologist told us they need up having to cut it in half to pull it out of you." bestie admitted she joked with the oncologist that it was like I had just birthed a baby, he looked back at her (NOT laughing) and said, " yes, that's basically what she did." I laughed so much at that ( i mean i was also well medicated, but still) I told Bestie, " I had a Uterus! Let's call it George!" ( In retrospect I am disappointed in myself that I misgendered my own uterus, I should have called it Georgina.)

So, after healing from the surgery, by about January of 2019 I started two courses (each with a few rounds) of chemo. First came what the doctors and I called "low-pro" chemo - that we did along with radiation. Honestly, though i was making a heck of a lot more bathroom trips, you wouldn't have generally known I was sick. Most of my coworkers had no idea. I just was a bit more tired than usual. After the low pro rounds - then we moved to the bigger guns. Radiation was done but I moved to more significant chemo drugs, This wasn't because things were bad - this was the plan all along :) But I knew the "high-pro" chemo was going to make me lose my hair. THAT was a psychic struggle. I cried so much knowing that was going to happen. I got hats and caps and I even got a very nice wig. I mean, I planned as much as a girl can plan when she hears that news. I even preemptively cut my long hair. It was about half way down my back at that point. So I went in and asked the stylist please braid it and put it in between two hair ties - and then cut it - so i could keep my braid. I couldn't do locks of love anyway as it was colored, and I know it's selfish, but I wanted my hair. So, the hair went from half down my back to a face framing bob. then I just waited. And then in a few weeks it happened. I could put my hands through my hair and easily, painlessly pull it out. I am not a cute bald girl. That's when people KNOW you have something going on.

I was very lucky though, there ended up NOT being lymph involvement, and even the high pro chemo didn't make me nauseous or lose appetite. I did have HORRIBLE bone pain usually the first week after chemo ( i'd get it every three weeks). I learned a hell of a lot from that. I also was able to get some meds to help alleviate it a bit, and I took time from work when the pain was at its worst. But I have never experienced pain like that - where no matter what I did - no position changes helped. Even ice packs or heat pads didn't help or do much. It was just a waiting game, a painful waiting game. Oh also - I learned that IV benadryl is nothing like oral benadryl. IV benadryl is like walking right into a brick wall made of sleep. That stuff knocked me the hell out right quick - amazing.

Right before COVID started and the world shut down I got the flu because my immune system was in the toilet- and so I spent another week in the hospital and except for the bone pain that comes with chemo, you know what is worse than chemo injections? POTASSIUM injections. Among other things, my potassium levels were low and so I got those injections with other meds. Those suckers HURT. they BURN, and so i spent a week in the hospital only to eventually come out and find out the world was starting to shut down from COVID. Not my job at that point, but my oncologist told me, " GO HOME - YOU KNOW YOU ARE IMMUNO COMPROMISED - DON'T STAY AT WORK." So, I went home until about a month after I finished chemo.

Since finishing chemo it's been about scans, which have gone ok so far... I'm not willing to talk about the R word. I just think I'll have to be careful the rest of my life - My mom always said, "once you've gotten cancer, you always have cancer." So, maybe it's the anxiety talking, but it's kind of like waiting for the other cancer shoe to drop. In the mean time though, it's business as usual - try to find good stuff in the midst of the hot mess. Cancer has been a crisis but not a reason to lose my sense of humor. I've needed it more than ever :)

So, sorry for the SERIOUSLY LONG ASS answer, but sometimes it's just better to lay it bare. I'm not ashamed of this stuff. It's been a lot. It's been a journey... It still is... it's part of the rest of my journey, which i hope isn't over by a long shot yet. I don't believe things happen for reasons - the world is WAY too absurd for that in my opinion, BUT good gravy have i been able to learn so much from this whole three ring circus. I'm not grateful for cancer, but I am grateful for the lessons.

Thanks for checking in, Shells. You're a complete sweetheart.

[chaosworthyarchive]

Headcanon | Pt. XXI (Post-Capture & Alcoholism)

---

**Please note: in case the title wasn’t a dead giveaway, this post will contain certain sensitive/triggering subjects including alcoholism, death, mentions of suicide and self harm. There is no obligation to read this. 

---

While they all reached a new height after his capture and the results of such, Arrow has had symptoms of PTSD and GAD since the first few major battles with Robotnik. It’s important to remember that he was ten when it all began and he watched someone he considered a very close friend, pretty much a father figure, slaughter a good portion of the friends and family he had grown up with in cold blood. It was the starting point to everything. 

As the years went on, things only got worse given he had isolated himself from anyone he had known in Green Hill and then had Miles to take care of on top of everything else. Yes, having the two-tail did help the hedgehog in a few ways but it also added to his overall stress and feeling of guilt. He had no one other than the fox, and even then Miles was still far too young to understand what it was his older brother was going through. Arrow, naturally, never told the fox what was really going on.

In fact neither Miles nor Knuckles, when he joined them, would find out about anything of the sort until the trio were nearly ‘done’ with their first adventure together. The timing was, however, terrible given that Arrow would fall from the rails in Rail Canyon just a few days later and be presumed dead.

He wasn’t, of course. He had instead been caught by Robotnik and spent the next three months in a very literal Hell. Tortured by various means, forced to run until his feet torn themselves apart and once again isolated, the hero was thoroughly broken by the time he was rescued.

Even after he had gotten out everyone could tell that he wasn’t the same person. It was to be expected, and while it should have played out that Miles, Knuckles and The Chaotix stayed by Arrow to help him process and heal, they didn’t. Miles and Knuckles went back to Angel Island, and The Chaotix, while far more helpful, still had jobs to do. He was, once again, utterly alone.

Upon going back to Grand Metropolis a few months later, things took a very quick, very dark turn for the hero. He had no one to talk to, didn’t have the first clue how to start recovering from what had happened to him mentally and was emotionally shattered and repressed.

While he did go to therapy for a while in order to try and manage these things, it went about as poorly as one could imagine. The person he was assigned to see had far more interest in exploiting him and his wealth than helping him, so he quit going soon after. 

There were days, literally weeks, where he would do nothing but sit and stare at the wall, and the only reason he never starved to death (gruesome as it might have been) was thanks to the hotel’s bi-weekly room service at the time. They never suspected anything was wrong because he had perfected acting like nothing was. Even when he starting drinking.

Turning down that road was never an intentional choice of his but it happened. What was one drink one night turned into two the next, three the following and only got worse from there. It was a momentary reprieve, gave him a false sense of confidence in the moment; it let him feel something again. After a while he stopped caring about the effects because they, too, were letting him feeling something, anything, even if it was bad and it didn’t take long until he was, in every sense of the word, dependant on it. It was his ‘cure’ to his deepening depression.

For anyone on the outside of this, who didn’t know what the hero was going through because of the far-too-perfect mask he could put on, it would seem that things were getting better. People, mainly those working in and around the hotel and certain parts of the city, could see that something was up but thought nothing of it once the hero’s mood started to improve again. They thought it was just a spell he had gotten over.

From the inside, things were terrible. Very rarely was the hero ever sober, some days drinking himself into a stupor and others far too sick to do much but lay on the floor. On rarer days he was out and about and things seemed normal. Then, one day, it all became too much and he did something that he still greatly regrets to this day.

---

It happened on a rather steep part of this downward spiral, and all because he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It was that moment that he realized he hated what he had become. He hated the person looking back at him, hated that he had been reduced to a frail cripple at the hands of a man he loathed, hated that he had no control, and he made a decision that night.

There was no big show beforehand, no grand farewell. Just him, a bottle, and a handful of pills. His body was already malnourished and a wreck from everything he and Robotnik had put it through, so there was no time to turn back even if the thought had crossed his mind.

The only reason he survived was because his landlord at the time hadn’t seen him that day and got a bad feeling at the right moment. She was the one who found him, unconscious on the bathroom floor, and it was she who called the ambulance. She made a point in hiding as much of the event as she possibly could for his sake.

Much like other sizeable chucks of the last two to three years, Arrow remembered nothing of the hospital visit, only waking up connected to half a dozen strange devices and Rosie crying at his side. Mind you, he hadn’t seen his mother in close to six or seven years at that point so this threw him for a loop. He had never taken her off his emergency contact list.

It was the moment that cemented their bond. It took very little prodding from Rosie for Arrow to spill everything that had happened, everything he had gone through and what he was feeling. And it took even less time for the mother and son to reconcile and make a big promise to one another. After a few more days they started discussing options for treatments. 

Rosie was actually there for most of it, helping her son to get back on his feet and making sure he had support. Without her, Arrow really does think he would have relapsed right away. Eventually the woodchuck did go back to Green Hill, while Arrow stayed in the city though Rosie made a point in calling just about every night. She was always ready to run over at a moment’s notice.

An important thing to note is that Arrow did not stop cold turkey, namely because he couldn’t. He wanted to but it would have killed him if he tried. Seizures, heart problems and a variety of brain and mental complications come from trying to detox from an alcohol addition all at once (it’s actually not uncommon for people with this problem to die trying to do so) so he had to slowly wean himself off of it. 

During one of those nights, trying to acclimate himself back into society and be, for lack of a better word, ‘normal’ for a change was when he met Mina. This was one of the most important steps in getting him back into the swing of things, and a major stepping stone for him in general. He had not reconciled with Miles or Knuckles at this point, and was still avoiding Green Hill and other places. 

From there on things did get better. He focused on other things, one of the most major ones was taking care of Robotnik once and for all. Arrow wasn’t taking the chance of anyone else winding up like he did, and with Johnny’s suggestion just a few years later The Freedom Fighters had all of Arrow’s attention and efforts. He made up with Knuckles despite still being estranged from Miles, and started revisiting Green Hill and other places he was fond of. While he still had urges, he was able to fight them and find a different outlet, archery and music being a few of them.

He would, however, have a minor relapse at the age of twenty-seven, breaking an eight year sobriety. However, since then, he hasn’t touched a drop and has been a hundred percent sober since the age of twenty-eight. 

One last note: no one but Rosie, Knuckles, Erika (the landlord) and the doctors involved know what happened or what Arrow went through during this rocky time in his life, and he fully plans to keep it that way. 

[hieromonkcharbel]

Lent and Physical Illness: The Important and Timely Grace of God:

Starting off the season of Lent with sickness, although not serious, has quite naturally made me think about the meaning of illness and the spiritual life. The solitude and removal of the busyness of daily labors puts a person in a state of seeing his own poverty more clearly and so his own dependence upon God. Recently I came across the poignant reflections of Octavius Winslow about what he calls the light and shadows of the spiritual life that I would like to share with you and especially with those who perhaps suffer from chronic illness:

" . . . there are few experiences of the Christian in which the lights and shadows of his spiritual life meet and blend with such remarkable and perfect harmony as in the hour of sickness. Here are bodily disease-physical languor-torturing pain-and extreme nervousness; and, for ka while, all objects, temporal and spiritual, and all beings, the closest and the fondest, are viewed through a jaundiced and distorted medium- the mind is shaded, the heart unstrung- and shadows, many and dark, dance upon the walls of that lone chamber, and fall thick and fast around that pillow of suffering. Hard thoughts of God are cherished- wrong interpretations of His providence are indulged- it is the "fourth watch of the night, and Jesus has not come!" and Satan, taking advantage of bodily suffering, mental despondency, and the temporary absence of Jesus, is hurling a whole quiver of fiery darts at his poor, enfeebled, and dejected victim!

These are the shadings of the scene. But, are there no lights in the picture? no bright touches of the Artist's Divine pencil? Oh yes! many and brilliant! and all the more brilliant from the dark shadows which have so thickly pencilled it, the effect of which has been to bring into bolder relief the great and essential features of the scene. Let us trace them.

The first bright light illumining the picture is the submission of the will. The conflict has been long and painful, the struggle terrible and severe- but, grace has conquered- God's will has triumphed! "Not my will, O my Father, but Yours be done," is now the music of the soul- the sacred anthem pealing from that sick pillow. Oh what a beauteous light is this- how pure, how brilliant! Angels, methinks, look down from heaven's glory to gaze upon the light of grace thus bathing that scene of suffering and languor. "The cup which my Father has given me, shall I not drink it?"

When Dr. Payson was asked by a friend, in a season of severe illness, if he could see any particular reason for the present dispensation, he replied- "No; but I am as well satisfied as if I could see ten thousand. God's will is the very perfection of all reason." Sublime reply! God's will- be it His permitting or His approving will- is the perfection of infinite wisdom, righteousness, and love; and therefore must do right, and cannot do wrong! Beloved, in your present mystery of suffering and season of languor, be your experience that of the pious Payson; yet higher and holier still- that of our Lord and Savior- "May Your Will Be Done!"

Oh, what words can describe, or imagery depict, the perfect peace, the sweet repose which, like the gentle dawn of light, or the soft zephyr of evening, will steal calmly over your soul the moment the conflict of the will ceases, and, in suffering and weakness, you are brought to "Lie passive in His hands, And know no will but His!"

The discipline of patience is another light blending with the shadows of sickness. No unimportant or untimely grace of the Spirit is this; the development and culture of which finds no school more appropriate, or discipline more effectual, than that of 'pining sickness.' The continuous endurance of unmitigated pain- the prolonged and deathly weakness- the failure of skill and remedies to promote a cure- the morbid irritability and fretting almost inseparable from the prolongation of suffering- and the remembrance of duties neglected, of affairs deranged, of expenses incurred- all conspire to render the discipline of patience the most needed and precious; and when attained, to shed one of the most luminous graces of the Spirit upon the shaded picture of bodily disease.

Patience is one of those flowers of the wilderness, springing up from the seed of heaven, which never grows so truly or blooms so lovely, as amid the sharp, cutting bursts of affliction. "The trying of your faith works patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that you may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing." "In your patience possess you your souls." "Lord, subdue my impatience and rebellion, and grant that, in this hour of pain and uneasiness, I may wait Your time and mode of recovery; and that, the true posture and acknowledgment of my soul may be that of Your servant David- 'Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child."'

The strengthening and increase of faith constitutes one of the brightest lights in the picture of spiritual life- and nowhere does that light glow with a richer luster than on a sick-bed. It requires no small faith, beloved, fully to believe that you are a sick one whom Jesus loves. "Lord, he whom You love is sick," is a precious declaration, as applicable to you as it was to Lazarus. Love blew upon the health that fades; love permitted the pain that afflicts; love appointed the disease that wastes; love, and nothing but love, has done it all. "Whom I love, I rebuke and chasten. Whom the Lord loves he chastens, and scourges every son whom he receives." Thus, when fever is consuming, and pain is torturing, and the nerves are quivering, and the mind is desponding, and the harpsichord of the soul hangs mournfully and silently upon the willow, it demands no little exercise of faith in the unchanging love, infinite wisdom, and righteous government of God to feel that it is all well!

But, this light shall not be lacking amid the deep shadows now gloomily draping the spiritual life of your soul. Faith shall triumph; for there is One in heaven "now to appear in the presence of God for us;" and, in virtue of Christ's present intercession, your faith, tried though as by fire, shall not fail, but shall rise superior to the slow process of decay, and grow brighter and stronger as the shadows fall, and strength fails- heaven thus opening and letting down such streams of glory around your sick and languid pillow as that faith, which is "the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen," shall exclaim- "My heart and my flesh fails: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever." Thus, "though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day.

"But a brighter light playing amid these darkling shadows is- the sensible, manifested presence of Jesus in the sick chamber of the disciple whom He loves. Yes, He is there! He is there as the Refiner- watching and tempering with unwearied eye and infinite skill the furnace fire of the sufferer. He is there as the Shepherd- guarding this tempted one of His flock, that no power pluck it from His hands. He is there to succor with His grace, to soothe with His love, to illumine with His presence, to cheer with His voice, and to encircle with His everlasting arms, the feeble, suffering, fainting child of His heart. "Lo! I am with you aways."

The glory brought to God by a long and lingering illness, eternity alone can fully reveal- and this is the brightest light of all, gilding and softening the shadows that drape the sick and dying-bed of a believer in Jesus. The sick-bed, the languid couch, of a saint of God is the most powerful and impressive pulpit in the land! No sacred rostrum of the most eloquent preacher gives utterance to such a sermon as issues from thence! The assembly waiting upon its instructions is large! Children and families, friends and neighbors, the Church below and the Church above, intent upon the scene, are waiting and watching, as with bated breath, the practical testimony to the reality and power of Christianity as a divinely sustaining, soul elevating, death-conquering religion- to the comfort of the divine promises- to the faithfulness of God- and to the sustaining grace and human sympathy of Christ- borne from this touching and solemn stand-point of life. The meekness and patience, the submission to the divine will, and the animating hope of glory, witnessed in that scene of debility, restlessness, and pain, speak with an argument more convincing than an Apostle's reasoning, and with an eloquence and pathos more winning than an angel's voice.

God is glorified in the fires, and the Name of the Lord Jesus is magnified. Sick and suffering saint of God! your couch stands upon the borders of that blessed land, the "inhabitants of which shall no more say, I am sick." Shrink not from the near approach of the "last enemy!" his form is lovely- his voice is soothing- his dart is stingless- and his mission a mission of love- sent to open your cage and set your spirit free- free as the dove soaring to its dove-cote in heaven! "Oh that I had wings like a dove! then would I fly away, and be at rest."

"When languor and disease invade

This trembling house of clay,

It is sweet to look beyond our cage

And long to fly away.

"Sweet to look inward, and attend

The whispers of His love;

Sweet to look upward to the place

Where Jesus pleads above.

"Sweet to reflect how grace divine

My sins on Jesus laid!

Sweet to remember that His blood

My debt of suffering paid.

"Sweet, in the confidence of faith,

To trust His firm decrees;

Sweet to lie passive in His hands,

And know no will but His."

[robin-christine]

The Day My Life Began

On June 27, 2018, I tried to commit suicide. This is my story.

I’m thankful that I’m here to tell it.

There was no one specific reason that caused me try to kill myself, rather it was a combination of factors; I was experiencing a major depressive episode at the time, the red flags exhibited by my fiancé who was living with me suddenly surfaced from my subconscious all at once, and I had just begun taking a new anti-depressant I had never taken before. The side effects anti-depressants are ironic; they can actually INCREASE thoughts of depression and suicide, and for the first time in almost 20 years of taking various anti-depressants, I experienced this potentially fatal side effect from the new anti-depressant I had recently begun taking.

Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on your reasoning almost three years later my memories of that day are still few, fragmented and incomplete; I can only remember bits and pieces, and I’m sure those memories didn’t occur in the correct order in reality.

I remember having a screaming match with my (ex)-fiancé, I remember him using my mental illness to insult me, and I remember taking a hammer and destroying my laptop.

I remember going up to my mother’s apartment (at the time we were living in the same building) and screaming at her, likely nothing nice or loving.

I remember emptying an entire month’s worth of medication into a big pile on my bed, swallowing pills by the handful, and then casually thinking ‘what did I just do?’. I remember contemplating vomiting up the pills and then discarding the idea.

I remember going down to the lobby and waiting outside for the ambulance.

I remember yelling at my mother, who had come downstairs and was sitting silently on a bench in the lobby staring at the floor, ignoring my repeated screams of, “What the f*ck is wrong with you? You obviously don’t care I tried to kill myself since you’re sitting there, not saying a f*cking word! You won’t even look at me!”.

I remember getting into the ambulance and talking to the paramedics, but I must have lost consciousness, because the next thing I remember was being in restraints in the ER, screaming and cursing at everyone, and

struggling frantically to break free. All I accomplished was cause severe bruising on both my wrists that took months to heal properly.

I remember overhearing one of the doctors who had helped save my life in the ER say to another doctor as they walked away from my bed, “I hate treating personality disorders. They’re the fucking worst”.

That’s all I remember about June 27, 2018 before I once again lost consciousness, and even after having my stomach pumped with charcoal, I remained that way for the following three days. It didn’t take long before I needed the help of a ventilator to breathe, and at one point the doctors weren’t sure I would make it. My mother told me that she had sat by my bed for those three days, crying silently while stroking my hair, telling me how much she loved me.

On June 30, 2018 I finally regained consciousness.

Again, almost three years later my memories of that day are still few, fragmented and incomplete; I can only remember bits and pieces, and I’m sure what I do remember isn’t in the right order.

I remember seeing my mother and sister sitting next to each other, holding each other’s hands when I opened my eyes. When they realized I was waking up, they both jumped up, my sister ran out the room to get a doctor, and my mother sat down next to me on the bed to hug me as tightly as she could and whisper how much she loved me, crying.

In what could have seconds, minutes, or hours my sister returned, accompanied by a doctor introduced as Dr. Richards, who checked my vitals and conducted the first of numerous psychiatric assessments I would undergo over the next few days.

I spent a total of seven days in the hospital, including the three days that I was unconscious. Once I regained consciousness, I was assessed physically, psychiatrically and psychologically daily during the remaining four days I was hospitalized. I had blood taken so often that the nurses ran out of veins from which they could get blood; my veins are very small, difficult to find, and collapse easily, so as a result I had numerous bruises all over my hands and arms. Combined with the bruises on my wrists I gave myself trying to free myself from the restraints when I was in the ER, they served as a reminder of what I had done for months as they slowly healed.

During those four days I was forbidden by the doctors from being alone, and had caregivers watching me 24/7. When my mother and sister would visit the caregiver would leave the room so we could talk privately, but as soon as they left, the caregiver returned. Originally I wasn’t even allowed to close the door to the bathroom in my private room, but after my first psychiatric assessment by Dr. Richards, he gave the caregivers permission to allow me to close the door, but not to lock it.

The psychiatrists who assessed me ended up re-diagnosing me almost completely; for years I had been diagnosed as Bipolar and had been prescribed medications that I didn’t need and shouldn’t have been taking. I was weaned off the majority of the medication I had been taking, and left the hospital with a prescription for only one anti-depressant I had taken before without any fatal side effects, one anti-anxiety medication, and a new diagnosis of Personality Disorder Not Otherwise Specified (PDNOS). After I left the hospital, I continued working with my psychiatrist on finally properly diagnosing my mental illnesses because very often people suffer from more than one, and e many mental illnesses have overlapping symptoms, making a proper diagnosis sometimes very difficult..

After my overdose, I called off my wedding since it was one of the reasons I had tried to commit suicide. I finally acknowledged all the red flags that my fiancé had exhibited but I had subconsciously repressed; he had anger management problems, was extremely controlling and had absolutely no understanding of mental illness, even though he thought he did. He thought he knew everything. He would make comments like ‘stop exaggerating’, ‘you don’t need medication’, and my favourite, ‘it’s all in your head’. No kidding! I suffer from mental illness; where else would it be? My arm? My leg? But I’m ashamed to admit that I allowed him to treat him with ignorance and arrogance, that I allowed him to use me as a figurative mental punching bag for his anger, and that I allowed him to control my every move, much in the same way that my abusive late father had; unfortunately I’m proof that the expression “women tend to be attracted to men like their fathers” is true.

My overdose drastically changed our family dynamics. Immediately afterwards, me, my mother and my sister became closer as a family, and for the first time ever, my sister and I got along and actually had serious talks. Unfortunately, the joy that had come with my survival only lasted a few months before my depression returned, and my mother and sister

both blamed me for causing our’s mother’s anxiety to become worse, and for our mother having to move out of her apartment our building and into an “Assisted Living” apartment. My sister, my cousins both in Toronto and in Israel, and my mother’s few friends saw how depressed and anxious she had become after her had mother passed away, and how my suicide attempt had made her depression and anxiety worse.

Six months before she moved, my relatives were in town from Israel and my sister was in town from Toronto, and the three of them helped my mother visit and decide into which building to move; I was only told less than two weeks before she moved. Before my overdose, my mother was one of my best friends to whom I could talk to about absolutely anything. After my overdose, she avoided talking to me as much as she could. So although I didn’t cause my mother’s depression and anxiety, I did make them both worse for her.

I have to accept to consequences of my actions, but I didn’t expect my mother and sister to hate me as much as they do for attempting to commit suicide, for relapsing into a severe depression within a few months that from which, two years later, I’m still struggling to recover, and for causing them so much pain.

My sister eventually decided she’d had enough of my depression which manifested as anger and bitchiness, decided that she didn’t want or need me in her life, and didn’t want or need to deal with me any longer because my of anger, jealousy and resentment towards her, and blocked every possible method of communication to prevent me from contacting her.

When she had emergency gallbladder surgery a few months ago, I sent her a ‘Get Well’ card with what I thought was a nice message, but she never acknowledged receiving it. She’s made it clear that she has cut me out of her life completely, and I doubt I’ll ever see or speak to her again. I don’t know if it was easy or painful for her to cut all ties with me, but we haven’t spoken in at least 18 months.

My suicide attempt also changed my perspective about life, both positively and negatively. I finally forgave my father for what he did to me and the resulting negative psychiatric consequences he caused, 15 years after he had passed away. I believe that he, and the rest of my family and friends who have already passed helped save my life.

I started believing in G-D again; I regained my faith in a religion I felt had abandoned me years ago, but had been wrong. I should have died three times; in a car that flipped numerous times on the Trans-Canada highway into a ditch separating westbound from eastbound traffic lanes, in a grease fire in one of my apartments and by overdosing.

Obviously I’m here for a reason, and will gladly remain here until I’ve accomplished what I was put on this earth to do.

Finally at age 44, I have been properly diagnosed with numerous mental illnesses: Depression, Severe Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), Personality Disorder Not Otherwise Specified (PDNOS) with traits of Borderline (BPD), Avoidant (AvPD) and Narcissistic (NPD) Personality Disorders, Adjustment Disorder (AjD), Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Unfortunately, Personality Disorders can’t be treated with medication but they can be managed with specialized therapy. So I take medication and have done Dialectical Behaviour Therapy (DBT) which has helped tremendously.

Now I take pleasure in the smallest of things; a good cup of coffee, a sunny day, a good book, losing half a pound, having clean socks and underwear, a good movie, sleeping late, among other things.

I know that medication and therapy will never completely obliterate my illnesses, I’ll have relapses of depressive episodes and I’ll have thoughts of suicide, but I know I won’t act on them. I’ve learned to enjoy life.

I will never again attempt to commit suicide.

[fantasticstoryteller]

Dragon Lands ch. 6

“Really?” asked Izuku, quivering slightly with his need to write this new information down. His mind whirled with the possibilities—a medicine that could postpone heats. That would be—revolutionary. “How does it work? Does it block the hormonal triggers? Does it fool the body into thinking it’s not time for a heat? How does it work?”

Katsuki, from his space at the edge of the tent (not that he wanted to move away from Deku, but the healers made it clear he had to start sitting up on his own) chuckled. The two women had no idea what they were in for, now that he was mostly awake and able to quiz them. The two women had been surprised when he’d sipped a tea they’d given him and he’d labeled each and every ingredient in it—and the looks on the two faces had been priceless. He was almost sorry the other dragon wasn’t there to see it—almost.

Izuku shot him a grin, knowing what he was thinking before turning back to the two women. “Ah, well,” Kikyo said uncertainly.

“Know how it works we do not,” Kaede said solemnly. “Symptoms, aye, suppression works. Permanent, it is not.”

All three in the tent caught the flicker of relief on Izuku’s face before he leaned forward. “So, what have you noticed about the medicine after you administer it?” His eyes sparkled as he went into depth on his passion and his mind whirled as he tried to figure out if this could apply to dragons.

The tent flap opened and Shouto came in from his latest errand (dumping the human waste a suitable distance from the camp). He saw intense Izuku trying to badger answers out of the two healers and went to sit next to Katsuki. “What did I miss?” he asked in a low voice, so as not to interrupt the three.

Katsuki smirked. “Deku knows everything in that murky tea they keep giving him.”

“Amazing.”

“It’s Deku.” Katsuki’s tone implied that amazing thing would have been if Izuku hadn’t known.

The two of them watched the animated (well, Izuku was animated) discussion about hormones and triggers for a moment. “Do you—think he’s well enough to see the valley yet?” Shouto asked.

Years ago, Shouto and Katsuki had gotten together and tried to think of absolutely everything that Izuku would need in his valley home. While they hadn’t exactly found one that was perfect, they had been able to cultivate herbs and crops in the valley—to make it better. The two of them were anxious for Izuku to see it, to see if he’d like it—or if they needed to search more.

“I don’t think so,” Katsuki replied, keeping his voice low. “He looks like that now, but he’s about to collapse again.” He got up and caught Izuku before he collapsed and gently lowered the boy to the blankets.

“He’s—energetic,” Kikyo said, still looking slightly stunned.

Shouto could see how much strain Katsuki had been under by not being in touching distance, so he stayed where he was. “He’s always been fascinated with healing,” he told the two. “He wants to be a dragon doctor.”

“In any event,” Kaede interrupted, “healing well he is. Well enough to move soon he will be.”

Practice at decoding what the old woman said made mental translation easy. “How well will he move?” he asked the women as Katsuki took one of Izuku’s hands in his own again. He fought the urge to be there and take the other one—this conversation was important. “Well enough to be carried by dragon?” he added.

“Depends,” Kikyo said turning her attention, “on if you mean you in full dragon form or in your current half-dragon form.”

“Aye. Smoother you fly as half-human,” Kaede added. “Smoother would be better, so aye. Well enough. Safe enough.”

“And will he still need the two of you?” asked Katsuki.

“He would—if he were not as knowledgeable about medicine as he is. We can instruct him on the proper dosages and how to wean himself off the medicines before he does himself harm.”

Katsuki’s head shot up and he glared at the two of them. “The medicine is dangerous?” he demanded.

Neither healer flinched at his tone. “Only if he takes it too long,” Kikyo told the dragon. Izuku was still sleeping, and Shouto took comfort in the deep, rhythmic sound of his breathing. “All medicine is like that—safe only when it’s needed.”

Katsuki nodded and relaxed a little. “This tent marvelous is,” Kaede said as she limped over to the most recent bag of bandages that Shouto had brought. “Warm without blocking air, and well padded too.”

Katsuki nodded. “I got it from one of the migrating humans.”

A sliver of dread pricks at Shouto. “Did you kill them Bakugo?” he asked.

“Fuck no!” spat Bakugo. “I fucking traded for the tent. Three of those large meat things.” Katsuki couldn't be bothered with remembering what an animal was called most of the time.

Oddly enough, Shouto could picture the exchange. He could see Bakugo winging over the migrating human camp, dropping the three bison, and telling everyone who hadn’t fled that he wanted the big red tent over there. Shoutu felt certain the humans would have been terrified that Bakugo was going to eat them, and had probably worked faster than they’d ever had in their lives to get the tent ready for Bakugo to take. Then they’d probably stared in shock as he winged away with the tent, leaving the meat behind.

He couldn't stop the chuckle that rose from his throat at the mental image. “Fuck you!” snarled Katsuki. “Shut up!”

Izuku grunted softly and opened green eyes. “Kacchan?” he asked.

“Hey,” Katsuki said as he gently helped Izuku sit up again. Shoutou made his way over to where the two of them were, unable to hold back any longer.

“What happened?” Izuku asked groggily.

Shouto looked at Katsuki and then glanced at the two healers. None of the other three seemed concerned. “You collapsed,” Shouto told Izuku. He braced Izuku’s body with his own and took Izuku’s free hand.

“Too excited you were,” Kaede said as she shuffled over. She peered into each of Izuku’s eyes and nodded. “Too excited for as little healed you are,” she told him. “But worry not, well healing you are.”

“It will take a few days before your stamina is back to normal,” Kikyo informed them. She risked her arms by taking one from Katsuki so she could feel his pulse. “Your growling is interfering with my count,” she told the dragon firmly. Katsuki subsided—slightly. “Good,” she said relinquishing the hand back to the dragon who rubbed it against his face. “Your pulse isn’t too fast or too slow, right where it should be. Good.”

Kaede had hobbled over to the fire. She turned and bent a one-eyed glare on the two dragons. “Getting better he will not be if never sitting himself he is!” she told them.

Katsuki growled—but moved away, still holding Izuku’s hand. His red eyes glared at the two women as Kaede stirred what was in the pot. Shouto had a harder time complying. He wanted Izuku to get better, he really did—but he kept remembering him pale and burning with fever. He was afraid that if he let go, Izuku would vanish.

Izuku turned his head to look at Shouto. “I’m okay,” he told the dragon with a smile. “I really am.”

“Better getting all the time,” Kaede said as she ladled stuff into a bowl. She passed the first bowl to Kikyo who sipped the broth inside (the two women had started showing Katsuki the food wasn’t poison after Izuku nearly choked on the first bowl) before passing an identical bowl to Izuku.

Izuku’s hands trembled as he held the bowl to his mouth, but were steady enough the food didn’t spill. Shouto’s own hands twitched with the need for help, but Bakugo glared him down. Izuku lowered the bowl and looked at the two healers. “Needle leaves?” he asked.

“Blood still thick is,” Kaede said as she ladled a third bowl. “Weak against disease still you are. Needle leaves help will. Besides,” added the old woman as she took a sip of her own bowl of soup, “good for cold this soup is, healthy you to keep.”

Shouto and Katsuki were no longer paying attention to conversation. Heading towards them was another dragon. Neither of them were sure why another dragon would be paying a visit, but the distinctive sound of the wing-beats labeled the incoming dragon as Enji.

Enji was rare among the dragons—unlike the others he could transform into a fully human state, and that was what walked into the tent. “Izuku. Bakugo. Shouto. Healers,” he said simply to greet everyone.

Katsuki bristled; he’d never liked Enji. “The fuck do you want?” he growled.

“Kacchan!” admonished Izuku. He looked up at Enji. “Sorry about that, Sir.”

Enji smiled, a rare expression for his human face, and the features softened. “There is no need for you to call me ‘Sir’,” he told the human. “We may not be related yet, but we soon will be. Besides, I like to think you’ve been part of the family since long ago.” Izuku flushed, but the two dragons at his side could tell he was pleased, so they said nothing. “I actually came to speak with the healers,” Enji continued as he looked at them. The two women looked startled, and Shouto shifted. He had thought he’d be taking one of the healers to his father, not the other way around. “I understand,” he said eagerly, “that the two of you have a method of postponing heats.”

“Know not if on dragons it works we do,” Kaede said slowly.

Izuku looked up from his soup, eyes sparkling once again. “That depends,” he said happily, “on how it works!”

[sahbibabe]

Ignoring The Obvious

Soulmate AU

Sephiroth/Fem! Reader

Part Eleven

Your hospital stay is short. Your training commences. Reno has serious problems with being... well, helpful. Or encouraging. Especially with a giant Shinra dog chasing you through vents.

THE BED WAS HARD, YOUR knees were killing you, your abdomen was on fire, and the nurse was steadily refusing to give you morphine no matter how much you begged. You had spent the better part of two days as high as a kite, blissfully unaware of the train wreck of memories about to hit you the moment you were weaned off of your medication. The file─your unfiltered, raw test subject notes and classifications─sat innocently on the nightstand as if it was completely separate from the emotional turmoil you were facing.

       It would be easy, so easy to slip into the mercenary's mindset and ignore the pain. To shove the emotions aside and bury them so deep you didn't even have to acknowledge their existence. All you had to do was will them away, and they would be gone. But that was unhealthy and the moment you did that, all of your progress would be ruined forever and you would start from scratch once more.

      But did it really matter? You asked yourself the same question over and over again as you watched the Chocobo documentary on the one-channel television network. You would be going back to that life anyways, with that same mindset and habits, without anyone to stop you from doing otherwise. You would be killing people for Rufus Shinra in the name of eliminating competition; a petty game was what it all came down to.

        And you were the knight who guarded the King.

       You looked away from the television to your food. It was plain hospital food, rich in protein to help you replace all of the blood you had supposedly lost while you fought the doctor tooth and nail when he tried to get a needle in your arm for an IV. Reno had laughed when he told you about the resident's injuries, but it only made you feel sick to your stomach when the nurses had to strap you down like a wild animal.

      Other than Reno, your only other visitor was Rude, and he had been thoughtful enough to bring you a bouquet of real flowers. He wouldn't say where he had gotten them from when you asked, just sat in silence, so you asked him instead how Hojo was doing with that stab wound, as smug as you might have sounded.

       "You didn't stab Hojo," Rude told you bluntly, a slight hint of confusion in his voice. Your smugness was wiped from your face. "You stabbed an assistant doctor who had come in to check your new vitals."

        "No," you had whispered,"no, that… That was Hojo. I remember it like it happened seconds ago…"

       "It doesn't matter. The doctor has been treated and compensated out of your salary. You'll be fifty thousand gil short."

     And that had been the end of that.

     Now, you picked at the cheap, plasticky roast beef on your plate and pushed your asparagus around in circles. You weren't getting anywhere without the alarms sounding on your bed, so you were effectively a prisoner until they turned them off. Add that to the iron they were slowly feeding into your IV and you felt like a rabbit confined in a small cage, pacing a few steps at a time.

       Out of the corner of your eye, sitting right beside the file you were desperately trying to avoid reading, sat the Book of Colors: a book that translated all of the different colors soulmates might see, their specific combinations, and surprisingly, origins.

       The strings felt snug against your fingers as you weighed your options, kneading your fingers into your palm. There was a lot you could learn about the authenticity of soulmate bonds through that book. People followed it like gospel, spoke of it as something holy. You had never had a reason to read it until now, or the money to, but now you had prime opportunity and the eyesight to help you do it.

      You picked up the book and pushed your lunch tray away from the bed.

       It was a hefty leather thing, dyed black and sewn with gold thread to display the title: The Book of Colors. One could easily take it for a children's book, but it was so much more than that. A quick glance at the spine showed it was the newest edition.

       The first page you opened it to described the various types of soulmate bonds, everywhere from bonds to the literal soul to telepathic communication. It depended heavily on the people bound to determine what kind of bonds they got. Cynical, unfair people walked around without color vision until they met their soulmate; quiet, shy people got telepathy; and people like you, a mercenary gone civilian, got strings.

       "Strings guide the lost home," you mumbled, tracing your finger over the plain description beneath the header,"and return hearts to where they belong."

       One of the authors theorized heavily that strings meant involvement with the lifestream personally, or some kind of way to identify past soulmates with one another.

       "It's a very unique thing, the strings," the author wrote,"just like anyone else's, but this means that the two souls have already connected before in the past. Eons or two hundred years ago, who can say?"

      You skimmed over the rest and flipped over to the colors, the part you had been dreading and also curiously dying to read. There were sections to different soulmate types, some colors meaning different things, so you found your section and settled down in your springy hospital bed.

       "Identify the weave of your strings," the book told you. It offered a small chart of different weave types. "You may have two types or you may have four. Find yours and look at the pairing chart to determine the intent of your bond."

       That was easy enough. You shook the threads out and looked closely at their weave; there was a single double braid, what looked like a dutch braid, and an elaborately woven pattern that repeated halfway through the string on each one.

       "The double braid signifies a union between two people," you read, following the lines with your finger. "If there is a child born from that union, two becomes three on this specific line."

        You didn't have a third thread, like you expected, so you moved on.

      "The dutch braid signifies a match with power and darkness. Don't worry yourself, though! Darkness can be equated to many things, such as self conflict, a trouble within the body, or even a mental disconnection from stress."

      Sephiroth didn't seem to be mentally disconnected, but you didn't even know him that well. You messed with the threads for a few moments, stuck on that phrasing, before finding the last section where the more elaborate braids were.

       "This gorgeous flower patterned weave means that you have reunited with your soulmate several times in various past lives. Much like additional colors to the vision discussed in the previous soulmate identification, the different petals on it connote just how many times you have been with your soulmate in past lives. Count them! How many do you have?"

         You raised an eyebrow and counted the individual petals. One, two, three, four, five, six, and… just burgeoning on the final petal, weaving itself before your eyes, was seven.

         But there wasn't a number for that─there wasn't even a color combination or weave combination for the mess around your hand. You checked several times, but to no avail; no one had ever had gold, purple, and green and black threads.

       You slammed the book shut and tossed it back on the nightstand just as the door handle turned and popped open. Reno sauntered past the threshold and made himself at home in the guest chair, eating popcorn and humming an odd tune.

       "So, how's the chocobo documentary doing?" His eyes sparkled with mirth. "Making you bored yet?"

       "Sure. If you count restlessness as bored." You crossed your arms and fixed him with a hard stare. "When can I get out and do my job?"

        "In an hour." Reno threw a handful of popcorn in his mouth dismissively. "Doc says you're cleared to start training and work off that excessive energy you have."

        "Good." You ripped your blankets back and hopped out of the bed. The floor was still cold beneath the cheap socks the hospital had given you. The world swam around you for a moment and you steadied yourself against the nightstand. "Good. That means I didn't pass the exam?"

        Reno shrugged. "You never finished it. Tseng pulled some strings. As long as you pass training you should be fine."

       "Why do you sound like you doubt me?"

       "You'll find out in… oh, about an hour."

      And oh, find out you did.

      "Reno, I'm going to murder you for this."

       Sweat traced rivers down your face as you shimmied your way through the ventilation system of the training barracks, a guard dog snapping at your heels. He didn't answer over the comms system, but you knew he had to be laughing at you somehow.

       "Shit," you yelped, feeling the dog's teeth sink down into your shoe. You kicked back on reflex and it cried out, releasing you instantly. You moved a little faster, relieved at the sight of a vent, and slammed your elbow down on the grate. It didn't budge and there was a very pissed off hound breathing down your neck. "Oh, fuck me."

       "Keep on moving, [Name]!" Reno chortled. You scowled and got on your knees, moving as fast as you could given the cramped space. "Three minutes left!"

        "You and your three minutes can go to hell!"

       "Yeah, but then who would sic hounds on you then? You'd fail your training no problem."

      "Reno," you growled, shoving your fingers into another grate just ahead and pushing down hard. It swung open. The dog got closer. "I'm going to kick your ass."

       "Get out of the vents and then we can talk!"

        You dropped neatly onto a bench, the leatherwork groaning beneath your feet. You hopped off and opened the door right as the dog dropped out behind you, hightailing it down the hall at full speed.

        "Gotta take out the dog, too, [Name]!" Reno reminded you.

        Feet skidding into the marble floor, you whirled around, cursing Reno for his snarky reminders and tackled the dog head on. It flailed as you wrapped your arms around its neck and cut off its breathing, barely keeping purchase by pinning your knees to the over muscled thighs. It growled and tried to bite you, the struggle slowing second by second, until it flopped down on the floor, tongue hanging.

         Unconcious, but not dead.

      You reclined back on your haunches with a sigh, wiping sweat from your forehead, and when you opened your eyes, you found the full brunt of Reeve Tuesti's gaze staring you down.

       Your hand dropped from your forehead. Not even your labored breathing helped you forget that you had somehow ended up in a completely different building than Reno had told you to go to.

       "Damnit."

[writtenbyhappynerds]

FF102: Unit 4, Writing Children

Hello! So, because we screwed the pooch and didn’t take into consideration how long it would take to write the Diversity chapter, we are giving you 2 chapters in 1 week. The second part of this week is writing kids, which came about after the many parent fics and Hogwarts/Percy Jackson fics that the Editor and I have read.

          The biggest mistake you can do, the one that really shows your lack of experience as a writer is dumbing down children. Kids are just like any other adult OC. They need growth, motivation, strengths, and weaknesses. You lose power in writing kids when you infantilize them, and you need to understand the general age brackets of how kids operate. I myself struggle with this, but kids can hold a conversation just like an adult can. They can have meaningful and profound discussions. That’s how the saying, ‘out of the mouth of babes’ came around. Now, that doesn’t mean that the children are smarter than adults, but they can absolutely keep up. For example, I had a talk with my 7-year old cousin once. She asked me if I thought of myself as funny. I said yes, and she then asked if I had to work hard to be funny or if God made me naturally funny. It was a conversation I wasn’t prepared for, but I still had it with her all the same. Think back to when you were a kid. If you didn’t talk like or do the things you’re making your child OC do, then don’t make that OC do them!

          What we usually see in child OCs is that they are cut back emotionally and mentally to the age of a common 3-year old. Pervocracy wrote a great memo on how to handle children while they worked as a childless nurse. I will summarize that memo and add my own notes as well. It will be cited below for your convenience.

          From the time of birth to a year old, the child is a baby. They can crawl and walk, and may have a few words or be able to recognize people, may know parts of the body “Can you show me where your feet are?” but they are essentially small animals. You have to be gentle and affectionate, and don’t expect them to cooperate. Babies cry, but more often than not they cry as a means to communicate.

          A child aged 1-2 years old is a bit more difficult. They have more mobility and have gained more of a voice. The “terrible twos” come in to play here and the child is able to walk and run around. Often children at this age are dependent on the response of their caregivers. If a child falls, they only will make a big deal out of said fall because their caregiver does. They cry because their caregiver has clued them in socially that they are hurt. That’s why you see a lot of moms tell their babies, “it’s okay!” or “you’re okay.” They have to reassure the child that they are in fact fine so the child does not react. Children at this age can speak, but it may still be simple sentences. They can’t get deep yet. They also will recognize strangers and want to avoid them.

          A toddler/preschool child is around the age of 3-5 years old. They are more socialized, given this is the age where most children go to daycare, preschool, or kindergarten. They are potty trained by this age. Do not write a 3-5-year-old OC and have her still in diapers. That isn’t realistic. These kids are also fully mobile, and this is the age where you can start seeing the baby’s personality. Are they a hyper child? Do they like animals? If the child dances, most dancers start pre-ballet classes at this age. Do they want to go outside all the time or are they more comfortable spending time inside? Babytalk from the child, ie: mama, dada, I want, etc. Is not realistic. Again, the child may have simple sentences, but they’ve learned enough words at this point to not have to resort to speaking like that. These kids are easily distracted and likely have been weaned off naps. Parents can still babytalk these kids, a phrase here which means speak to them in that sweet little-kid voice, but the baby will not babytalk to their parents.

          A small child is roughly the ages of 6-10. These kids in America are already in school. A 6-year old is the average age of first graders, and a 9/10-year-old is roughly a 3rd grader. They will not respond well to babytalk. These kids want to be treated like adults but may still have childlike tendencies (may still pout, whine, cry, etc.). They have been fully socialized by this point as they will have had years in daycare or school racked up at this point. They are outgoing and less afraid of strangers. Most prodigy children who play an instrument will have started their instrument around age 5 or 6 (source: was a prodigy child. Started violin at 6). They like to see cool or fun or gross facts and are eager to learn and joke around. At this age you’re still watching Spongebob unironically, so treat them as such.

          A preteen is around the ages of 11-14. The child, if it’s a girl, may experience her first period, the child, if it’s a boy, will go through puberty. Girls may develop quicker, as many boys can recall a point in like 5th grade where all the girls were suddenly taller than them. These children are fussy and frustrated because they think they know more than they actually do, but are still treated for the most part like kids. They still need bedtimes and house rules and restrictions, but they don’t want them. A child will likely learn swearwords and start using them out of sight of their parents around the age of 12. This is also where a child’s cringe phase comes in because they will be going through middle school, which is the worst time in every kid’s life and a time that they all want to forget.

          A teenager is around 15-18. These are young adults. They have freedoms, mainly the ability to drive a car, but their life experience is limited. Around this age is where a child would get a girlfriend or boyfriend. No sex at this age. Don’t do that to your OCs. In Harry Potter, we often see writers jumping the gun and having their OCs hook up with Draco Malfoy in the third year. That’s too early for a kid. That kid would still be a preteen, and their life experience is limited. They also would be incapable of giving consent for something like that. Wait until they are 15-18. In Harry Potter fanfic, that would be years 5-7. This age of OC will want some autonomy away from their parents. If they visit the doctor’s office they may want to go alone. If you offered them a sticker at the doctor’s office, they’d take it ironically. They may experience early stages of depression, anxiety, or stress that can be caused by their school or home life because they have more expectations placed on them. They may have hobbies or be involved in after-school activities. A 17-year-old or 18 year old will be thinking about college.

          Notice the progression as the ages go up. A 5 or 6-year-old won’t have the pressures of a 17-year old, but they can still hold a conversation and do similar activities to the teenager. A 1-year old will speak in baby talk, but that window is very small and narrow, and in fanfiction we often see it carry on for much longer than it should. Babies grow faster than you think. They develop faster too, and you don’t want to limit your OC’s ability for growth because you’ve shoehorned them into one specific age. Child OCs deserve character growth just like adult OCs. The fun part about writing kid OCs is that the audience can see them grow into what would be already-developed personality traits and hobbies in an adult OC. The things that would get added to your internal character bio get to grow and blossom right in front of us. If you write a child OC, give them the chance to do that. Give them the chance to grow.

          Finally, most Harry Potter or Percy Jackson fanfics start the OC off as a first-year, which luckily for us is the same age as a new camper at Camp Half-Blood. Both are 11 or 12. We had a note for young OCs in Fanfiction 101 Unit 3: Please Stop Using Emily Rudd. I will reiterate that point: these OCs are 11-12 at the start of the fanfic. You should not be describing how “strikingly beautiful” an 11 or 12-year-old is. On top of that, children don’t notice things like that. Save attraction for when they’re like 14. That’s when it’ll have a more meaningful impact.

          Next week we’ll be getting more technical. The next unit is a topic the Editor and I have a lot of experience in, and hopefully, we’ll be able to bring in some outside perspectives.

Xoxo, Gossip Girl.

Sources:

Pervocracy's Tumblr