#which everyone is bragging about all the toys their servants put together for them and is just like damn i didnt get shit

[jamethinks]

Christmas and the Foger

I just finally made it home and now i can rest and do what i do best: talk in circles. Finally gonna talk about the Christmas stuff i never got around to.

My main hc for the Forgers is that none of the believe in Santa, but they all think the others do (save for Anya she knows everything), but this post is just about Twilight

Twilight never believed in Santa to begin with. His parents were devote Catholics (hc) and therefore didn't indulge in Pagan nonsense. However, his home town was always very lively around this time, mainly to celebrate the birth of Jesus and nothing else. His fond memories of the time are more about seeing the town all lit up and full of life, the amazing dinner his mom and few other mom's would put together, going to the various church functions, he even got to play Joseph in a play once. His dad never cared for any of this crap and was very dismissive of the whole but secretly loved the way his wife's eyes would light up during that time.

He could still remember the first Christmas after the bombing, when the few that remained tried to do something special for all the kids in spite of everything that was going on. He had to make (insert simple traditional regional Christmas dish) since he was one of the older kids, and it was hard the first time, but he got used to it. They also celebrated it once in the army. There were a few hostages and they gave them a nice warm meal despite their differences, and for a night, they lived in peace.

Even though he had a lot of found memories from around that time, he eventually stopped and focused on being a spy. Most of the lovely memories were swiftly followed by horror stories that traumatized him in ways he couldn't explain. Once, Ostania even led a bombing campaign on the 27th in order to blind side everyone. The majority of the people in memories are either dead, missing, or disfigured as a result of the war. In the end, Christmas was less of a fun holiday and more of an eye in the hurricane moment.

The thought of spending the holidays with Anya and Yor made him anxious. It was a bad omen to him. He even considered running away that weekend just to avoid the incoming doom. Every time Yor would bring it up, he would space out and try to dismiss the conversation. Yor debated whether or not they should do anything. Loid seemed excited and involved, but she could see his discomfort with the whole thing.

In the end, Anya is able to convince them to cancel everything, and they spent the day inside pretending it wasn't even a holiday. Closed the curtains and watched a bunch of random sci-fi movies, and talked about random stuff. It was the closet he ever felt around them, and the first in years he spent Christmas not on the brink of a breakdown

I'll have to make another post as to why Anya and Yor don't celebrate.

[chiseler]

The Sound of Fury

“America, as a social and political organization, is committed to a cheerful view of life,” Robert Warshow wrote in his seminal 1948 essay “The Gangster as Tragic Hero.” Democracies depend on the conviction that they are making life better and happier for their citizens; only feudal and monarchical societies can enjoy the luxury of fatalism or a fundamentally pessimistic view of life. Praising the gangster genre as a form of modern tragedy, Warshow also accounts for film noir in his statement that, “There always exists a current of opposition, seeking to express by whatever means are available to it that sense of desperation and inevitable failure which optimism itself helps to create.” The gangster’s demise is the purest American tragedy because it is driven by his mania to climb the ladder of success. The end of his saga is inevitable, so in chasing success he is really chasing failure; his self-destructiveness expresses defiance at the inevitability of defeat, but also confirms it.

This underground river of pessimism and disillusionment unites the pre-Code films of the early thirties and postwar film noir; they share a tone of bitter gallows humor; a satisfaction in being wised-up, knowing the score; they flaunt the scars and calluses of lost innocence. Pre-Code movies reflected the free-fall of the Depression, the farce of Prohibition and the dizziness of a society edging towards anarchy. Noir exposed the suppressed anguish of WWII, the anxiety of the Cold War, the stresses of conformity and materialism.

Films like Cry Danger (1951)—recently restored to full glory by the Film Noir Foundation—depict a battered, abraded country that has turned cynicism into a running gag. A man just out of prison after serving five years for something he didn’t do trades sour wisecracks with a one-legged, alcoholic ex-Marine. They make their home in a dilapidated trailer in a scruffy park perched on Bunker Hill, where the proprietor sits around strumming a ukulele and ignoring the busted showers. The vet (Richard Erdman) falls for a pickpocket who steals his wallet whenever he gets drunk. The ex-con (Dick Powell) idealistically tries to vindicate his best friend, who’s still in jail, only to find out he’s a double-crossing liar. The film achieves an extraordinary blend of the glum and the snappy, a deadpan insolence that saturates the air like smog. “What’s five years?” Powell says of his stretch. “You could do that just waiting around.”

While pre-Code movies gleefully portrayed an “age of chiselry,” a country where everyone was looking for an angle, they never plumbed the depths of alienation, fatalism and misanthropy that noir opened up. For all their knowing skepticism, Depression-era films evoke a sense of camaraderie, a shared body heat from people huddled and jostling together—maybe cheating each other, but still sharing jokes and boxcars, Murphy beds and stolen hot-dogs. Noir, by contrast, purveys a chilling sense of isolation and social atomization; not only institutions but individual relationships are corrupt and predatory. There’s no longer a hard-times sense of being all in the same boat. As Kirk Douglas nastily smirks at his colleagues in Ace in the Hole: “I’m in the boat. You’re in the water.”

Noir used unpretentious, low-budget crime thrillers to smuggle this caustic vision into movie theaters during a time when, on the surface, America was at the height of prosperity and social cohesion. Unlike the early-thirties gangster cycle, which reflected a real wave of lawlessness, the crime movies of the fifties were made during a time when the murder rate was lower than in previous or succeeding decades, perhaps as a channel for other, submerged anxieties. Noir’s prophetic vision of disintegrating communities has become only more compelling with time, a development that may explain the passionate revival of interest in film noir in the last decades of the twentieth century.

Healthy, functioning groups don’t exist in noir; even gangs and criminal “organizations” fall apart because their members are out for themselves, ready to betray each other for a payoff or a bigger share of the take. Institutions like politics and business appear only in stories revealing their corruption. The police are the only representatives of government commonly seen, and they are often bullying and crooked, hounding innocent suspects with sadistic relish. Even films that take the side of law enforcement underline hostility between cops and the people they protect. Apart from the justice system, the public sphere does not exist: the town meetings and popular movements that crowd the screen in thirties films, with indignant and excitable citizens marching, rioting or celebrating, are unimaginable in film noir. People seem to exist in a vacuum.

In part, this vision reflects the privatization of life that accelerated in the postwar era, as cars replaced trains; television replaced movie theaters; appliances eliminated the need for servants, milkmen and ice men; suburban back yards took the place of parks, all part of the glorification of the detached home for the “nuclear” family. The homogeneity of the suburbs and the intrusiveness of media and advertising paradoxically diminished any sense of place or community. Meanwhile, Cold War paranoia meant that expressions of communitarian spirit or calls for collective action could rouse suspicions of communist sympathies.

Many of the writers, directors and actors associated with film noir were liberals, often former Communist Party members who had seen the left-wing idealism of the thirties buried by World War II and then vilified during the Cold War. Disillusioned, they used crime movies to indict a culture of rampant greed and cut-throat competition. Thieves’ Highway(1949), the last film directed by Jules Dassin before he left the country to escape the blacklist, slices open the produce business to reveal the rotten heart of capitalism. Even something as pure and nourishing as an apple becomes a poisoned agent of strife when it’s equated with money. A Polish farmer, enraged at being paid less than he was promised for his apples, flings boxes of them off a truck, screaming, “Seventy-five cents! Seventy-five cents!” The apples roll wastefully across the ground, an image foreshadowing the film’s most famous shot, when after the same truck has careened off the road and exploded, apples roll silently down the hillside toward the flaming wreck. When the dead trucker’s partner finds out that money-grubbers have gone out to collect the scattered load to sell, he begins kicking over crates of apples, fuming, “Four bits a box! Four bits a box!” Everyone in the movie is “just trying to make a buck,” and cash haunts the film, dirty crumpled bills changing hands in a series of soiled, coercive transactions.

It is easy to see why the House Un-American Activities Committee wanted to drive people like Dassin out of Hollywood. Films such as Joseph Losey’s The Prowler (another Film Noir Foundation restoration) and Cy Endfield’s The Sound of Fury, (a.k.a Try and Get Me! 1950, the FNF’s next project) are scathing attacks on a materialistic society, unmasking the American dream as a shallow and shabby illusion that breeds crime and shreds the social fabric. (Both directors fled to England in the early fifties to avoid persecution by HUAC.)

Endfield’s stark anti-lynching drama opens with a down-on-his-luck family man hitch-hiking on a dark highway; he tells the trucker who picks him up that he’s been looking in vain for a job. Howard Tyler (Frank Lovejoy) moved his wife and son out to the postwar California suburb of Santa Sierra, hoping for a better life; “I can’t help it if a million other guys had the same idea,” he complains bitterly. They live in a shabby little bungalow behind a wire fence that makes the place look like a miniature P.O.W. camp. Howard’s pregnant wife hates the idea of using a charity clinic, and frets over money owed for groceries, while his whiny little boy begs for money to go the baseball game (“All the other kids are goin’!”) A bartender at a bowling alley sneers at his cheap customer: “You take a beer drinker, you got a jerk.” If Howard weren’t so dejected and humiliated, he would never fall under the spell of Jerry (Lloyd Bridges), the vain braggart he meets at the bowling alley.

Primping and preening, flexing his muscles and showing off his fancy aftershave (“Smells expensive!”), the manic Jerry boasts about his sexual conquests and the big money he makes, and he treats the modest, submissive Howard like his valet. He offers to put him onto something good—“nothing risky”—just driving the car for his hold-ups. When Howard hesitates, Jerry snorts, “You guys kill me! The more you get kicked in the teeth the better you like it.” Their first job is knocking over the grocery store at a cheap motel (“The Rambler’s Rest”), where Jerry easily intimidates an elderly couple and pistol-whips their son. Intoxicated with the easy money—and a few stiff drinks—Howard bursts in on his family with armfuls of groceries. His wife gasps at the extravagance of baked ham and canned peaches, and he brags that now they can get their own TV, and won’t have to go over and watch their neighbors’. “And we’ll throw this piece of junk away!” he crows, pointing to the family’s radio. Soon Howard is buying his wife new shoes and dresses with hot money, telling her he has a night job at a cannery. His little boy sports a cowboy outfit and ambushes his jumpy father with toy guns.

Unsatisfied with these penny-ante crimes, Jerry comes up with a scheme to kidnap a wealthy young man and hold him for ransom. He’s overcome by envy as he fingers the victim’s suit, tailor-made in New York, and after they’ve taken him out to a gravel pit in a disused army base, Jerry panics and kills him. When Howard gets home, dazed with horror and guilt, his wife wakes and tells him about the lovely dream she was having: she had the baby and this time there was no pain at all; “I got right up out of the hospital and took her shopping. I was buying her a pinafore.” Even in her dreams she’s a consumer, subconsciously linking commercial goods with the fantasy of a painless life.

As Howard mentally unravels, the shoddy vulgarity of the culture around him takes on a sinister cast. Jerry shows him the ransom note he’s written in a diner while ordering a steak sandwich (“Cow on a slab!” the waitress yells.) For cover, they go out of town to mail the letter, taking along Jerry’s girlfriend, a glossy blonde, and a lonely manicurist she has dug up for Howard. In a nightclub, he’s subjected to a string of dumb jokes and parlor magic tricks from a burlesque comedian. “Blame my psychiatrist,” the comic quips, “I didn’t pay my bill last month and he’s letting me go crazy.”

From its opening moments, the film depicts the crowd as a mindless and malevolent force, which will eventually be stirred to frenzy by sensationalizing newspaper articles. Crowds in noir are always bloodthirsty mobs, surrounding and destroying strangers in their midst; the communal desire for security is tainted by bigotry and ignorance. This is a dark inversion of Capra’s rallying citizens, or even the all-for-one armies of bums who fight for their squatters’ rights in Wild Boys of the Road. Movies of the Depression era never saw anything wrong with wanting money, good food, a pair of shoes, or even fur coats and diamond bracelets. They are tolerant of people—especially women—who do whatever they have to do get ahead. By contrast, The Sound of Fury shows materialism—the desire to keep up with the neighbors, to make a better life for your family—as a force that corrodes souls and breaks down social decency. The deepest well of pessimism in noir is a distrust of change, desire and ambition. “I just want to be somebody,” people are always saying, but the urge to squeeze more out of life, to grab a chance at happiness, is brutally punished.

Below the surface, the force driving noir stories is the urge to escape: from the past, from the law, from the ordinary, from poverty, from constricting relationships, from the limitations of the self. Noir found its fullest expression in America because the American psyche harbors a passion for independence, an impulse to be, in the words of Walt Whitman, “loosed of limits, and imaginary lines, / Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute.” With this desire for autonomy comes a corresponding fear of loneliness and exile. The more we crave success, the more we dread failure; the more we crave freedom, the more we dread confinement. This is the shadow that spawns all of noir’s shadows: the anxiety imposed by living in a country that elevates opportunity above security; one that instills a compulsion to “make it big,” but offers little sympathy to those who fall short. Film noir is about people who break the rules, pursuing their own interests outside the boundaries of decent society, and about how they are destroyed by society—or by themselves.

The gangster, Robert Warshow wrote, is driven by the need to separate himself from the crowd, but in doing so he isolates and dooms himself. White Heat (1949), which brought James Cagney back to the gangster persona that made him a star, came out one year after the publication of “The Gangster as Tragic Hero.” It took the “man of the city” (as Warshow defined the gangster) out of the city, but Cagney’s explosive death atop an industrial gas tank is the supreme illustration of Warshow’s observation that the gangster’s pursuit of success—“Made it, Ma! Top of the world!”—is a pursuit of death.

White Heat is also a perfect example of what Edward Dimendberg (in Film Noir and the Spaces of Modernity) called “centrifugal” noir: it’s a film without a center, about a world flying apart like the cooling fragments of an exploded star. Cagney’s gang, decaying under the strains of resentment, betrayal and madness, moves between equally bleak urban and rural hideouts. After robbing a train in a rocky no-man’s-land, they hole up in a frigid, creaky old farmhouse “a hundred miles from nowhere,” as Cagney’s wife gripes. Cooped up together in this gloomy Gothic house, surrounded by split-rail fences and naked, rolling hills, they snipe at each other and grumble about their leader. Cody Jarrett (James Cagney) suffers debilitating migraine headaches and huddles in the lap of his gaunt, fiercely loyal Ma. The realization that came to Cagney in Public Enemy as he stumbled into the gutter in the rain—“I ain’t so tough”—is here amplified into an infantile weakness, perpetually on the verge of breakdown. Cody’s frailty only makes him more vicious. At his orders the gang leaves a wounded member behind, bandaged and in pain, to freeze to death once they make their move to a motor court in LA. The motel is typical of the “non-places” (in Marc Augé’s term) where noir flourishes: marginal, transient spaces where “people are always, and never, at home.”

The banality of the modern west makes room for Cagney’s majestically psychotic performance, fine-tuned and sensitive as a landmine. Cody Jarrett crumples inward under the crushing pain and then erupts, and White Heat similarly closes in and then shatters people are either cramped in suffocating enclosures (Cody shoots a man while he’s locked in the trunk of a car, cruelly offering to “give him some air”), or stranded in vacant, inhospitable spaces. At the rural hideout, the wind is always blowing bitterly around the house, tossing the trees; Cody walks alone at night, talking to his dead mother, who was shot in the back by his wife while he was in jail. He tells a friend—really a police plant who will betray him—how lonesome he is, because “all I ever had was Ma,” and how hard his mother’s life was, “always on the run, always on the move.” White Heat brings together the ultra-modern—radio tracking devices; drive-in movie theaters—with the pre-modern, even the primitive. It proves not just that film noir can thrive in the country as well as the city, but that noir was not merely a response to the new—industrialization, the bomb, etc.—but drew on deep veins in the American psyche and the American landscape: the desire to stand alone on top of the hill, even if there’s nowhere to go from there but death; and an accompanying fear of being buried “on the lone prairie,” having no one to talk to but the night wind.

by Imogen Sara Smith

[justemotionalabusethings]

{Before I begin this is really heavy. I’m talking suicide and shit man its intense}

Hi! My story is a long and sort of confusing one. I guess we begin at my first sister’s birth.

My father left me when I was really young. He wasn’t ready to be a father and fled for his life. Leaving me with just my grandparents and my mother.

After a while a new man was introduced into my life to fulfill this father role I needed. I was really shy with him until he got me a toy train for Christmas!

I don’t remember much of my childhood (which could be due to csa since signs are coming up here and there) but I remember a lot changed after my first little sister was born.

She was his biological daughter so I guess that meant there was no more room for me and I was only baggage in the marriage. He would taunt me day after day. He’d compare me to dogs and laugh when I ran away crying. He abused all the pets I had. My cat, my dog, and my hamsters. He watched scary movies with me and would then only fuel my nightmares. He’d make me clean everything and then get upset when I got irritated. He’d let me pretty much starve if I didn’t eat what he made or terrify me by saying someone was going to hurt me. To this day I can’t look at Hamburger Helper or Multigrain Cheerios.

At night I was terrified that he would hurt my mother because of his drinking problem. I would always be awake for some reason and hear them fighting about it.

As my family grew, it got to the point where I didn’t feel accepted. Where I’d look into the bedroom and see his daughters huddled around a father that loved them with a wife that he loved. I felt like I could run away and no one would miss me. Like they’d be happier.

During that time I was also being horribly bullied at school. It seemed like no matter what we did or the school did it wouldn’t stop. I got horrible depressed and was even suicidal.

His abuse ended when he made a wrong move and got arrested, effectively getting himself kicked out for good.

I was a pretty happy child after he left. The only thing that scared me then was middle school.

And I was in no way prepared for it.

In middle school I met a girl. We did one of the usual ice breakers in class. Seeing as pretty much everyone from my elementary school had bullied me I asked her about helping me find my way. We soon clicked and were spending a lot of time together because our schedules were almost identical. The only difference in our 9 period schedule was the 2 electives.

Everything was fine I believe. I made friends with her and I loved her more than words could say. She taught me how to be a rebel and how to break rules and do what you want. How not to let feelings hold you back but make them let you go.

Although everything changed in the January of 7th grade.

My mom had never wanted to give me a phone until I was sixteen so I wasn’t on any social media or anything. I pretty much just spent all my time reading.

But my friend got me to convince my mom to get Skype. Once there I was able to talk to my friends whenever I wanted.

From there we started to world build and role play.

After that I remember the abuse really started happening and to this day I’m not sure why.

She used me as a slave basically (funny bc when I tell people that they say that’s wrong bc she’s black and I’m white. Which is wrong bc I’m mixed aka black and white). It began with her just asking me to hold a few things. Then it quickly escalated to everyday I was forced to hold her shit on top of my own. Her lunchbox, her binder and my binder, her book bag and my book bag, and her lunchbox all up the stairs to our lockers which were right next to each other’s. Eventually she started asking our mutual friend to hold my stuff and they refused to let me do that, the sweet thing.

She humiliated me a lot by saying stuff or screaming wrong stuff about me. I have a horrible trigger that I can’t avoid because of her. Everyday if I did something wrong or something she didn’t like, or if I looked annoying I guess, she’d call me a failure. Everyday. And now I can’t escape that word. It sucks man.

She hurt me a lot too. She’d pinch me and I have a very specific memory of her pinching the back of my neck and when I said it hurt she said: “Well it’s not supposed to feel like sunshine so keep smiling.”

I was afraid of her. So afraid of my best friend. God my soul friend. I hate the word soul mate because she was always gushing about how we were soul friends and meant to be together and how much she loved me. It fucks me up some days.

I never knew what I’d encounter any day. After a while I stopped going to after-school activities because she would get pissed at me if I went to them instead of being online talking to her. My teachers started to look down on me for that. Thinking I was not trustworthy or saying I’d show up and then not. But it wasn’t my fault. I was only scared I’d get hurt.

I used to be glad I didn’t kill myself in elementary school because I was happy to be with her. But I feel like it would’ve been easier to end everything there.

I felt like she liked my mutual friend so much better and it brought me back to my step father loving my half sister more than me.

It even got to the point where I felt like she was trying to drive this friend away from me. She’d tell them things that I didn’t do and I’d be too scared to speak up for myself.

I was too scared to get anything to make myself look and feel nicer. I got my nails done one time since my family noticed I was getting sad again but the next day at school she insulted me. She said the exact words; “Why would you get something your friend wouldn’t like?” I think that’s when I realized it was abuse too. Why would someone who loves you say that?

She never for cared me or my problems either so I went silent. I didn’t come to her at all because there was no point in it. No point in being ignored.

I used to call myself a servant but even that was too much of a high status for her. She began throwing her trash at me and forcing me to pick it up or I’d get pinched.

Even calling her seemed like a chore for her. She’d make me promise to call her and once I did she wouldn’t pay attention at all. She’d listen to music or be on some social media. She knew it was hard for me to call because my mom wouldn’t let me call after school. Yet even when we were away from each other she mistreated me. She’d curse at me and insult me under her breath and say ‘good bitch’ when I told her I heard it. But of course. It was always from character to character.

I slipped further and further into the depression (funny because this only happened until near the end of 7th grade and all started in January). I stopped telling my other friend about anything. And I didn’t try to leave the friendship with her because I didn’t want to leave our mutual friend.

I couldn’t even do my schoolwork unless she was right there with me. But only to distract me. I remember I had to go get a project in for health so I wouldn’t fail the course and she almost stopped me from going because she didn’t have a library pass. I ended up going and getting it in but I later found (Thanks to a nice smack on the back of the head and multiple pinches throughout a 45 minute class) that she couldn’t go and was mad. Even though I told her I had to get the project in.

This went on until June. I finally broke down after a horrible day with her. It all started with a simple joke. I was used to her pointing it out when I made typos or spelled something wrong. On that day she spelled something wrong and I jokingly pointed it out. She got pissy and I quickly apologized but afterwards she wanted a hug. I didn’t want to give her one because well, I was having problems, and didn’t feel comfortable hugging. She got mad and when into his whole thing about how: “You have to do what your friend wants you to do even if it makes you uncomfortable.” Which is so messed up…

But at lunch she began getting physical and pinching me and digging her nails into me and kicking me under the table until I finally decided that I’d tell her.

She dragged me outside and I embarrassedly explained that I was on my period and didn’t want to hug anyone. She got really mad and literally beat me up right there in broad daylight in the ‘playground’ more like tiny grass area of the school! (Spoiler Alert: I don’t think the school ever believed me because no one came forward to say they had seen the action. Most likely because she scares everyone.)

I broke down in the bathroom and told my mom and grandmother and they contacted the school. It was a messy process and she hated me afterwards but I was away.

Or… so I thought.

During those months I had started cutting. I cut to make it go away.

So I was online and somehow came across a call out post for that very friend.

I was appalled at what I saw as it mentioned how she caused a minor to relapse into self harm. I was horrified and scared that somehow, probably by her bragging or lying, someone found out I had been cutting.

I came into contact to tell her off but I soon fell back into her trap.

It wasn’t as bad I’d say but she still did damage. She lied to my new friends online and told them that I had saved her pictures, I was coping her accent, and basically stalking her just because I told this abusive friend that I had a crush on her.

The crush cut contact and it killed me considering I was working through my feelings for other girls at the time and none of that was true.

At school she was tolerable but online not at all. She’d vague about me and insult me yet put on a sweet face. And then she’d tell our mutual friends all this fake shit about me.

My guardians went to the school and they were mad at me for going back but they don’t understand. She was my first friend in a long time. I couldn’t leave especially when I felt so guilty.

I truly got away and moved to high-school. I found out that I most likely have bpd and my fp is that mutual friend who decided to stay friends with me after my abusive friend told them off for helping me through my suicidal feelings.

I developed a really big crush on them and right now we’re really close friends and I love them so much for everything they do for me. They’re really adorable too. The sweetest and cutest nugget.

Of course I wish I could end the story like that, gushing about my fp, but it doesn’t end there folks! Because I’ve noticed over the summer before the beginning of ninth grade, which was last summer, that my mom is abusive.

I could go on and on about how’s she’s an asshole. She fits the criteria for emotional abuse almost perfectly with some physical thrown in. I would talk about but as I’m not the victim, and only a victim of child endangerment from being in the same home as her, I don’t feel like it’s my place to share my feelings. Although it does affect me a lot to be here.

I’m still stuck in this abusive home. My first therapist said I show signs of ptsd during our first meeting lol. But I probably have c-ptsd. I have BPD, ADHD and I’m hypersexual to sex repulsed on the constant. Oh yeah I have psychosis too which is acting up. Not to mention I’m 15 and struggling to find my identity. Am I a boy or girl? Do I like girls or not? I do not know.

I guess you can see why abuse is my life story. I have no story beside it. Only abuse and that one sexual harassment issue.

Sometimes I want to die, and sometimes I want a better life. I don’t have a therapist or psychiatrist since I moved which was hard because I LOVED my therapist. I trusted her so much that I was going to open up to her before.

I still struggle with feelings of guilt and such and some days it’s so hard to keep going I don’t find a point. But when I’m with my fp for example I feel more alive than ever. I feel like I can do anything.

I want to thank everyone who reads this and feel free to shoot me a message or something.

Just know that I believe in you. We’re all scarred and scared here. We all have bandaid’s holding together our pieces of broken glass. And one day… those pieces will start to fuse together again and our sharp edges will dull. We’ll be safe, happy and grateful we got through it.

To anyone stuck in a abusive relationship pls tell someone, or call someone. Even if they can’t help you like CPS or something let it out. Don’t bottle it in because it’ll only hurt more.

If I can’t end my story with a happy ending, I hope at least the ending of one of yours does. Because you all deserve a happy ending.