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rumblelibrary · 3 years

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The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and sex. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: The story is placed between season 1 and season 2. Thank you for everyone that encouraged me to keep going. I have to wait for my local drop of serotonin to get fully Laszloed to go through this.

Lyra’s Contellation, Illustration taken from Uranographia by Johann Bode

Routine. Routine is comfort. Habit stabilises the character.

If you follow a routine, you won’t ever be victim of imprudence, of evil jokes of fate. The stability earned through calculated and repeated actions brings a sense of fulfilment that forbids other thoughts to come bashing in, breaking rules, breaking hopes that a solid scheduled routine forbids to have. I take my time to begin this week, I planned the things to do, the next steps for the case, the people to meet, the resources I am allowed to contemplate. I feel good, I feel back to myself and the events of the weekend seem far from me and my own perception. I probably got ahead of myself, carried by some instinctual though and random rush of emotion, to be always in contact with the same people and mostly kids probably doesn’t help my stance in the presence of other adults. I feel silly now reading back the last page, I felt tempted to tear it off, but to keep it there should be a small memento of not losing my temper so easily. I read it over and over and I know I am not as charmed as I thought I was. I am just lonely. I have always been and it is normal to face ups and downs even for a man of my age who is more accustomed to it. To desire a partner is a natural instinct, to find somebody attractive is meant by nature, it is the body calling for the natural fulfilment of the reason we are put on this very Earth. But even in a state of nature my own condition would be forbidding me to be part of the natural process of growing my own kind. I am the type of male that would be excluded because of his impossibility to give the protection to the pack, therefore it is just more reasonable to me to adapt to my condition. No matter what my Potentia generandi might be (the ability to procreate).

With all the smugness that characterises him, Niki showed off that he passed my challenge. But to be really of an help to his antics I didn’t show any kind of surprise. I treated him like he did the bare minimum, like he didn’t prove me any kind of superiority. He has a natural attitude toward challenging the figure of power, he is trying to overpower me, but I won’t satisfy his need. I have noticed he has a very technical brain, he finds ways to solve problems in ingenious way and not by throwing himself into the task. I proceeded giving him to work on a clock, an old broken one we had in the institute, one of the kids hit it with a ball years ago and nobody ever worked on repairing it. I gave him the clock, a couple of screwdrivers and a book. He called me a number of German names I won’t transcribe, but it gave me a certain amount of satisfaction. If my intuitions are right, I am sure the clock will be repaired by next week.

Analysis of the victim’s body through John’s eyes. The drawings and sketches are as detailed as I requested, all of this thanks to you joining him. I deal with art critic section, I am used to notice these things. You assure me, you play yourself low and I wonder why, nevertheless you did notice things neither John or I did, which pleased me. It fooled me, distracted me from my purpose to not give in to your witchery, as I leaned closer watching your pale hand move across the pages tracing this or that line, showing how this must be done with the killer on this side and not that side, with words so deliciously elaborate, your way of composing your speech is compelling, you could sell the drawing of a kid like it was a Botticelli. I noticed the shape of your hands, the way you move them, I wonder if you play an instrument, or played, some habits just stick with you through life. I focused on taking notes, your ideas and instructions giving me a new point of view, a new stimulus. What if that is the only way the killer can communicate? Or what if this is the communication that works for him? Could our killer be mute or deaf? Or that’s how society made him feel? This man, or woman, needs a listener and I am afraid that now, since he got our attention and the public’s, he won’t stop. Another killing could be just as close.

Scheduled: meeting with the parents of Alex Garel for new admission, Monday next week at 11 am. Love at first is a fetish and like all fetishes it is based onto an object that hides a deeper meaning, like gloves mean hands, to love at first sight means to see somebody that you think, and think only, to have the chance to share not only a sensual kind of bond, but an intellectual. Love at first sight is based onto not knowing someone well enough, but having the time to idealise most of that someone. I can see why I feel this attraction, using a particular phrase that Sara often mutters when investigating: you tick all the boxes. I know you do, your beauty is everything but conventional, you’re the kind of face that painters would paint and musicians would write hymns about, but any animal on the street would never be allowed to see. You have the grace of the body and the fire in the eyes, and then you speak. When you speak, I realise, you could bring the world to its knees. Also, you never speak out of context, and if you do it is to ease somebody’s position. You do it often with John or with Stevie, you say something really silly in order to put them back to a place of comfort. Some women would call it self deprecating, but I see that you only pick wisely your fights and your wins. You don’t need to earn your peace and quiet by neglecting, but by lifting up the others. I wonder if you do it with me too, if your silences are just you allowing me to be in a better place while instead your judgment is tearing me apart. I shouldn’t care, but I keep wondering, sometimes I take my time to answer you, I analyse every shade, every peculiarity of your question, I am looking for sarcasm, for a condescending voice, for something to hang on and bare you open. To prove myself you’re not perfect. But deep down I know that you do, you judge me and you do well.

Mother never said so. That’s what one of the girls in my care said today. Ursula. She is tough. Skin as thick as an alligator and the tendency to pull her own hair at night or when under a massive amount of stress, enuresis alongside erratic episodes of mutism. I tried the soft approach, it didn’t work. She is too accustomed to be indulged. Therefore today I pushed her a bit overboard, I teased her over opinions on the female body, the female role, she is only 12, but she is soon to bleed, she knows, I can tell from the way she clenches to her skirts, from the way she looks at me as a threatening figure. I am the incarnation of danger to her. Under her steady silence, I pushed a bit more, asking how her mother taught her to be nice and submissive. Does her mother tells her she is going to be a good wife? The phrase, which I reported at the top of the page, surprised me. What is her mother teaching to her then? What closed her so much, locked her soul away, making a small bird like this choose the silence and the retirement of self inflicted pain over, what? Mankind? Or just Men? Is that even a curse? Should I cure her from a truth that her own mother whispered to her ear one night before bed and made a child decide that the world wasn’t a place to share her time with? Am I the man supposed to teach her that men are worth of trust? In the eyes of modern society, who measures its own value over the modesty of the women, she would be a champion, but at what price? I can’t in any way let her parents bring her back home after our recent meetings. Nevertheless, I have to make up my own mind on how to give her troubled soul ease without making her believe in fables. I, as a man, regard myself not worth of any of the trust they expect me to teach her.

In all of my years practicing with people’s feelings and traumas, I challenged myself to find those same traumas within my own mind. It is a tricky game, terrible, anguishing at times. But it straightens me, the pain of others, the pain of kids mostly, so unadulterated and pure, breaks the curtain between me and the lies that I often surround myself with. Pain is made of method, you can open it up, you can scrutinise it, part it piece by piece dividing it in sectors and, partitions, centre part, side part, heart of the problem. Pain is reliable. Happiness is not. It is random, cruelly sudden, unexpected, it washes over you in such deflecting way only to leave you alone a moment after ashamed and alone. I saw you again today. You were in a table full of what I could only guess as your former university colleagues, I saw pain in you, not heavy but constant. Annoyance, a bit of sadness. Your head titling on side and your eyes drifting on the left, you’re imagining something away from them. A place? An object? Or maybe someone? Your hands play circles at the bottom of the flute of your drink like kids do, your smile only one sided. I don’t see you speak at all, only listen. What could keep your voice down? I almost gulped down my own breath as you looked up and I realised how I must have looked. I was having lunch on my own, in a very private table and even entertaining myself with a newspaper on the side. I wish you didn’t, but you came over, your eyes shining. Did I save you? Or maybe I was just a good excuse to leave that painful meeting behind. Don’t be so nice to me, it is not healthy. Don’t look at me like you expect anything more from me than me listening. I won’t smile back at you, I won’t give you care, attentions or thought. I won’t lean for your perfume, I won’t obsess over that dress you wore, that pin that adorned your neckline keeping your undershirt in place, a silver robin, I remember. I won’t remember the number of the buttons on the side of your glove, three. I won’t observe the little moles just under your ear. A small constellation, I later realised, hidden between your ear and the beginning of your neck. I don’t need to check in my books. It is a constellation. It is Lyra. Why? Why you must be like this? Are you the Lyra? Are you the instrument of Orpheus come to me to drag me out of Hell? The Tartarus holds my soul and you should know already, I am not worth the quarter part of Eurydice to be saved and she never came back anyway. I won’t be now recollecting the way your teeth sunk in the inner side of your cheek when you apologised for the annoyance. You apologised twice, I ignored you both times with a raised hand to request peace and silence. I am not letting you in.

Reserved: Tickets for Wednesday’s evening Traviata by Giuseppe Verdi. The guest female lead promises a beautiful show.

Leonardo, as I am learning through Paul Valery essay, is who I would define as a figure of projective identification of the Subject or, to better explain it, of the knowledge of the Subject that formed and grew through the use of sketches in the experience of the Artist. I have always thought that the finest form of art was the representation of knowledge duly undressed by any personal identification. Leonardo, instead, proceeded to represent the figure through the essence of the artist, a representation technically unlimited on objects and symbols and that keep expressing the transformation and development of Leonardo’s own being.Some artists are testimony of the destruction of the world, of the loss of eternal beauty over decadence. And then you have Leonardo, who creates an art that is the gravity of the world’s system, of the nature, of thoughts and abstractions. I wonder if our killer does the same, if the way they presents the victim through their own personal view, if what we can read there it is their stories, their pains, their needs. Their happiness and troubles. What are they trying to tell me? I need to know, I need to know to save a life, of course, but I also need to know to be able to sleep at night. Hair, hair are the epitome of femininity in any era. I keep studying Ursula and her habit to pull the. I took notes on it: she picks them by the bottom, slowly separates them until she gains an amount her mind defines satisfactory and then she rolls her finger and pulls, she does it until her finger is empty and there are no hair left. I find her process incredibly interesting. In men’s case the display of physical attributes is not as vital, a beard can be appreciated but does not modify the power of seduction of a grown man. On the contrary, for women hair are a vital part of their attractiveness toward the opposite sex, society sees the hair of a woman as part of their vital characteristics, also in ancient times for a woman to cut her hair or have her hair cut was a sign of deep separation from the society. Only heroines or whores wore that mark and the association of the two is so rooted into the way society always parted the role of a woman in two that it is nauseating to think of. I am still fearing to let Ursula go away, the repulsion that she is showing toward her own body makes it difficult even for me to crack her shell open as a man, but my deepest worry is when that hate will take a scarier and deeper tool on her. How a girl with such a fear of what her body can do, like sex or pregnancy, can endure in the future to have an husband? Or even to be courted by anyone?

John is helpless and I admire him for that. He doesn’t hide it, he just is. He is vulnerable and exposed, he is an open well bursting with doubts and feelings and troubled waters. He is genuine in a way I could never be. Maybe that’s why I despise even more him talking about you, how he sees you every morning, how you greet everybody, how you behave even with interns, how you like your coffee. Your talents, your wits, how you said this and acted like that and reasoned through him. How you forbid him to drink even when he felt tempted. How you stayed late over to help him collect all the informations I requested him to get. To him. Not to you. The evil demon of envy scratching in the back of my head screaming like a siren out in the sea, he demands to be heard, he demands to be allowed a part in this game. I won’t allow him that. I won’t allow myself any of that. This is a pure game of chess, if I give in a pawn now, I will lose my knight, and I know it. I advice him to not be so closed minded when he praises you, only to get surprised by the charms of a natural logical mind. I find a way to hurt him, he is an easy target, I look at him as his eyebrows twitch and he summons his patience on me. He lost the plot about you already, his bruised pride taking over. You won’t come into my life.

“Un dì, felice, eterea, mi balenaste innante, e da quel dì tremante vissi d'ignoto amor.” (“On a day, happy and ethereal, you appeared in front of me and from that day, trembling, I lived on an unknown love”)

The words of Alfredo in the first act of the Traviata keep running through me, a chant that won’t let me go, almost painful. The Opera House, that was my hiding place, a place where in plain sight I could let out myself, unleash. The catharsis of the characters involved running through me, I didn’t need anything but their voices and those musical instruments to let out my fears, doubts and anger. When Alfredo came to the scene tonight, the lights were strong and slightly pinkish, the performer bursting out of the seams with passion. My eyes diverted only to see you there. Alone. Those blinding lights gave you the the radiance of a vision singing the notes of greek myths and heroes, that dark blue evening clothing rang through my eyes like it was a bright yellow, the little shiny details that adorned you so clear against the heavy lighting to look like transparent pieces of water collected to adorn your beauty. I wasn’t me, but Alfredo, and I was helpless against you sitting so far and yet too close from me. I was naked in front of thousands. I am aware of the effect you have on me and our last conversation was barely regarded as one. This is infatuation, this is the pure work of a lonely mind and not something worth of any of all the words that I am dissipating here. Yet. I saw you cry at the climax of the opera, Violetta, the protagonist, heartbroken falling on stage consumed by pain and regret for her lost love and ultimate sacrifice. Your eyes shone as you tried to hide the tears and collect yourself. Through my binoculars, I saw your throat tremble and gulp down something more than just a sigh of pain. Your jaw clenched, your gloved hand moves to hide your shaking lips. I reckon, I have never seen such sad lips look more inviting. You look at the wall on your side breathing through your nose and not even that can save you by the strength of the voice of the soprano. You’re defeated and so you brought a fine silk handkerchief to your eyes, your shoulders bent inward in self defence. The Opera won. It won you like it always wins me. I wonder if you felt like this because of a past lover, somebody that broke your heart and made you feel wrong in any way. And because of that little wonder it is even more clear to me why I am a man worth of no trust. Because for a moment, I know, I wished to be the one that broke your heart. That gave you just the pain you’re inflicting on me so mercilessly by offering intoxicating kindness and beauty. To own your thoughts, tears and shame. To be the one man you have to look away from. I want to own all of that and, maybe, I will be freed of you the day you’ll be just another human being that hates Dr Laszlo Kreizler.

Tagged @cazzyimagines @lieutenantn @handmaiden-of-mischief @thesunflowersutra @zemomybeloved @fictionlandslanddreams @charistory @greeneyedblondie44 @apparrio @hb8301 @whatawildone

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#the diary of doctor laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler x reader #dr laszlo kreizler imagine #dr laszlo kreizler x you #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo kreizler headcanons #thealienist #the alienist fanfic #the alienist fanfiction

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artmotherhoodandmadness · 3 years

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Breaking the trauma bond with the help of EMDR

Trauma bonds have punctuated my whole life; in fact my very first one was probably the relationship with my middle sister. I put her on a pedestal and thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world and a genius. She took umbrage with my perception of her and in seconds her volatile outbursts could leave me flattened and annihilated. My mother and stepfather frequently had outbursts too; you never knew when another bomb was going to be detonated. But then my sister could be funny, charming, charismatic and erudite; my mother made exquisite food; and my stepfather would buy my art materials when I needed them. They could behave monstrously, but they could be nice too. This was how the intermittent reinforcement was cemented, there would be storms peppered with moments of sunshine and you hoped there would be more sunny days than stormy ones. Like the lab rats experimented on in Skinner’s experiment, the rat would keep pulling the lever hoping for a reward but Skinner ensured that the pellets came with less frequency; nonetheless the rat would keep pulling the lever and neglect everything else hoping for another pellet. Just one last high, one last reward, one final hit of dopamine. Without realising it the rat had become an addict, and without realising it as a child I became an addict, too, addicted to a lethal combination of chemicals, unleashed when I was shouted at, namely cortisol, followed by my reward dopamine if I was on the receiving end of a moment of kindness. But moments of kindness were inconsistent and unpredictable.

The next trauma bond lasted ten years with a girl at school who really didn’t like me and could be cruel, indifferent and a bully, but I was blindly devoted to her and it caused me great distress and sadness when she discarded me, then hoovered me up, gave me a crumb of attention only to devalue and discard once more, it was an insidious pattern. I watched her develop from a vibrant, happy girl, to one who was obese and an alcoholic from the age of 10 to 18. I didn't understand at the time that it was another trauma bond and so a pattern has persisted in my life to this day. When I look back on specific friendships and numerous interactions, there were often unhealthy attachments with typically narcissistic types.

During my session with Dr S I told him about my friend of three years, a fellow, artist, who struggled with emotionally unstable personality disorder. His outbursts left me decimated, but then I focused on his talents in music and photography and believed, as a mental health campaigner, I could not abandon him.

Dr S said, ‘No good comes from maintaining contact with a narcissist. The only person that benefits is the narcissist, you are being used as supply.’

Dr S ascertained that my friend was a narcissist in minutes after I shared a text exchange. I had told my friend that I was doing EMDR and very quickly his texts became rebarbative.

‘You have to delete his number, you cannot allow someone to speak to you like that, he’s a scumbag.’ Dr S said matter of factly.

I thought of the times in the past, since I had my psychosis, when I had erratic outbursts and said things that I would never have said if I had been well, and I was convinced me deleting his number would be tantamount to abandoning him.

‘You are spreading yourself too thin,’ Dr S concluded.

‘You are in therapy, you are trying to get better, you have to focus on the here and now, your husband and children, not saving others.’

My friend reminded me of my sister, just as I had hoped to save her, I hoped to save him, but Dr S was right, I had to reinstate myself. What good would come from having a ‘self detonating fire cracker’ in my life?

‘Charity begins at home,’ Dr S said.

‘He has made you his slave. He has become heroin. You are behaving like an addict.’

All of this was shocking, I didn’t want to be anyone’s slave and the EMDR commenced. I held that thought. ‘Slave.’ The word got bigger and louder in my head to the point where I said, ‘No more.’

Had the penny dropped? I had a high tolerance for abuse, because I grew up in a volatile household but everyone has their tipping point. My husband knew about my friendship and didn't approve, in his eyes my friend was a ‘loser’.

Suddenly I was confused, were there some mentally ill people that you just dismissed as beyond help?

‘Could he ever get better?’ I asked.

‘Yes, with EMDR it’s possible.’

He was a cannabis user, too, and as long as he smoked he would continue to have delusions of grandeur and a strong sense of entitlement. I thought of my other friend, a photographer who was addicted to cannabis. He was on medication and receiving mental health support but still had not turned his life around, and it was frustrating to talk to him. I realised that it did not serve me to listen to him talking about cannabis, it brought me low, he was doing nothing with his life, just frittering it away. I was proactive, productive, a creator and I wanted to be around people who appreciated my talents, who were supportive and encouraging, who were stable and kind. My digital paintings reflected the conflict between the turbulence that I was facing and the desire for calm, there was a stark dichotomy of disparate forces coming into play when I looked at them.

Dare I say it I needed normal people in my life, not dysfunctional ones and this predilection for the dysfunctional stemmed from childhood. Did I want to be dysfunctional or functional? Of course I wanted the latter.

Dr S continued with the EMDR focusing on the analogy of the friendship being like heroin and as he moved his fingers I said to myself, ‘I don’t want to be a heroin addict, I am not a junky, I will go zero contact, I will no longer respond.’

Dr S went even further and said the abuse I had received during the friendship, had left me with battered wife syndrome and a diminished sense of self, this was also shocking. But it reminded me of how I felt as a child when my stepfather hit me in public, or my sister and mother shouted at me in a public place, my self esteem would shrivel to the size of a pea. I always felt that I had done something wrong and that I deserved it.

My friendship with the artist, accompanied with his volatile outbursts, replicated these seminal childhood relationships and subliminally I knew all of this. In fact I had tried repeatedly to break contact.

My husband, by contrast, was stable, solid, responsible, patient and consistent. I didn’t get the same chemicals from my bond with him, but I did get a sense of security from an attachment with someone I had known since I was 19. And of course it had not been easy for him to see his wife go through a roller coaster ride of mental health struggles, often I had seen him as the enemy but that was no longer the case. It was like a dense fog had lifted. With the right treatment maybe I was going to finally turn a corner. Certainly he was happy with my progress, I owed it to my family and well being to stick with the treatment.

Maybe this would be my last ever trauma bond?

I told Dr S that everyday I did my writing, art, music and exercise. I also tried to be present with the kids, my focus was on being calm, fostering a stable environment at home and so far I had achieved this. I didn’t believe that I could have psychosis again, or raise my voice or have an episode. In fact, I didn’t recognise who that person was. I was returning to the person I was before the psychosis.

Dr S said it would be a long road but that all the dots could be joined together from childhood, and there was still much to investigate and unpick. My life was filled with so much trauma, how would it be possible to process it all? The bilateral stimulation that came from EMDR activated the left and right hemispheres of the brain; these memories would become less potent as they were processed. I saw EMDR as a method of breaking down and diminishing the power of unpleasant memories and when I got home I decided to try it myself. I took a recurring and unpleasant memory and then I analysed and focused on one aspect of it. For example, when I was in London, I met many famous people and often it made me feel uncomfortable and inadequate, I couldn’t deal with such interaction and yet at the same time I wondered if they were better than me because they were richer and more successful. Instead I said, ‘I am me, I like my simple life, they have skills, but so do I, do I want to be them? No I am happy painting, writing and composing, my heroes are the underdogs, the ones that never got any recognition but carried on regardless.’ Then I held onto that idea and did the EMDR. I did this repeatedly with memories that have kept on recurring for decades until I felt giddy with mental exhaustion. Dr S said that I might have vivid dreams as a result and sure enough my dreams were filled with random recollections of trauma. There was so much of it and it was shocking that I had endured and survived it all, but that was the point, I had survived and I was still standing.

I read online that it was possible to do EMDR on your own, I realised that there were things that I didn’t want to share with Dr S, they were too harrowing and sometimes his response was not gentle, he was tough with me, he did not mince his words and I was just too sensitive. I felt judged by him in many ways, judged by everyone and of course I wanted to hide it all, hide everything that had happened but that was not possible, I had to face it.

Thankfully my relationship with my mother is healthy now, she acknowledges that when my sisters and I were growing up she could be irascible and identified that it stemmed from her relationship with her father who was always screaming at home, it left her terrified and unwittingly she emulated this model of parenting. I have learnt from the past and don’t shout in front of the children, they are happy and vibrant and thriving, there is no need for patterns of childhood to be repeated.

EMDR seemed to be the right treatment, I would stick with it, bit by bit I was getting stronger and yes, my artist friend, despite his talents, I would have to let him go. He would be my last trauma bond and my brain would recalibrate and no longer be addicted to the chemicals that it had fed off for most of my life. It was not going to be easy - that’s for sure - but with patience and persistence and support and critically, EMDR, it was possible to break the trauma bond for good.

#traumabonds #emdr

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teacup-crow · 4 years

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Next Friday

*this is a repost because Tumblr broke on me earlier! I was ill for two days and could only really lie in bed and wrote this. Set after S5M15, based more around M17, warnings for requisite Season 5 sadness, effects of hunger and Australian levels of swearing.

Summary: Nadia, Owen and Veronica plan next week’s movie night.

Owen is an idiot, Veronica has always thought. But lately, he’s their idiot. Popping up in the lab asking her opinions on irrigation techniques - not her area, of course, but the science behind some of it is fascinating. Appearing during Friday movie nights with Nadia, which had always been their thing, but still respecting that. Appreciating whatever they chose. Never pushing things too far. He’s really good at cooking, too, eking out the most flavour possible from their smaller and smaller ration packs - and always making sure they eat before he does. Maybe there isn’t too much going on upstairs, but he’s nice. He doesn’t judge her, or set her off, or sit too close, or try and make eye contact like Ian does.

“Only liars don’t look people in the eye, Veronica,” Ian had hissed earlier that afternoon. He’d asked some inane question about Sigrid’s taste in wine, and she’d tried to brush him off but he was having none of it. “I know you’re the Minister’s precious little poppet, but I don’t trust you. Nobody likes creepy children who hover around where they’re not wanted. You and your nasty, sneaky girl guide friends… although they don’t really like you either, do they? Not really one for friends your own age, are you?”

She’d stared right ahead, still avoiding his face. “I need to get on with my work, Ian. Haven’t you got things to be doing for Sigrid too?”

He got a tad frostier. “Watch your tone. It’s the Minister to you. And she isn’t here right now, sweetheart, is she?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Say one more thing to me in that tone of voice, Miss McShell, one more thing, and you won’t see your Nadia for a very, very long time.”

The beaker in Veronica’s hand cracked around the base as she squeezed it. What tone? She’d tried to be polite. She could feel his stinking breath on her neck, knew his flat grey eyes would be right there if she looked at them, full of blazing jealousy and spite. And he wouldn’t, couldn’t follow through on that threat, could he? She was here of her own volition.

“Hey, Ronnie! And - oh, hello, I- Commander. We were just going to lunch?” Owen hurried into the lab, his voice bright and giving nothing away, but Veronica noticed from years of analysing it that his posture was stiff for a trained Runner. Beaten, perhaps, or anxious? Ian sneered a little at the sight of him, but backed off, probably appeased by the honorific, and she let Runner Six take her by the hand and pull her away. He’d sat her between himself and Runner Thirteen, and tried to get them engaged in a silly story about the time a koala attempted to steal his mum’s van. She’d ended up explaining to them the high rates of chlamydia among koalas, getting a bit confused when Cameo and Owen found the facts so funny. And the day passed safely - at least until he made a run for it.

The sweat is pouring off Owen’s face now as she attempts to dig the bullet out of his leg, swearing profusely even for an Australian. “Jesus FUCK!”

“I’ve not done this before! I'm trying my best.”

“Fucking Ian, the mangy bastard cu-”

Nadia clamps her hands over Veronica’s ears as if she’s never heard the word before. “Please, just keep it down before someone tips him off!”

Ian hadn’t seen the need to let a ‘traitorous, stupid boy’ use ‘limited medical resources’. Owen is supposed to be back on punishment detail, 5am sharp, or face the consequences. The only thing keeping him from the box is the fact that Cameo is already occupying it. So here they are in the lab, after hours, with a sixteen year old girl trying to stop him bleeding out with very little time, experience or painkillers.

“Ya know, I’ve been through a fair amount of utter bollocking bollocks this apocalypse but really-“

“Runner Six, will you shut it!” And then, closer to his ear, out of Veronica’s earshot: “Did it work?”

He gives the slightest of nods. She smiles, broad and genuine, though her face is thin. They’re all getting a little more haggard, day by day. Veronica glances at the two of them, lovingly gazing at each other, and resolves that she’ll find some clever way to bring their lack of food up to the Minister. Sigrid is a smart woman; if she had any inkling that her top scientist keeps finding hair on her pillow each morning, that her fingernails are brittle, that three people collapsed in the fields last week, that for the first time since meeting Nadia she can count each and every rib, she’d surely do something to curb Ian’s ridiculous power trip.

She yanks at the bullet. Owen screams blue murder. Nadia shoves a balled up tea towel into his mouth, and deadpans: “So much for movie night.”

“I wasn’t really looking forward to The Green Mile,” Veronica admits. “I don’t know what you have against Planet Earth.”

“The fact that I have seen the same episode of the same documentary a thousand times in the last three years may play a part, Ronnie.”

“...only thirty-three.”

“What?”

“I pick the movie every other week. Because of many changes in circumstance, we’ve only had a hundred and nine movie nights. I pick Planet Earth approximately sixty percent of the time. We’ve seen it thirty-three times in the last two and a half years.”

Nadia sighs, and removes the cloth from Owen’s mouth. “You holding up?”

“I’m sorry for ruining your plans, ladies. Next time I try to escape from budget bloody Percy Wetmore, I promise not to do it on a Friday,” Owen pants, but the pain seems to be receding. “Ya know, if I had a nickel for every time I got shot in this calf, I’d have two nickels.”

“Which isn’t a lot, but insane that it happened twice, right?” Nadia responds with a short laugh.

“Did you both spend all your time watching children’s shows pre-apocalypse?”

“Hey, I was a kid pre-apocalypse! She has no excuse.”

“Um, ATC work was stressful and I make no excuses for how I enjoyed my free time.”

“But if you’re twenty-four now, you were eighteen on Z-day, Owen,” Veronica points out.

“Eighteen year olds are still kids, Ronnie.” His voice is suddenly quite tired. He squeezes Nadia’s hand as Veronica pulls the first stitch, hissing between his teeth a little.

She juts out her chin. “I’m younger than that and I’m not a child.”

Neither of them dispute that, though she still cuts a tiny figure in a too-large lab coat, sleeves rolled up three times to make it fit.

“How do you know it’s from a children’s show, anyway, Miss-never-watched-Disney-Channel?”

“...I don’t have to answer that if I’m not comfortable.”

Nadia shoots her an expressing your boundaries thumbs-up. She feels the worry in her chest loosen a little. Everything will be fine. She’ll get Owen’s leg stitched, and today’s drama will force Sigrid’s hand. The Minister will come to Abel and fix things, and she can get back to working on the cure, and Owen and Nadia will be safe and look after each other.

“I’m going to head back to my bunk, I think,” Nadia says, a tinge of fear in her voice as she glances through the darkening window. “Better not to be missed too long, and I should check on Cameo. She… she distracted Ian from you for a bit. It didn’t look pretty.”

“We’ll be all right, Naddi, you go on,” Owen squeezes her hand one last time, and lies back on the lab table. Veronica nods, absorbed in her task. They hear her wheels clatter down the ramp and fade across the square, quiet as footsteps.

“So, you like Planet Earth a lot?”

“I used to watch it with Dad.”

“Oh. Makes sense. My mum’s a big Tom Hanks fan. I’ve probably seen every movie he’s been in… well, about thirty-three times as well.”

“You know there’s a video of Castaway in the rec room, right?”

“I brought it back, actually. Years ago, now. But I don’t know if I can watch it, yeah? I’m scared it might make me think about her too much.”

“Owen,” Veronica finishes the stitches, and starts to clean up some of the blood. She’s watched Kefilwe do this dozens of times. Antiseptic. Dabbing rather than smearing. Keep the patient’s mind off the sting. “Do you remember what your mum looks like?”

The silence that follows makes her wonder if this is a faux pas. He eventually responds: “No, not quite.”

“No, me neither. I have a photo, but I can’t picture them as actual living people. Memories are really interesting that way, actually. We’re not as visual as-“

“Ronnie. Can we talk about something else?”

“Okay.” She racks her brains for small talk. “Do you… like it here at Abel?”

“What, now?” He snorts. “With that pinstripe suit cu-”

Veronica clamps her hands over her own ears, knowing Nadia wouldn’t want her to hear it. He smiles, and raises his hands in apology.

“No, not now. Before.”

“It was all right. Home. Safe. You knew Janine was looking out for ya. There was always enough food to go round.”

“But did you feel like you fit in?” she presses.

“...can’t say I did.”

“Me neither,” she says, a little relieved.

“Runners are quite a superstitious bunch. And I’m unlucky.”

Her brow scrunches in confusion. “Bad luck isn’t a very scientific reason to dislike someone.”

“Can you tell that to getting tied to train tracks, set on fire and repeatedly shot at?”

“Actually, Dad was working on a statistical model of danger to Runners in his spare time. I found it a while ago, me and Nadia were repurposing it to make missions safer. When I include Five in the sample, you actually fall under the average for number of dangerous situations encountered.”

“Uh, I think Five is an outlier.”

“You’re probably right.” She wraps the wound in bandages, and tucks them in. “Done!”

“I owe you one, Ronnie.”

“Just… stay safe. Both of you. I haven’t got time to worry about you two as well as curing the zombie plague.”

“You’re only a… you shouldn’t be worried about us at all, squirt.”

She shrugs. “It’s not my fault you do worrying things. If he puts you in a cell and you can’t change the dressings frequently just do your best to keep it clean.”

“Will do!” He swings off the table, avoiding putting weight on his leg as much as possible. “Whatever he does, I’ll try to make next Friday, all right?”

She nods. Next Friday, she’ll pick out Castaway, and they’ll watch it together, and maybe movie night can be Owen’s thing too.

#zrs5 spoilers #zombies run #zr #owen landis #veronica mcshell #nadia al hanaki #please work this time!

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whogirl42 · 4 years

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Episode 8. Oh wowee, episode 8.

Warning: I have a lot of thoughts and feelings because Marisa and Asriel finally interacted onscreen and it was glorious.

Let’s begin.

We all know Marisa has a... let's say, complicated relationship with her daemon. At his point, it’s no surprise to see Marisa abusing him in one form or the other. But we’ve never seen it like this before. Earlier times it was as a warning to behave or a slap as a form of punishment. This? This is something new. Marisa is gripping her daemon’s skin to the point of pain, a point so painful that she is closing her eyes and wincing. There’s no pretending it doesn’t hurt her too. This is self ham at its most explicit.

What has he done to deserve such treatment? What could have driven her to this? What did we see Marisa doing in the scene we saw her last?

Marisa is bracing herself for having to kill Asriel, one of the only two people in the world she cares about. Her entire self is rebelling at the very thought.

"What did he do to you?" Macphail asks, and it might have been her asking herself that question. "What power he still exerts. I knew you. An ambitious young woman with a good marriage well on her way to quite some position, and then that man came along and you melted."

That won’t happen again. Marisa is far from that stupid girl who made the worst mistake of her life over a crush. She steels herself for what she needs to do. She is sure in her convictions and no one, least not that man, will stop her.

Below, armoured bears are readying for an attack.

Lyra is probably still with the Gyptions. There's no reason to think Lyra would be down there below. Maybe the possibility of Lyra being there doesn't even cross her mind. Except Iofer is dead. After an armoured bear helped Lyra escape Bolvanger. And now there are armoured bears readying for an attack against the Magisterium. Lyra could be down there.

"Open fire," Marisa says. It's chaos down there, it's hard to see anything. But maybe she spots one bear running away. Maybe she spots a familiar red hat on its rider and sighs in relief. Maybe she berates herself for almost hurting her daughter again.

Or maybe Lyra isn't even on her radar, too consumed with thoughts of Asriel.

Marisa knew Asriel was doing something was Dust. She understands from his work that it has something to do with an energy discharge. The penny drops, and fear takes hold of Marisa.

He wouldn't. Would he? But the numbers all add up. Marisa isn't beyond hurting children and they're the same, Asriel and her, they always have been. He'd enjoy besting Marisa at something, succeeding where she couldn't. He couldn't. But who was to say how far his convictions went? Lyra shouldn't be anywhere near there. There's no reason for her to be there.

Still, Marisa is on edge. She demands Thorold tell her what Asriel is planning, even as she seems to have grasped the basics. She tries frightening him, appealing to the faith I'm surprised he'd even have after years of working for Asriel. Thorold lowers the gun but still doesn't say anything. Marisa tries a different tactic.

"Thorold, I should throw you to the wolves. But I won't. I’ll tell them that Father Macphail is staying here to analyse what we’ve found, and then I’ll take the troops to pursue Asriel and you will leave. He’s always been so reckless. He’s never treated any of us well, you included."

Did Thorold tell her anything off-screen? We don't know. There's nothing to suggest that they talk any more after this scene. Which means that Marisa - always in control - Coulter let her guard down, let herself seem vulnerable about Asriel, without any clear gain. This isn't a ploy to get something. This isn't her being emotional because Lyra's there. This is just her being emotional. For the first time in god knows how long, she's going to see Asriel again. And Thorold has been working with Asriel for years. He probably knew about the affair as it happened, one of the only people in the know. Both Thorold and Marisa know Asriel intimately, and there's a camaraderie to that.

I can't not mention Marisa's remarks about Asriel throughout the season.

"He's a failure of a man and a failure of a father." (1x02)

"He thought he could protect you. Another one of his ridiculous ideas. Couldn't protect a painting if it was drawn on the wall." (1x02)

"[About giving up Lyra] And Asriel had ideas on what was best." (1x06)

“And if there's one thing that man doesn't need, it's more toys to do damage with.” (1x06)

“He’s always been so reckless. He’s never treated any of us well.” (1x08)

And that’s probably barely scracthig the surface. We have no way of knowing how long it’s been since they last saw each other? Marisa told Lyra that she sometimes bumps into Asriel in the Arctic Institute, but there’s nothing to suggest that actually happened. For all we know, this could be the first time they speak since Asriel’s trial 12 years ago.

Marisa approaches him. He's sprouting out heresy like he always did, but she can't ignore it or roll her eyes or find better uses for his mouth. He's shattering her world, promising the end of everything she's worked for, everything she believes in.

Damn him, he has the audacity to smile.

This is the end of the Magisterium, that's what he said. The sun of another world. "Come,” he says.

She doesn't want to, but she can't help it. Whether it’s a miracle, an abomination; she is first and foremost a scholar, and this is extraordinary.

Something like peace settles between them, but Asriel is still saying things she does not want to hear. "Marisa, come with me," he says, like it's that easy.

Marisa's religious beliefs haven't been given much attention until now. She's played with the Magisterium, manipulating them to get what she wants and not giving a damn to what they say if when doesn't suit her. In the previous episode, she told Father Macphail the Magisterium has her devotion, but that didn't ring true. She cares about her experiments. That's her priority. Everything else is background noise.

Marisa fully believes that Dust in sin. She said it herself to Lyra in the Daemon Cages.

“Dust is not a good thing. Grown-ups are infected so deeply that it's too late for them. Condemned to a life of sin, guilt and regret. This is for a better future, a better life. [...] At the age that we call puberty, an age you'll come into very soon, darling, daemons bring all sorts of troublesome thoughts and feelings.”

She's trying to create a better world, one where humans aren't plagued with temptation and guilt. It's easy to blame this on the consequences of her affair with Asriel, and I do believe that fuels some of it. But to solely credit him for her motivations does her character a disservice. It took three-quarters of the season to touch on what drives her to these extremes, and I very much hope that they continue to delve into it in season 2.

Okay. This moment. This moment this moment this moment. This moment. Sorry, my brain loops and glitches whenever I see or think of this moment, because this moment.

This moment.

It's best with audio because then you can hear the way Ruth Wilson says Marisa’s faint protests. She's breathless, confused, torn, unsure. Everything she hasn't been up till now. Ruth Wilson is out queen our lord and saviour.

And Asriel, our favourite slut, is so thirsty for her, leaning in as she pulls away. It's been years and finally, he can kiss her again and he doesn't want to ever stop. His experiment just changed things forever, could change them forever. He and Marisa are the same, and he loved her years ago and he still loves her now, and if everything is changing then maybe finally they can get their happy ending.

Marisa was able to convince Macphail to let her come along because she knows Asriel better than anyone else. The same is true vice versa.

“Lie about whatever you want. Lie about the Oblation Board. The Magisterium. Lie about the girl. But do not lie about your ambition your work or who you truly are. You used to want to change the world. Then leave the Magisterium. Come with me, and we will change them all.”

He talks between small kisses, tempting her, teasing her, seducing her. Despite her snapping remark at Macphail, Marisa does in fact melt. This will work, they can be together again.

But there's the one thing Asriel didn't expect. The one thing that Marisa herself hadn't expected.

But I love Lyra. Where did this love come from? I don't know; it came to me like a thief in the night, and now I love her so much my heart is bursting with it.

Rewatching the scene, you can see the moment she makes her decision. She leans her head back just enough so she can look at Asriel.

Then leans back in and closes her eyes. Lets herself bask in the moment, lets herself feel the love and safety and rightness of being with him envelop her. When she opens her eyes, when she pulls away and speaks the words that will put them on separate paths, her resolution is clear. She's resigned to her decision and its consequences.

And Asriel could have debated theology and politics until the end of time, if that's what it took to have her again. He can't argue this.

And so she leaves. And he lets her. And the two of them are just so unexpectedly soft with each other my heart can't take it.

Where's the furious fight? The cutting remarks? The bitter resentment pushed down all these years finally showing its ugly face? Where's the dysfunctional madness?

"Ah, those two. In a fight they're lethal. Around each other, they melt." - Richelle Mead, The Golden Lily.

Part of me is disappointed we missed out on that beautiful angst, the kind we'd probably see if they spent longer together, but another part of me loves it. Because they cut through the bullshit. With others maybe they'd put on an act, but it's just them. And they know each other. They'd see through the other's presences in a heartbeat. The whole scene is so intimate, so honest, they almost convince me they could be healthy. And that's the tragedy of them, I think. They're so alike, two sides of the same coin. They understand each other on such a deep level no amount of time apart makes a difference. In another life, they would work. They should work. But this is the reality they live in.

Confession time.

I have not read the books. I have no intention of reading the books, at least not the parts I haven't seen onscreen yet. The reason is that after episode 3, I picked up the first book, caught up to where I was on the show, and realised I enjoyed the show better. I'd rather experience the twists and turns first on the platform that I prefer, without having them spoiled first on a platform that just doesn't evoke the same emotional response. Please don't pelt tomatoes at me!

I vaguely knew the plot of the Golden Compass from the movie I half saw years ago, and from general knowledge. Going forth, I'm mostly blind. I know bits and pieces from Tumblr that I can't quite escape, (I.e: the quote from the books I used above that I've seen in multiple gifsets), and unfortunately, I already know Masriel's fate. The journey getting there? No clue.

Which is exciting.

I've understood that the show is delving much more into Maria's psyche than the books, and that her revelation that she loves Lyra has come earlier. I don't know what it means going forth, if there will be changes from the books or if it will stay the same for the most part. What I do know, is that I can't wait to see what happens next.

Marisa refused Asriel because of Lyra, but Lyra left their world. Next season, I'm sure Marisa will be just as ruthless and determined to get her back, that will probably result with her aligning with the Magisterium once more.

I'd love to see her find a way to once again place the blame on Asriel, but as we've seen, her bitterness and resentment tend to fade away when faced with the man himself. Maybe it'll be easier to cling onto now the novelty of seeing him again after so long has worn off. But I honestly don't know how it will go when they next see each other. The softness of this scene took me by surprise, just as each of them always does individually. One thing's for sure, their connection isn't going anywhere.

But neither is the reality they live in. The Magisterium. It'll be interesting to see just how deep her loyalties go because the show did a great job in showing me that she'll choose Lyra over practically anything, but like I said, it hasn't talked much about her religious convictions.

See, that isn't what I'd expect to hear from the truly devout. It's part of her power-play with Macphail, yes, but it doesn't scream religious fanatic.

I want next season to explore that side of her. Ruth is a fantastic actress and would portray the inner turmoil perfectly. But I need to believe there's a chance she won't choose Lyra. I need to be convinced in her conviction, to honesty fear that she's gone off the ledge. I love that Lyra is her weak spot, I love that in her own twisted way she believes she's putting Lyra first. But she's not just a mother. She's not just a scorned lover. She is Marisa fucking Coulter, cesspit of moral filth, mother of all evil, and I need to see her go dark.

Yes, darker than smiling as she attacks the daughter she loves, darker than killing a boy with her bare hands, darker than kidnapping and experimenting on children even as they continue to die. I want her to repulse me with her actions. I want her to cross every line imaginable. I want her completely unredeemable. And then have her love for her child override all those convictions.

I have high demands. I have high expectations. I have full confidence Ruth Wilson can deliver. I'm really hoping the writers and producers do too.

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greennct · 5 years

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jisung & the fbi

okay do u guys remember that whole “fbi-agent-watching-me-through-my-computer” meme??? bc thats what the au is based on. why?? i have literally no idea. i am a complete crackhead. i am literally down to a single brain cell at the moment. i apologise for this. 💞💖💘

(3.3k words, wtf?? hopefully some semblance of comedy, and of course, 100% fluff, the only warnings that I could think of is jisung swearing?? if you don’t want to read that then scroll past this is guess lol)

song rec: alfie’s song (not so typical love song) by bleachers

The first time your computer started talking to you was a lazy Sunday afternoon in Mid-May. You had just successfully completed a horrific essay and turned on some music to enjoy a small celebration ceremony, when the chorus of your song was abruptly cut off and replaced by a static-filled recording of a whining voice.

“-yong the microphone’s broken again! I think it’s cause they keep playing Ke$ha too loudly…”

There was a pause as the voice seemed to listen to a reply outside of your earshot. You froze, eyes scanning the room frantically in an attempt to find the culprit of your disturbance.

“Of course I tried turning it on and off again, I’m not a complete idiot!”

Despite the potentially terrifying situation you found yourself in, you couldn’t help but giggle at the clear domestic that you were somehow witnessing. Whoever was complaining so fiercely, kept talking in an unnervingly young-sounding voice, so after a few more minutes of his whining, you decided that they weren’t going to be too much of a threat.

Sitting back down at your desk, you frowned at your laptop. Apart from the word document you had up, ready to send to your professor, and the streaming site for your music, your desktop was completely empty. There was no sign of another person accidentally having facetimed you, which at that point was your main theory for the sudden interruption.

“Hello?”

The pretty much constant monologue you had heard ever since your computer started glitching cut off, as the boy immediately stopped talking. You held your breath, now sure that the situation was not at all to do with a wrong-number. It felt as though you had caught him.

Gaining a little more courage, with the assumption that you were therefore in the right in the situation, you decided to continue. “I know you’re in there, I-”

This time you were interrupted with a scratchy snigger. Perturbed, you frowned slightly, and leaned into your computer. “Well, where are you then? How can you be coming from my computer and not-”

“I’m not actually inside your computer!” came the protest out of your tinny speaker. “You do know that’s not possible, right?”

Glad whoever this was couldn’t see your cheeks suddenly flush red, you replied in a confident tone; “Duh, I was just-“

“No you didn’t, you’re blushing, I can see it!” your computer crowed.

For the first time since he had started talking, you felt a tiny jolt of fear shiver up your spine.

“H- how can you see me?” Your voice was much quieter now.

You expected a menacing reply, since you were now assuming you had been hacked, but the response was in a rambling tone as equally soft as yours.

“Well, technically, I can only see you if your webcam is switched on, but you basically never turn it off, I don’t actually think you know how, but since you watch TV in the other room so much, it’s not like this is constant 24-hour-surveillance, y’know, I-”

“Hang on, you’ve been watching me?” You were filled with indignation, your previous fear forgotten in the anger you felt at the idea of being spied on. “That’s fucked up! Just because you want to fulfil some perverted-“ struggling to find the words, you ended your rant with a confident “I’m calling the police!”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you~” the computer sung, “I’m afraid you won’t get very far.”

“Why not?”

“I am the police.”

Another silence. You collected yourself.

“What, and I cannot stress this enough, the flying fuck does that mean?” Your voice was so calm and low you swore you could hear a gulp down the other line.

“It’s legal!” Came the eventual squeak. “People have such bad net security these days, they’ll agree to anything just so they can use weird sites, and usually we use it to spy on like, terrorists and stuff, but since it’s only my first few months here and I’m so young Doyoung said I should just watch you for practice, because we’re pretty sure you’re not doing anything illegal, unless you are of course, that’s my job to find out, but you have like, the worst cyber security in the whole city, so-”

“Woah, okay.” You cut off his verbiage for the second time, “You’re telling me...” You paused, frowning as you tried to make sense of what was going on. “You’re allowed to spy on me?”

“Like I said, it’s completely legal.”

“What are you doing with my information?”

“Nothing! I’m just using you to practice my surveillance skills.”

“Oh.” You were surprised to find yourself slightly disappointed in the idea that you were basically the equivalent of a homework assignment for a disgruntled intern. “Okay. I suppose that's fine then.”

The computer snickered again. “As if you had any choice.”

“Hey! At least pretend to let me have some free will!” And with that, you slammed the lip of your laptop shut. Shoving it under your bed, heart pounding, you decided that perhaps you would stay away from technology for a while.

Barely two days later, you had completely given up on your internet detox. You decided that being constantly surveyed by a bodiless voice was infinitely better than being constantly bored with your lack of anything to do. Opening up the computer’s lid for the first time that week, you waited in trepidation as your lockscreen slowly blinked to life.

Silence.

Logging on, you stared into the lens of your webcam, squinting slightly as if you would somehow be able to see the person on the other end. After a few minutes of scrutinising the screen with no response from the other end, you started to doubt yourself. Did a voice really come out of your computer? Looking back, you had been pretty much delirious that day, fuelled by red bull and sleep deprivation. Maybe you had been so happy to have finally finished your assignment, you completely imagined the whole scenario.

Cautiously loading your web browser, you opened up Netflix. Holding your breath, you resumed playing an episode of the show you had been watching for the past few months. It was a comedy, and you found yourself giggling after a while, distracted by the punchlines of the show, distracted by the storyline in spite of your determination to catch out whoever was spying on your computer.

It was only after a particularly funny joke, that you even remembered that you were supposed to be catching the mysterious voice out, to be honest. You heard a tiny giggle a few seconds after the punchline, almost missing it behind the canned laughter that had played on screen. Gotcha.

“Aha!” You gloated, pausing the screen. “I knew I didn’t imagine you!”

“Yes you did, go back to your show, idiot.” Came the reply. And then, a few seconds later, “Shit. The microphone is still broken?”

“Hell yeah it is!” You exclaimed. “Now you’ve gotta tell me your name.”

You had decided, after a few sleepless nights of careful consideration, that there was no way that this so-called ‘agent’ was a threat. He had mentioned something beforehand about the fact he was quite young, and it wasn’t like there was anything incriminating on your computer. He had sounded so scared to have been caught the first time, you almost felt bad for the boy. So, you decided, since you didn’t really have any other plans for that weekend, you would befriend the boy spying on you.

“W-what?” He spluttered. “That’s confidential.”

“But since we’re gonna spend practically our whole lives together now, what with me innocently browsing the internet, and you ruthlessly analysing my every move, I should at least know what to call you!”

“You shouldn’t be talking to me at all,” was the reply.

You pouted. “C’mon, Mr FBI Man! That’s so not fair. You know basically everything about me, and I don’t even get your first name?”

You heard a small sigh. “I’m afraid not.”

“Hmmm.” You pretended to think. “I guess I’ll just have to name you myself, then. What about-”

“No!” He interrupted you. “I’ve seen the list of future baby names you sent your friend at like three in the morning last month. I do not trust your naming choices. Call me...”

You huffed, leaning back in your chair whilst he paused to consider.

“Ji. Call me Ji.”

“Ji? What kind of a name is that?!” You replied. “Ji, Ji, Ji, Ji, baby, baby, baby, Ji-”

“Stop that! God, you cannot sing.”

Unperturbed by his insults, you simply switched to another song. “You’re the Ji-nie in my computer, baby-”

“Really? Insulting both Girls Generation and Christina Aguilera in the same breath? Those lyrics don’t even work.”

“That’s what happens when you give me a crappy name.” You retorted.

He groaned, loudly. “Why, of all the people on the planet I could’ve been assigned to, did I have to get you?”

Much to you and Ji’s surprise, the two of you actually got on surprisingly well. Despite the constant teasing, and snide insults being shuttled back and forth, between the two of you, you found yourself growing a sort of begrudging affection for him. Sure, Ji could be pretty freaking annoying, especially when he distracted you with memes he had found, popping them up on your desktop when you were trying to do work, or spoiling the TV shows you were watching right in the final episode, however you supposed he also had some redeeming qualities.

Firstly, he always seemed to know the best spots around your area for whatever you needed. The cheapest handyman for your broken door hinges? Simple. The closest coffee shop for the least amount of money? Easy. The truth was, Ji seemed to have access to sources your humble Google searches just did not.

His almost magical powers spread online as well. You found yourself being dutifully warned against the scams and spam mail that made its way into your inbox (Though after a while it started disappearing, something you were sure Ji was behind), ads before Youtube videos were eradicated, and God forbid you ever had to pay for shipping.

You also thought, despite himself, the grumpy and sarcastic agent was beginning to develop a fondness for you too. Once, about a month into your ‘friendship,’ you had spent practically an entire afternoon trying to find a shirt you had seen someone on the bus wearing that you thought was stunning. After a copious amount of scrolling, you gave up, but woke the next day to find the very item you had been searching for loaded up on your desktop, your exact size already placed in the shopping cart.

However, sometimes Ji acted... weird. For example, there was the matter of your mirror.

Your apartment was so tiny and cramped, you didn’t have the space, nor the funds for a full-length mirror, and so you could never actually get a clear view of how your outfit looked. After months of contorting yourself to try and fit your whole outfit into the tiny bathroom mirror when you had first moved in, you eventually decided to use the next best reflective surface you had available: your webcam. Each time you went out in the evening, to parties or just to hang out with friends, you turned it on, and twirled around in front of it, unabashed. Since Ji had seen you pretty much dead inside, hair scraped back with massive breakouts from stress, trying to finish assignment at three in the morning, or full on ugly-crying at some sappy animation movie, you had no qualms about parading around in front of your computer when you actually looked nice.

Usually, he just teased you about your sudden change in fashion, alternating between making whooping and vomiting noises, but, just last week, he had acted a little... different.

The exchange had started off as it normally did. “Damn, where are you off to looking like that?!” Ji clamoured. “You’re gonna make people too scared to leave their homes!”

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes, twirling yourself back and forth slightly. “Do you think I look okay? I'm going on a date.”

And then, there was sudden silence. You turned to the computer, concerned it might have run out of battery, as the last time Ji had paused before answering you was months ago, before the two of you knew each other properly.

“Hello? Earth to Ji?”

“Y-yeah. Um, sorry. Yeah, you look, er...” He cleared his throat. “Nice. I mean, good. I mean-”

“Thanks, Ji! I’ll tell you how it went tomorrow!” Not waiting for his reply, since you were already late, you shut down your computer, and breezed out of the front door.

Of course, with your luck, the date was absolutely horrible. You consequentially spent the following evening recovering from the ordeal, curled up with a pint of ice cream, watching Ratatouille and moaning to Ji about how you would never find love.

“I’m serious! I genuinely am convinced I'm going to die alone.” You whined around a mouthful of Cookies N’ Cream.

“Stop being stupid, you’re very lovable.” Came the instant reply from your computer.

You paused, unsure of how to respond, shocked. At first, your surprise was due to how offhandedly and boldly the boy on the other side of the screen had suddenly delivered the compliment. Then, with a jolt, you realised how quickly your heart had started beating, blood rushing to your face. You had no idea that Ji suddenly had such an effect on you.

“T-thanks.”

“Not that I-” He stopped himself, seemingly struggling to find the right words. “I mean- You’re just-” He sighed, exasperated. “No, yeah, you’re very lovable.”

You giggled at how flustered he was. “So are you, I guess, as far as disembodied voices go.”

You were surprised to find, over the next few weeks, how frequently and easily Ji slipped into your thoughts. Buying a pastry on your way home, you wondered if he had a sweet tooth. Shopping for clothes on the high street, you wondered if Ji was into fashion. Even taking a shower, you wondered what soap he used. Each night, when you lay in your bed, the very subject of your thoughts merely metres away, you cursed yourself for being unable to do more than simply tease him, especially after his comment that night.

You knew it was stupid to start developing a crush on what was practically just a bodiless voice. Even though he shared your taste in pretty much everything, made you laugh harder than many people you knew physically, and did the best impression of Donald Trump you had ever heard, you didn’t know anything about him aside from that. Trying to ask him questions about his home life, you were stopped by a firm “It’s confidential.” Nevertheless, you still found yourself attempting to push the butterflies in your stomach deep down, each time his staticky voice filled your room.

Today, surprisingly, you had managed to keep Ji more or less out of your thoughts. It had been a good day, consisting of a stamp of approval on your end-of-year project from your professor, and a side-splitting lunch with a friend you hadn’t seen in too long. The combination of those two events had you practically skipping down the street on your way home.

You were in a part of town you didn’t really recognise, having just left the restaurant your friend had suggested that the two of you met at, you decided to treat yourself to a cup of iced coffee, in order to energise you for the work you had to do once you got home.

However, your exciting coffee break, and so-far perfect day was of course, brought to an abrupt end. Having literally just received the drink from the barista, you were violently knocked into by a flash of platinum blonde hair, scurrying up to the counter. You dropped the drink immediately, whilst the papers the boy was carrying flew up into the air. Both of your immediately dropped to the floor, in order to pick up his papers. You had been mercifully spared from spilling the drink all over yourself, as you had the common sense to throw it behind you.

“I’m so sorry!” The boy immediately apologised. “I wasn’t looking where I was going and-”

He stopped when he heard you let out a small gasp. Looking up at you properly for the first time, he saw your eyes go wide, as you recognised his voice.

It would’ve been hard for you to ignore it, since after all, it had been crackling out of the speakers on your laptop for the past is months,

“Ji?” You whispered, scanning his face intently,

You knew that Ji had been young, but you hadn't expected him to be practically your age. You also definitely hadn’t expected him to be so, well... gorgeous.

Blond strands of hair just grazing over deep brown eyes, ridiculously well-proportioned, not to mention beautiful hands you had noticed when he was picking up his papers.

You both rose from the floor, slowly. Apart from the cashier who had started to clean up your spilled drink, it seemed as if no one else in the crowded coffee shop apart from Ji had noticed your entire universe come crashing down around your ears.

“Um...” He was bright red, “I didn’t think I would ever see you in person.” He said, in a much smaller voice.

“I didn’t think I would ever see you at all!” You replied, a smile subconsciously spreading across your face. “I didn’t think you would be so cute!” You clapped a hand over your mouth, mortified that you had blurted out such an embarrassing statement.

Ji grinned at you, tossing his head facetiously. “A bit forward, are we? Barely two minutes after meeting me and you’re already shooting your shot?”

You were pretty sure that the colour of your face was an ever deeper shade of crimson than a stop sign. You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of how to rescue yourself from this situation.

“I don’t mind.” Ji leaned in a little closer, and you inhaled slightly. He smelled of fresh laundry and pineapple-flavoured gum. “Can I tell you a secret?”

You barely trusted yourself to nod.

“I think you’re pretty cute t-”

“Park Jisung!” A voice barked from the entrance to the shop. A tall, raven-haired man stood tall in the doorway. “Your lunch break was over half an hour ago! Get back in the office, I’m pretty sure that girl you’re always fawning over is home by no-”

“Coming, Doyoung!” He yelled back, ignoring the dirty looks he was being shot from the other customers for disturbing the quiet ambiance of the café. He turned back to you. “Look, I’ve gotta go, but I’ll-”

“Now, Jisung!” The man, Doyoung, you supposed, interrupted him again.

The boy opposite you sighed, rolling his eyes as he ran a hand through this hair. “I’ll talk to you later, I guess. Be online soon, I need to tell you something.” He turned, about to sprint after his superior, who had already stormed away, when you called him back.

“Jisung!” You used his full name, his real name for the first time, enjoying the way it rolled off of your tongue.

He faced you again, confused. “Yeah?”

“Um, nothing. Just-” You leaned up a little (God, he was tall), and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. “See you when I get home.”

“Uh- Wha... Um- Yeah, I-”

But you had already left, swishing out of the café, leaving Jisung standing stock still in the middle of the room, left hand touching the invisible mark you had made on his cheek, eyes lit up animatedly as he watched your figure leave his sight, goofy grin spreading across face.

#jisung #jisung nct #park jisung #jisung fluff #park jisung fluff #nct #nct jisung #nct dream #nct park jisung #jisung au #park jisung au #nct dream fluff #nct dream fic #nct dream au #jisung fic #park jisung fic #nct fluff #nct au #writings

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mysterylover123 · 5 years

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BNHA Rewatch: Episode 34 “Gear up for Final Exams”

mysterylover123

I always break this one out around Finals week.

Pictured: Deku and Kacchan in 10 years. (Of course episode 34 opens with the Mineta bit).

Now to count down the Students in Class A from least to most smart:

20TH & 19TH:

Kaminari is constantly frying his brain with his own quirk, and Mina is used to just kinda coasting on her quirk and athletic skills, so they’re both last.

18th

Aw poor Aoyama. Not exactly great at anything.

17th

I dunno why but I thought Sero would be higher.

16th

OMG Tooru is eating lunch with the Dekusquad! Is that where she falls?

15th

Kirishima 15th, same # he placed in the 1st popularity poll oddly enough

14th

The biggest surprise of the bunch - introverted doesn’t =brilliant.

13th

I think I thought Ochaco would be higher on the list. She’s not dumb, per se, just middle of the road.

12th & 11th

I dunno i guess they’re supposed to be middle-of-the-road in everything.

10th

Congrats on the midway points Shoji!

9th

Why.

8th

Oji you do good.

7th

Nice, Kyoka!

6th

Tsu did good too. I didn’t think she was dumb or anything, but she’s not geeky like Momo so it seems surprising.

5th

The third smartest of the Big 3? Wow, Shoto. Always second best, aint’cha?

4th

My best boy is so smart and cute.

3rd

The biggest surprise of the poll - at least, first time around. You assume Bakugo is dumb. He’s not.

2nd

Iida is Class rep, but still second in grades to...

1st

Best of the best! Momo Yaoyorozu I love you.

Aw Shoto noticed she’s feeling down. Let the Todomomo/BKDK arc begin!

Ooh Uraraka looks really mad about Monoma being mean to Iida. (Or maybe it’s supposed to be Deku. I don’t care. Iichaco hc)

So if Monoma is Class 1B Bakugo, who is Kendo? Iida? Deku? Kirishima?

Kendo mentions an older classmate, and my HC is that it was Nejire. She hangs with Nejire in the Culture Fest Arc. I think they’re friends.

LOL This scene is like a rundown of all Bakugo’s most popular ships.

KACCHACO

Because Uraraka knows exactly what Bakugo is thinking.

TODOBAKU

Because Bakugo makes sure to challenge Todoroki too.

KIRIBAKU

Because Kiri talks about him like a spouse.

and of course, BAKUDEKU

PAY ATTENTION TO ME. (More in the corner)

“You’re getting worse than I thought” Gotta love that villain FauxShadowing.

This is how y a do The Power of Friendship right, in my opinion.

Now a rundown of my ships taking the exams/Studying!

Kamijiro!

Todomomo!

BKDK! (Oh my god they’re the two halves of me taking a test)

Kirimina!

We’re just missing Iidaraka

An approximation of my initial response to learning that the next arc would be about pairs of students fighting their teachers: YAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

TODOMOMO VS AIZAWA?! I’M TOO BLESSED COULD IT POSSIBLY GET ANY BETTER

OH MY GOD

YES IT CAN

BAKUDEKU VS ALL MIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!

OMG BEST PREMISE EVER (Or so I thought at the time, not to know that it could be topped. That’s MHA, always topping itself). Can I also just say that the design of the Final Exam arc is brilliant. I noticed this a lot in comparing it with the PL Exam later on, but I personally think of it as Hori’s own License to Print Character Development, and I absolutely approve.

This is probably the arc that changed the most from adaptation in manga to anime - and although I adored this arc in the anime the first time I saw it, there are a few changes in it that I think are actually not for the better. That’s to say, they make for more entertaining television, but they also change the characters.

Firstly, changing it so the tests happen one after another, instead of simultaneously like the manga, means that the characters have different amounts of time to strategize ahead of time. This puts a certain light on the big character moments in the arc, particularly Momo, Shoto, Deku and Kacchan. 4 of the top 5 smartest kids in class, and they don’t even try and strategize beforehand? Made sense in the manga where they had no shot, but in the anime, not so much.

Second, also, Uraraka isn’t really the type to do this, she’s too laid back and Type B, so the anime having her strategize with Deku...I guess it’s a way to throw in some ship tease, but other than that it does nothing for her character arc, or any of the other seemingly random characters they throw into the strategy room along with them. Basically, it’s anime filler, so I don’t really care about any of it except Deku’s observations, since those are from the manga (he observes the others after he and Kacchan pass).

For the record: Manga Order: Todoroki and Momo vs Aizawa, intercut with Midoriya and Bakugo vs All Might; Todomomo first, BKDK second. Deku then observes the other teams for a few chapters as they all pass, with Mineta being last.

So Fight #1 in the anime: Kiri and Sato vs Cementoss. There’s this lady on Youtube who did these really great analyses of the first four fights of the FE arc (never got around to doing the rest) so I’ll put links to her (Excellent!) analyses of those four fights. LINK: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pUABh3SiaMs

I’ve noticed that Kirishima is often the first one thrown under the bus in school exercises. This, the Joint Training Arc, the training camp...maybe that’s where his insecurity issues stem from. And with a little tease of Tsuyu and Tokoyami vs Ectoplasm, we leave off.

So yeah, another episode I really enjoy. I gotta tell you guys, the Final Exam arc is definitely a favorite of mine. I actually like it even more in the manga than in the anime, for the reasons I’ve outlined above, but it’s still a blast and I was so happy to see it as the next arc. i wasn’t ready for a new villain-based arc yet, and the sheer premise of BKDK Vs All Might is so amazing, I’m hyped as hell just remembering Episode 37. Oh, speaking of...

BKDK CORNER

We focus in on Deku, contemplating his Great Destiny, as Mina and Kaminari talk about how complacent they are in their chances of success. Cue Kacchan, like an embodiment of Deku’s subconscious, telling them off.

I’ll stop the world and melt with you.

This line has a bunch of different translations, all basically meaning ‘I’ll beat you’. The Shippiest is the English Dub, where he says “I’ll show you how much better I am.” Which plays into his Notice Me Senpai hidden attitude towards Deku. I think it’s a mix of both “I want to beat you” and “I want to impress you”. Deku is quiet here. He’s very quiet about his feelings for Kacchan throughout all of Season 2, but he still quietly demonstrates the importance of that dynamic through his actions in the Sports Fest (inspired by Bakugo) and his Full Cowling (also inspired by Bakugo).

Aw they were already standing together.

I’ll talk more on the symbolism of BKDK fighting All Might in Episode 37, but oh man, this is the best. Like, THE BEST. I love this fight. To Sum: They both want to be All Might, each is half of the whole, and they both have to expel that perfect-imperfect image of him they have to make it. Also, I totally think Aizawa and All Might ship it. “I went with relationships” Yup. You sure did, Aizawa.

BEST GIRL OF THE EP: No new best girls this ep

RANKER: Final Exam Arc Fights

10: MINETA AND SERO VS MIDNIGHT

This one is really dull because Midnight just doesn’t do very much to win the fight. You need the teacher putting up more of an effort!

9. URARAKA AND AOYAMA VS 13

They just...kinda fluked their way into winning.

8. SHOJI AND HAGAKURE VS SNIPE

Poor Snipe, There’s not a lot he can really do in this situation

7. KIRI AND SATO VS CEMENTOSS

Short and quick and to the point.

6. MINA AND KAMINARI VS NEZU

Poor dopes never stood a chance.

5. IIDA AND OJIRO VS POWER LOADER

Short but kinetic and exciting.

4. TSUYU AND TOKOYAMI VS ECTOPLASM

Some good strategy here and Tsuyu did really great.

3. KODA AND JIROU VS PRESENT MIC

Jiro is underrated best girl.

2. TODOROKI AND MOMO VS AIZAWA

A brilliant fight of strategy and character development.

1 BAKUGOU AND DEKU VS ALL MIGHT

How could it be anything else?

#my hero academia #season 2 episode 20 #gear up for final exams #midoriya izuku #katsuki bakugō #katsudeku #bakudeku #All Might #momo yaoyorozu #eijiro kirishima #wow i really rambled a lot here #more in this than i put in the last arc put together #you can really tell where my priorities are #huh #gimme that bkdk angst #that dodomomo character development #bring it on

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songwritingtipsandtricks · 4 years

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Hello and welcome, everyone, this is Kieper again,

Today we are going to talk about how to tell a story the way we want it to be told. To be more precise we will talk about storylines. And it really is an essential part I am talking about a lot on my blog as well.

I mean, you all have had the experience of reading books. There is always an introduction, the main part and the closure when everything falls neatly into place. And it must not be in any other way. Else it would be a garbled kind of nonsensical writing by a schizophrenic, and even if we were able to follow some of it, the picture, in the end, would be highly confusing. It just wouldn't add up to the story we have been expecting.

Take, for example, Harry Potter, which is a highly regarded sequel of plots that beautifully portrays the story of this young wizard and his friends. You could read it as an adolescence-novel, and behind all the magical items and enemy wizards, the core remains to be a story of growing up children and the coming of age. Everything else around it makes it so exciting to us. However, the power lies within the boundary the novels find themselves confined in.

So the first thing we find to be indelible to a good storyline is the kind of style we want to write about. And there are various genres out there! I mean just grab a book from your shelves and search for its characteristics. Maybe it even inspired you to write about this particular story, it is no crime to take inspiration from a good book. These characteristics define the starting point for our characters, for our plot and the entire picture we want to convey.

Think of it as a building. The first thing you do, after having the idea and planning on building it, is making the foundation for your skyscraper or whatever. Then you can start outlining the building by adding the different floors and basically create a skeleton. After this, you can call the electrician and interior designers to add windows, light, toilets and whatever you want to have in your house. If this is all done, you go in yourself and add your personal touch to it, paint the walls yourself perhaps and then, move in. If something goes wrong along the way and your foundation is not good enough, you need to start all over again. So plan your steps correctly and as an architect would do. This saves a lot of time and eventually, money.

So let's say we have an idea for a song about homeless people. What we are going to do first is to find the proper building material we are going to need for this. And last time we talked about this in detail. Synonyms and related words. They are essential in our toolbox to find the right words we can use in a song. And sometimes, they even dictate some sort of arrangement and twists in the plot. Just like building material on a construction site would, we should know what we want to build with it before we put our hands on it. So first find some inspiring words and related phrases and pictures to the situation you want to portray. Perhaps even go and have a chat with some homeless people about their lives if that helps you find inspiration and stories that are close to reality - nothing is better than reality. It is more honest, more relatable, and so beautifully rough that it grabs the attention of a later audience.

Once you have done this, it is time to get to the drawing board. Draw the outline of your story, just like an author would, because that is what you are. However, while an author has thousand of pages to get to a point, as a songwriter, you only have about a minute in modern music to get to the chorus and then further portray the story in the second or third verse. You need to get to the point quickly and get to the core immediately to grab the attention, else the audience will continue drinking and cheering.

So let us say you have got a perfect outline, an ideal starting point for your story, what are we going to do next? Well now is the time to form a thread for the listener to follow along. It does not help to spoil the end in the beginning before anyone knows the protagonist or give vital information too early in the plot. So you need to structure the storyline.

Your homeless buddy told you about his life, and he did so in chronological order perhaps. Presenting a story chronologically is the dominant kind of telling a story. And right it is because that is a good way for the listener to follow the plot. It makes sense for him to know about the situations sequentially, and not in a garbled order. This is maybe a universal rule of writing plots. Even though various writers break with this tradition, in a song, this rule is highly essential. We only have little time to get the attention of the audience with our lyrics. Most people listen to the words of the first verse more than to the second ones. So we need to be precise and get to a deep level immediately.

So the point is that you are going to spend most of the time constructing an outline, getting to a thread and then furniture your song to get to a deeper level. And only in rare cases, it is your first synopsis that makes it to the final lyrics. It is the final expose, the thing you get when you are done with painting, creating and finding the right lighting that you are going to show to an audience at a move-in party. And while the plotting might be easier for you, you need to find more precise phrases for some of the situations for that homeless guy's life. Something brutal. And you do so by finding utterances in colloquial thesauruses and language register corpora, that collected all the words you need. All the words are out there for you to find online. For writers, there is no better time to find the right words than now.

On your way, you might get frustrated perhaps with building the heating and the kitchen of your building; however, you can always call your songwriter friends that are good with this stuff and ask them for help. I mean as a builder, you would only occasionally have a go for interior design, that is not your expertise yet, so let someone else have a look and let them help you. There are so many people working at a construction site, so why would you go there on your own? Unless you are the head of the construction firm perhaps.

So anyway, here comes another trick from the building industry. By the way, I don't have any relations with anyone in the building industry, I just happened to have watched a documentary on the discovery channel about an hour ago, and still, it is stuck in my brain. Find a song or book or film about your starting point and then find the different stages the story has. Perhaps Harry Potter inspires you to write a song about a young wizard, and you just need to find the right way to write your plot. Or words to use that are more magical perhaps. You could even find inspiration in social media posts and your favourite series, there is so much out there.

The easiest way to start is by finding a song with the same topic or any relatable starting point, and you just tell the story a little different. With a different point of view, some changes in vocabulary and your unique style. I bet a million songs were created by copying and interpreting other writers, but the key is to make it yours and not to fake it.

Now go ahead already, find your favourite song at the moment and interpret it your way. Analyse the storyline and strip it down only to build it up again from the core. There is not only so much fun behind it, but a lot to be learned.

I wish you the best of luck and hope you are doing great so far.

If you like the podcast, mark it as your favourite, subscribe on whatever platform you are listening to and stay up to date with the latest episode. and maybe donate a small amount to my Patreon page to help me keep this program alive.

Thank you very much again for staying tuned and see you next week.

Stories shape the way we see the world from the day we are born. But how do we tell a story in a song and what words are we going to use? How are we going to find a coherent thread for the listener to follow along? These are the questions we are going to discuss and discover today and how you can find the right words for your audience to understand. We are also going to talk a lot about construction sites and providing furniture for a good song. You like the program? Subscribe to it and let me know what you would like me to cover in the future and any critique and suggestions to make this project better than it already is.

Cheers in your Corona quarantine and have a wonderful week.

Kieper

#songwriter #songwriting #song #lyrics #writing #poetry #pome #author #storytelling #plot writing #what the plot #inspiration #podcast #anchor #apple podcast #google podcast #stitcher

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scriptshrink · 7 years

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Borderline Personality Disorder: Intense/Fluctuating emotions, personal experience

Hey there. I have borderline personality disorder, depression and bulimia. Figured I’d put all that time I’ve spent analysing my emotions and thinking patterns to good use and write up how I experience BPD. This relates to how I experience the intense and fluctuating emotions.

Reminder that this is all my personal experiences. They’re not universal amongst people with BPD.

TW for cutting, suicidal thoughts, violent thoughts, violence, eating disorder, depression.

If I’m not feeling something really strongly, I’m feeling nothing. That ‘I don’t know how to like things casually’ post is really accurate. And if I feel nothing I’m really aimless and bored but without the drive to do something. I don’t tend to do anything unless someone else gives me something to do, my usual hobbies tend to be just as boring. Usually I end up sleeping or watching TV shows to pass time. A lot of my day to day life is finding distractions, because I’m bored. Always bored. So bored. To Do lists work really well for me because they give me things to do, rather than make me think them up on the spot. I guess I must have some kind of normal emotional reactions but I can’t think of any times where that happens, I’m bored. When that goes on too long, I’m tired/depressed. If something enjoyable happens, my day suddenly revolves around that or it’s fleetingly good and then I’m tired and bored.

Below are the most common emotions that I have actual ‘episodes’ of. They tend to last at least five to ten minutes up to a few hours. Rarely, a standard high will last overnight/through a sleep. Both the depression moods can go from minutes to weeks.

Highs: Standard, weird. (These are the terms I use to describe/differentiate between the types of high/up moods I experience.)

Standard highs are great. You know when you drink coffee for the first time and you get so wired? It’s a bit like that. My brain gets really energised and I come up with new ideas for things and start planning them out. I also work on existing projects, if I think to direct my energy to them, because the energy doesn’t really mind what I’m working on, creativity and drive is on 100%. Sometimes I talk a lot, in conversations or to myself. If I’m nattering to myself, I find it hard to stay on one topic, everything leads into something else or a new idea comes up and takes over. Physically, my heart sometimes races and I get a weird feeling of anticipation in my stomach. It’s really frustrating because it’s like something exciting is about to happen but nothing is and there’s no reason for it. Uh, if I’m talking to myself I tend to walk really fast, usually I kind of stroll everywhere but during highs I’m really power walking, not quite to breathlessness. I find that if I do the power walk and talking combo, when I stop walking for more than five or ten minutes the high goes away. Sometimes I clean, usually making a resolution that this time I’m going to get my life on track for real, organising everything, setting things up, maybe even cooking. Energy level wise, I feel like I could probably run a marathon but I never do much more physical than cleaning/fast walking.

Weird highs: where I have ideas and weird but funny/important/interesting (at least to me) thoughts that I *need* to tell people. It usually leads to me spamming a couple of friends with FB messages, unless someone happens to be online and engages with something I say. Like, I might send someone thirty messages in an hour or two, starting with an idea for a business, fleshing this plan out, also do you watch Daredevil because I just started and its awesome, why do shows have love interests all the time, hey so I want to touch that body but not in the sex way??? Does that even make sense? It should make sense. Im taking you off the list of people I have a crush on and putting you back square in the friend list because I need room for daredevil. Why are there spiders in my room? This is really freaky. Theres a spider on my bed noopeeee. Never going to sleep again. Hey have you seen this tumblr post. It reminds me of you. Oh did you end up eating anything? You need to eat. Hey, how do you think zombies know to avoid walking though fire? Because they do seem to know in the walking dead, which suggests they have some kind of self preservation instinct. Unless they know there’s food in the fire, then they walk in. So not much self preservation. What part of the brain would need to be functioning for that? New project for holidays: an extensive report on the bodily functions of zombies and the necessary brain areas needed to achieve them, along with the resultant emotions that they could hypothetically be feeling.

And so on and so forth. Usually with degenerating spelling and grammar. If, however, the person responded to say, ‘Do you watch Daredevil?’ with ‘omg yes, who is your favourite character?’ then the weird would probably be focused to Daredevil commentary.

Weird highs tend to simply be less coherent, less productive and with an undertone of anxiousness or uncomfortable energy. Sudden loud noises or shadows or other scary/superstition things feel a lot more frightening. Like, I *will* be afraid the Joker is in my cupboard, especially at night. Think about it like a standard high being the energy that comes from downing a dozen energy drinks and a weird high is when you’re incredibly sleep deprived to the point where you’re past tired to energised.

Anger

Anger was actually the first thing that made me think I might have BPD. I’m not actually sure if it’s triggered by anything or my brain just randomly makes the switch but I go from zero to raging-enough-to-murder-you in like, ten seconds. Like, so much angry energy inside that I have to move. I shake my hands at my sides a lot (I also do that when I’m stressing out), again, lots of power walking and talking. Violent thoughts are really big when I’m overwhelmingly angry, sometimes I’ll self harm or want to self harm to try and let the anger out. I have this idea that I’m full to bursting with this energy and cutting will let some of it bleed out. Alternatively, everything and everyone pisses me the fuck off. Like, breathtakingly angry (for some reason that phrase always occurs to me when I’m mad). Best example is from when I was on a psych ward. There was this lady, A, who did not shut up. She’d talk about herself and her husband (switching between how good he was and how he’d abandoned her), telling everyone that they were beautiful and shouldn’t be on here, getting upset (although she never yelled). She did not stop. No one liked her much because she didn’t listen, just talked. And I didn’t like her either but I work in hospitality, I have an excellent customer service face. But one night I flipped into rage mode and was pacing the ward. Mad about most of the people, about the announcements that were always going on, about not being allowed to leave or being able to get outside. And I turned a corner, saw A at the other end of the hall and was utterly furious with her because she didn’t get the fucking message, she kept talking, just fucking say something A, I fucking dare you, I will rip your head off. I was 100% ready to try and break her neck if she talked to me, my hands were like…phantom urges to do it. And she walked past me and said I didn’t look okay and I said ‘I’m not’, and she obviously realised not to talk to me. So I went three or four laps of the ward wanting nothing more than to physically rip A’s head off and wondering if today would be the day I actually did something because I’m on a psych ward, why not? (Because even when that furious, I know the difference between legal and illegal so I am aware that I can’t actually use an insanity plea. Being borderline doesn’t erase your awareness/knowledge of things.) Then I saw one of the girls who was receiving involuntary ECT and she looked like crap and I started fantisizing about suffocating her, because I couldn’t think of a way to break her out of the ward and my anger had switched to the fact that she was being forced to have ECT.

The anger mood can be good though, I tend to do my more active social justicey things in an angry state. Like letter writing or getting involved in debates. I rarely have the emotional spoons to get into conversations with centre/right wing people about politics anymore, unless I’m in an angry state. But there’s a line, sometimes the anger state becomes too much and tips over into feeling helpless rage and then I just end up spiralling from anger to depression because there’s nothing I can do. So anger can be good but it’s a fine thing.

One other thing. A few of sites I’ve visited suggest that people with BPD can have problems controlling anger. This isn’t something I have a problem with because I’m one of those people who overanalyses everything, which has helped me keep perspective. I think of my brain as split into two parts, subjective, which rules the roost, and objective, which is aware of what, why and how my subjective brain twists things and how I *should* be acting. I essentially logic myself through anger episodes because on one level I realise that my anger isn’t justified/relative to the situation. One of my psychs put it as ‘using intelligence to mitigate borderline personality’. I mention this because it was an interesting idea to me, often in fiction smart characters suffer from mental illnesses of some kind but I have never seen that intelligence used to combat it as well.

Depression: Empty, Painful. (Again, these are just the terms I use to differentiate)

Depression is weird. When I received the diagnosis of BPD earlier this year, the doctors suggested that my depression was less severe than previously thought and was exacerbated by being borderline. I don’t know. Interesting thought about interactions, I guess? Anyway, being depressed works in one of two ways. Empty, which is like…being bored but worse? Aimless, no emotions, not sad, not seeing the point of anything. Not in a suicidal way, just that there seems no logical reason for anything. The thought of suicide is more because I need to *do* something, but nothing really has any point so might as well die. It’s more of a…a logical conclusion to a series of thoughts? Empty depressed is a bit like strapping on a backpack of rocks every time you try to do anything, physically things seem to take more effort. But there’s not really a corresponding emotional heaviness. I feel like I should be sad, and sometimes I *do* get sad (not depressed, just sad), but it really is nothingness. I tend to sleep a lot when I feel like this.

Painful depression is a whole different kettle of fish. That hurts a lot, emotionally. I often feel like there’s something in my chest that’s hurting, but also like a vacuum, and I tend to do things to try and protect that area. Cross my arms or put something heavy on my chest (I love weighted blankets for that). Mostly I’ll go to bed and curl in a ball with my arms/toys/pillow/a wadded blanket/something pressed into my chest. If I cry, I’ll silently scream into the exhalations until I haven’t got any breath left. It’s all trying to dig whatever the feeling is out of my chest. Self loathing really digs its claws in as well, some of which is due to eating disorder thinking. Painful depression and eating disorder thinking like to go hand in hand. Physically, energy isn’t really a thing. Mainly because the emotional hurt makes it feel too hard to do anything. Lots of blasting music when I’m like this. Sometimes I binge watch TV, but usually that’s too hard and I don’t feel like I want to. Painful depression is when suicidal thoughts become a real danger for me, because it’s an emotional drive to make the pain stop, rather than a more intellectual reasoning.

Episodic vs. Everyday thinking.

Something I feel like I need to add, especially after the anger part. None of what I think/feel when I’m in an extreme is different to what I would think/feel normally. They’re just about 1000 times more intense than usual. I always have some level of ‘There’s a monster in my cupboard’ fear or ‘I want to stab this person in the face’ anger because these are things that I, personally, think and feel normally. The difference between the ‘baseline’ emotion and a borderline episode (for want of a better word) is the intensity of the emotion. During an episode, the feeling is dialled right up so the corresponding thoughts become a lot more central and a lot less casual.

Example: Fear.

Scene: I’ve missed a call from my parents. I call back. No one answers.

Baseline thought: What if someone’s died? Haha yeah right. You know, I’ll feel really bad if someone has died and I just laughed. I didn’t mean it.

Borderline thought: What if someone’s died? What if Mum’s been in a car crash or Dad’s had a heart attack? Why isn’t anyone picking up? (I’m probably calling both of my parents and the home phone at this point) Oh my god, I don’t want my dad to die. Why isn’t anyone answering me, what’s happened? What if they were all driving to the city and had a car crash and everyone’s dead? I’ll miss them so much. They won’t get to see me graduate. I’ll never watch tv with dad again. Mum won’t ever make dinner or give me a backstretch again. I don’t have this relationship with anyone else, I can’t do this without them. (I don’t cry much but I’d be feeling very much like crying because by this point some part of me is convinced that my parents are dead. This is also partially me catastophising- imagining the worst possible outcome without evidence.)

Example: Anger

Scene: Someone is walking slowly in front of me.

Baseline thought: I will stab u holy shit, why are you walking so slow? No, be patient, it’s alright. Chillax, life is a journey. I still want to stab him. Yeah, but does walking slowly really deserve death? It’s all good. You aren’t in a rush.

Borderline thought: Fucking fucker I will fucking stab you oh my god, hurry the fuck up. Right in the back, slide the knife in between your vertebrae. (Lots of visualising said stabbing, probably clenching a fist/pretending to hold a knife by my side).

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#borderline #depression #eating disorders #personality disorders #submissions #personal experiences #cutting #suicide #suicidal ideation #bulimia #violence #deductionsandmishacollinsinrome #borderline personality disorder #submission

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