#parental loss

[viking-raider]

Soothing A Wolf

Summary: Geralt recalls the memories of a troubled time in his life, while visiting a place that always brought him peace.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warning: PG - Fluff, Language, Loss, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Memories, Soft!Geralt, Character Death, Projecting, Farm Life, Light Domestic Bliss, Anxiety

Inspiration: This scene from Season Three of the Witcher! 😭

Author’s Note: I know I've already written this subject, with A Witcher's Soul, but I've become unhappy with it and decided to give it another try. I'm by far happier with this one. Hope you enjoy!

Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

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I do remember bits of my life with her.

You had curled up for a late morning nap, after completing all of your morning chores. The sun filtering through the large window above your headboard. It was warm and pleasant, as you drew to the surface of the waking world. You tried fighting it, wishing for a few more moments of rest, before you had to rise and begin the task of the afternoon chores around your quiet, little farm. However, you were drawn out of your slumber, at the sound of someone's approach into your dooryard.

Sighing, you sat up, taking a moment to fix your hair and smooth your skirts, before standing and going out to find who had decided to visit you. You froze on the porch, watching a huge, black Friesian horse come charging up the well-worn path to your cottage. A muscular, broad shouldered man clad in all black clothing in its saddle, his silvery-white hair tied back in a Rivian style flowing in the breeze created by his haste.

“Geralt!” You called out, as the Witcher dismounted from the horse, Roach. “What are you doing here?” You asked, as he stamped through the drying mud towards you, his pale face pinched and set in an expression more agitated than usual, with a tint of something more you couldn't quite put your finger on yet.

The two of you had met nearly fifteen years prior, when you had heard of the White Wolf being in the area and enlisted his help to rid your property of a Graveir that had been threatening it. Not wishing for the alternative, which was moving off the property. You had little to pay him with, offering him the small amount of gold you had. Instead, Geralt had simply asked for a hot meal and permission to camp on your land for the night and use the water from your well, to bathe with after the bloody business of killing the monster.

Naturally, you agreed.

However, after he had killed the creature and washed up to join you for supper, a tension grew between you that popped before the meal ended. Leading to the pair of you being intimate. Ever since, when Geralt was in the area or was taking time off the Trail, he would come to spend time with you. But, you were surprised to see him now, knowing that he should be with Ciri, keeping her safe from Nilfgaard and the Wild Hunt that dogged their heels at every turn.

Instead, he mounted the porch steps towards you, catching you up into his arms.

She smelled like embers.

Geralt buried his face into your neck, taking a deep breath of your skin as he did, drawing in your scent. Your skin had a natural earthiness to it, accompanied by the fresh and calming, citrus-y snap of lemon balm and sweetness of licorice root. He wished many times on many occasions that he could bottle it and take it with him. Always finding comfort, calm and desire in your scent.

Like he had in almost no one else.

“What are you doing here, Geralt? I thought you were with Ciri.” You asked, breaking the silence as you embraced him, pressing yourself against his solid body, feeling the dampness of his clothing, from the sparse rains that had been occurring off and on all week.

“She's safe enough for now.” He mumbled into your neck, his strong arms wrapped tightly around you. “But, I needed to see you.” He said, pulling away from you, his hands grasping your shoulders.

“Well, here I am, my wolf.” You cooed at him, resting your hands on his sides and staring up into his face. “I didn't know seeing me was such an urgent thing.” You teased, pushing up on your toes to kiss him, knowing there was something deeper bothering him, but knew better than to press the Witcher for information.

Especially in the matter of his thoughts and emotions. He would tell you in his own time.

“Are you staying or are you riding back off again?” You inquired, looking towards Roach, who was grazing in the damp grass of your dooryard.

“I want to stay the night.” He told you, squeezing your shoulders. “If that's all right with you?” He added, softly.

“Nonsense!” You chuckled, slapping him on the chest. “You know you don't have to ask, Geralt.” You assured him, clicking your tongue. “Are you hungry? I was just about to make lunch for myself. I can add a plate for you.” You said, moving away from him, to go back inside.

She used her magic to create elaborate meals that we couldn't afford.

“I could eat.” Geralt replied, following you inside the cozy home, that always brought him peace. “Especially if it comes with a slice of one of your home-made sweets.” He added, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched you move towards the kitchen.

You looked at him over your shoulder, an impish sparkle in your eye. “I don't have any made.” You told him, coyly. “But, if you behave yourself, perhaps there'll be something after dinner.” You teased with a wink, before rounding the corner into the kitchen.

Going into the pantry, you grabbed a large, earthenware jug, carrying it out and set it on your counter, removing the cork. Taking a whiff of the contents that were inside, your nose was greeted by the sweet aroma of honey and blood-orange mead. You had brewed it yourself. You took down a cup and filled it, taking a wee nip for yourself, before taking it out to Geralt, who had made himself at home. He'd taken his shoes off, but stood before the fire, tossing a log into it.

“You don't need to do that, Geralt.” You frowned, holding the cup out to him. “I could have done it.”

“I know.” He answered, watching the strong flames catch the edges of the wood, before he took the cup from you, taking a deep gulp. “You really should sell your own spirits.” He commented, licking his lips and looking into golden liquid.

“Ha.” You chuckled, shaking your head at him. “I have enough to do around the farm, Witcher.” You quipped, going back into the kitchen.

Geralt chuckled at you, taking a seat before the fire, flexing his sore toes in the glowing warmth with a soft and tired sigh, while sipping his mead. He listened to you bump about in the kitchen. The opening and closing of the pantry, the thud of cabinet doors shutting, after you searched through their contents. He finished off his mead and set it on the table beside him, before standing and going to the threshold of the kitchen, knowing better than to go into your kitchen, while you were active in it.

You'd chased the Witcher out more than once, with either the rolling pin or a dish towel.

I would have done anything to make her smile.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” He asked, cocking his head around the corner to look at you, seeing you wielding a large knife to cut into a small wheel of cheese. “Do you need anything?”

“I need you to sit your butt down.” You answered, turning to look back at him. “You rode, god knows how far, to here. So, you need to relax.” You told him, adamantly.

And yet, the day she left me, she was sick. She needed water, so I went to get her some.

“But, I want to help.” Geralt insisted, crossing his arms over his chest.

You sighed softly, giving him a gentle smile. “All right, Geralt.” You conceded, nodding. “My other big brute needs to be fed. So, why don't you go out and do that for me, while I finish getting our lunch done.”

“I can do that.” He nodded, daring to step into the kitchen to kiss you on the cheek, chuckling as you popped him on the bum on his way out.

“That, man.” You giggled, smiling to yourself as you turned back to your task.

Geralt tugged his boots back on and went out, heading towards the small fenced off area to the right of your property, where the few farm animals you had lived. He found the bucket beside one of the fence posts and snagged it up by the rope handle, heading towards the grain storage that was around the other side, filling the bucket.

“Hey, Martigan.” He called out to the brown and white dairy cow, standing in the center of the pen, nibbling on a bale of hay with an expression of no care on his face, but twitched his ears to the sound of Geralt's voice. “And you.” Geralt huffed at the animal you had dubbed your other brute, a solid white goat with horns that nearly curved in on themselves, they were so long. “I see you, Goat-Bert.”

The Witcher called to the Goat, who stood clear on the other side of the pen, as he opened the latch to the gate. But that meant nothing, and Geralt knew it. He had dealt with this Goat-Devil before on your behalf. He had even considered taking one of his potions to increase his odds in dodging that swift, easy to anger, creature. Not even Little Bleater was a match for this fiend. So, keeping one golden eye on the Goat, Geralt moved towards the feeding trough and dumped the bucket of grain into it. It wasn't a split second later that Martigan let out a loud, agitated moo and Goat-Bert bleated with his evil intent, setting his head downward as he charged across the muddy pen towards Geralt's shins.

“Fuck!” Geralt barked under his breath, tossing the bucket over the fence and himself with it. “You damned Goat!” He cursed at him, fuming at Goat-Bert rammed his head into the trough, at full steam. But it was your howls of laughter from the porch that drew Geralt out of his choice words for the farm animal. “You find that funny?” He asked, picking up the bucket and moving towards you, as you grinned and giggled.

“I find it hilarious!” You wheezed, wiping tears from your face. “Watching a Witcher jump a fence to get away from a little goat!”

“Now, you know damn well, what mischief that demon can cause.” Geralt told you, but smirked at your amusement. “I don't need Lambert or Eskel busting my ribs, because I got a broken leg because of a wee goat.”

“Well, no harm done.” You said, catching your breath. “And lunch is ready and waiting for us on the table.” You told him, turning to go back inside.

Following you, Geralt was greeted by a laid out table, containing a round and fluffy loaf of bread with a blossom score on the top of its beautiful, caramel-brown crust. Beside the loaf, was a glass decanter of the mead you'd served him earlier, half a roasted and glazed ham hock, that glistened in the light of the fireplace, and a plate of the cheese slices you'd cut. There were other tidbits, to make lunch more pleasant and filling, as well.

“It looks delicious.” He commented, pulling a chair out and sat down.

You looked at him with soft surprise, cocking a brow as you sat beside him. “Ciri and Jaskier must really be leaning hard on your lessons.” You chuckled, picking up a knife and cut a slice out of the bread, laying it on Geralt's plate, before cutting another and putting it on your own. “Would you like a second piece?” You asked him, knife hovering above the loaf.

“Yes.” Geralt nodded, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth, before reaching for the decanter, pouring you both a tankard. “I appreciate this.” He said, watching you cut thick slices of juicy ham from the hock and set them on the edge of his plate, allowing him to build his own sandwich.

“Of course.” You answered, brow creasing as you placed the ham and cheese on your bread, closing it with the second piece, using your knife to cut it in half. “I can't let you starve, now can I? Silly Witcher.” You chuckled, taking a bite.

Geralt hummed, putting together his own meal and allowing the table to fall into a comfortable silence as the two of you ate. Nothing, but the pop and crackle of the fire with the occasional moo or baa of the farm animals outside filled the space. Neither of you moved, once you had your fill, but you watched Geralt, smirking as you saw his lids struggle to stay open and his chin from falling against his chest. You stood, causing Geralt to start and look up at you with wide molten-gold orbs, but you just offered him a sweet smile, as you started to clear away the table, putting things in the pantry, sink or scrap barrel.

Once you were finished, you moved to your bedroom, fluffing your pillows, fixing and folding back the blankets, then pulled shut the curtains, plunging the room into darkness. Satisfied, you returned to Geralt, smirking as you found he had lost the battle with his sleepiness. His breathing was slow, coming out in gentle huffs, arms crossed and chin resting on his chest. He looked so peaceful and relaxed, the muscles under the loose black material of his tunic were slack, making the various scars pull taut. Biting your lip, you moved around him and knelt, taking one of his booted feet in your hands, eyes still trained on his face. In case you startled him, knowing it could cause him to burst into defending himself, when startled awake.

But Geralt didn't stir, as you carefully pulled his muddy boots off, setting them in front of the fireplace. You stood, moving around him to open the knot of the string that held his silvery-white hair tied back out of his face.

“Geralt.” You whispered into his ear, resting your hands lightly on his shoulders. “Geralt.” You said, a little bit louder.

“Hm?” He hummed back, taking a deep breath and shaking his head, causing his loose hair to fall forward.

“Why don't you come lay down?” You suggested, patting his shoulders and kissing the back of his head. “You'll be so much more comfortable in bed.” You persuaded him, gently.

Geralt sighed, licking his lips and stretching his legs for a moment, before standing up and allowing you to guide him to your bed. He pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it into a chair in the corner and dropped into the bed, looking up at you, as you stood before him.

“Lay with me.” He cooed, resting his hands on your hips.

“I have chores to do, Wolf.” You smirked at him, cupping his neck and caressing his stubbly jawline with your thumbs.

“They can wait until tomorrow.” Geralt said, pulling you between his legs. “I'll do them for you.” He smiled, making you sit in his lap as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Before, I go.” He promised, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.

“Very well.” You conceded, breaking the kiss and rubbing noses with him.

“Good.” He rasped, laying down and pulling you against his chest.

And when I came back... she was gone.

Geralt woke up sometime later, feeling refreshed. He hadn't slept well or very long in the weeks since he and Ciri left Kaer Morhen, with the Wild Hunt and Nilfgaard after them, worried that every moment his eyes were shut, was a moment they'd come and take Cirilla from him. He reached out for you, wanting to feel you against him, but you weren't in bed any longer.

I called for her.

He got out of bed, calling your name, as he searched the house for you. The fireplace was still roaring, telling him you hadn't been gone long. But where could you be, that you wouldn't hear him calling. He yanked the front door open and stormed into the yard, uncaring that he had no boots on, yelling your name even louder, as he turned in circles. His only answer was the breeze through the trees, Goat-Bert, Martigan and Roach.

Not a peep or appearance from you.

But she was gone.

Geralt felt his chest grow tight and his slow heart skip a beat, then another. The dooryard started to spin and blur, a rock-like lump formed in his throat. He flexed his hands and shook his head, trying to get a handle on himself. He wasn't supposed to act like this. He wasn't supposed to show his emotions, let alone allow them to take control over him.

“Geralt!” You frowned, coming out of the treeline, a basket resting on your hip as you found him standing barefoot in the muddy dooryard. “What's going on?” You asked, setting the basket down and hurrying over to him, as you watched tears drip from his sharp jaw. “What's happened? Are you hurt?” You asked, looking him over, searching for a wound you felt you had failed to notice before.

“Where is it? Show me!”

“I'm not--” He rasped, swallowing at the lump and shaking his head. “You were gone.” He said, pressing his lips together and pushing his jaw forward, trying to bring up his walls against the raw feelings he was being crushed under. “I woke up and you were gone. I called for you.” He said, failing miserably. “But you didn't answer. I thought--” He choked, looking away from you.

You blinked up at him, confused and afraid, never seeing this side of Geralt before. “You thought what?”

He chewed on his lip, his face hardening as he slowly started to gain control of himself again. “I thought you left me.” He admitted, deciding not to shut you out.

“Left you?” You echoed softly, blinking up at him with surprise. “No, Geralt. I'd never leave you. I didn't leave you.” You told him, taking his hand in both of yours. “I just woke up from our nap before you did, and you seemed so tired that I didn't have the heart to wake you. So, I went out to pick some blueberries.” You explained to him, half turning back to where you'd set your basket, full of plump, indigo orbs. “I plan on using them to bake you a pie.” You said quietly, looking back up at him.

Neither of you said anything for a long while, before Geralt looked down at you, a sad look in his eyes.

���I'm sorry.” He whispered, bending his head to rest his forehead against yours.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” You assured him, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

Nodding, Geralt pressed his lips to your forehead and sighed, looking down at his muddy feet. “I'll rinse my feet off.” He said, moving away from you and towards the well.

Watching him go and drop the bucket into the well, you knew the Witcher didn't have the easiest of lives, that he had a lot of trauma in it. But, he would tell you what was bothering him, when he was ready. It seemed too raw, at the moment. So, you went back for your blueberries and carried them inside to the sink, so you could rinse them off, prepping them for the pie.

Deciding to be there for Geralt, when he was ready.

#Henry Cavill #HenryCavill #Geralt of Rivia #Geralt #witcher season 3 #Geralt x Reader #Geralt x You #Geralt of Rivia x You #Geralt of Rivia x Reader #the witcher x reader #the witcher netflix #Fluff #Parental Loss #Loss #Witchers have Emotions #Soft!Geralt #Hurt/Comfort #Hurt #Comfort #Viking-Raider Fics #Soothing a Wolf #Soothing a Wolf *Fic*

[chronicsheepdrawing]

In a strange, twisted land the dead roam amongst the living.

As always Xerxes, Al, and Amber are from @bloodmothsart, @egg-on-a-legg, and @michaelsjunkyard respectively.

#OCs #Original Characters #OC: Art #OC: Arsenic Masters #Alistair Larson #Xerxes Shah #animals #mammals #felines #cats #Khoshechka the cat #Zombie AU #Gore #Parental loss #Blood #lost teeth

[hjellacott]

When I was a teenager, my father passed away from years of chronic illness and I got very depressed

I don't remember much for about a year, other than being in bed, crying. Life paused for a year or two, so that although time went on, my life didn't. Effectively ending it would've merely been a physical affirmation of what was already true: I was dead, at least, inside.

My father and I had a very close relationship. It wasn't like we got to do that many father-daughter things together, but mostly it was just that we were two faces of the same coin; similar enough to understand each other without a need for words, and to feel understood by each other, but different enough not to rub each other off the wrong way. I am far more different from my mother, and yet, the mother-daughter bond being as legendary as it is, we've always been attached to each other's hip and we have a deeply affectionate relationship. But after my father died, I felt abandoned, left out, alone. I felt like the black sheep of the family, the different one, because the one person who got me, who I was like, was gone forever. If only I'd known then what I know now: everybody tends to feel the same way at some point.

It affected my relationship with my father's side of the family. My parents were together until the end, so I'd always spent the most time with his side of the family, which lived near us, rather than my mum's, which lived farther away. My dad had been the best of his family, so I was never particularly close with anyone there except my, by then, very elderly grandparents. Without my dad, I experienced an odd feeling of disconnection; like a cable that's cut in the middle. Like, the thing that united me to them was gone, so was I even one of them any more? And it might seem strange, but actually, the fact that I had my dad's surname there was something I held onto firmly to remind myself I was still part of my family. Still, even a decade later, it's my mother's family I feel more united to.

Losing a parent at a young age was, to me, like being blown away by a bloody tornado when you were just beginning to learn how to walk on your own. And suddenly you're all alone, waking up in unknown turf, standing in the ruins of your family, your home... whatever remains when a chronic illness has been punching everyone where it hurts the most for years and years. And it took me years, and actually leaving my country, to find my footing again and stand strong again.

My point is that, for many years, I was in a deeply vulnerable and fragile mental state. I didn't seek refuge in drugs, but I did start to drink for the first time, even when I've always despised the taste of alcohol. In my late teens, it was trendy to be dark, mysterious, depressed... and none is that more than someone going through the kind of grief and heartbreak you can't make your friends understand. So my sudden drinking (not to drunkenness, but certainly completely out of my normal behaviour), my quietness, my self-isolation, were seen not as warning signs, but as cool behaviour, among my friends.

And then things got weird. I was seventeen, bursting into tears in high school, in front of everyone, because I'd misplaced something my dad had gifted me and couldn't find it. It wasn't even something important, just a pouch where to put money... but it was my dad's gift to me, and I could only find one friend who understood why it mattered to me, and helped me find it even if I was making a huge thing out of a grain of salt. And for a decade, I've been lashing out. A small feeling of discontentment or annoyance suddenly bursts into flames of fury, and I screamed at my mother, even though I'd never done it. I still go from 0 to 100 with tremendous ease; in sadness, in happiness, in anger, in laughter. Every feeling starts dull and is suddenly overwhelming. And so in the middle of these years of grief, I fell in love, went from 0 to a 100 in five minutes, and if I hadn't stopped myself right on time, I would've agreed to marry someone who simply wasn't right for me. Someone who loved me 80%, when I was there 100%. By now I've accepted that everything is always going to feel too much, too suddenly. That tears will burst out of my eyes for no particular reason, but so will laughter from my chest, and love from my heart. It is both a super power and a dangerous thing, but I'm treating it as a super power, and doing my best to control it when I can, without eradicating it.

One of the things I did in my grief was cross-dress as a man. I put on a three-piece suit that didn't really suit me, and cut my hair from long to zero, and even tried to use fake beards.

I wasn't a man. I never identified as such. I was always clear on the fact that I was seventeen and I just wanted to know "what it's like". But deep inside, it was about control. You see, I'd been left shattered, I was scrambling to keep my head above water, I had no control - and I longed for the power of being a man.

I wanted to stand strong as a man. I wanted to be like my late dad. To be a good man in the storm. To fight, to be strong, to be tough, to dress however I wanted, to stop being whistled at and catcalled, to have a man's salary, a man's work opportunities, a man's power.

It was just a period of my life. The closer to thirty I've gotten, the more comfortable I've felt as a woman, the more I've loved being a woman, the more I've remembered my father's happy eyes on me, watching me speechless the first time I put on a dress, make-up and heels, telling me how beautiful I was, taking photos non-stop with his professional camera and making me feel like a gorgeous princess. And damn it, I've never given a shit about male admiration, I've never fancied dressing "to impress", but my dad had such a way of looking at me with eyes full of wonder, not in a sexualised way, but in a "my god, you're a grown-up woman!" way, that I'd happily fight to have that back. This was the same man who, when I first got my period and was in a mood, cracked a smile on my face by grinning at me and saying "you're all grown-up now!", the same man who when I was just born, was the only one who said I was beautiful, and was too afraid of hurting me to even hold me for a wee bit, the same man who, if I was sitting alone with my head on the table going through whatever, would sit next to me and put his head on the table too, without saying anything, just so I wouldn't be alone, and the same man who'd go above and beyond to do things with me and get to know me. I don't look back on my dad as a dad, I look back on my dad as a best friend. I used to want to be just like him - now I just want to be like myself, and see in me the wonders that he saw. Now I stand proud as a woman, the woman I know he would've been stocked to know.

The Cass Report has brought back into the forefront of my mind what a pain it was to be a teenager and a young adult. In my case, it was because of Earth-shattering grief. In my case, I could want to have male things for a bit, and I got to experiment, to cross-dress, to kiss boys and girls, to make mistakes, and to, over the course of a decade, find my way back.

That is what I wish for children to be given back: the space and the time to figure things out without having to deal with more life-changing procedures.

Teens were in a mental health crisis a decade ago and it's only gotten worse since. And if my friends had seen what I was doing in my grief as alarming signs of mental health problems, instead of as a cool, trendy behaviour, then maybe I would've gone to therapy instead of opening a bottle of Vodka. I probably would've taken it wrong to be told I had mental health problems - and I would've rebelled, fought, argued, and in fact I did, the one time my mum insisted I saw somebody. God how I hated psychologists then, and now it's one of my main fields of study. I didn't want to be told I was sick any more than these kids do. But I needed to hear that. I needed my problems validated, even if I didn't want to hear it. I needed to be forced to accept help. I needed to be told grief is one thing, and feeling like you can't possibly go on is another. I NEEDED PROFFESSIONAL HELP.

That is all the Cass Report shows. That children need professional help. That children go through hell and back because they're barely equipped to deal with big shocks to the system, and the world has never been more hostile to them. And that just because alarming behaviour that points to mental health issues can be perceived as "cool" or "trendy", and become fashionable, it doesn't make it less of a mental health problem.

#the cass report #bbc #bbc news #personal #mental health #psychology #therapy #grief #mourning #father loss #parental loss #personal loss #death #depression #teens #teenager #women #feminism #feminist #transgender #children #children's rights #trans rights

[almostmolly]

MY FATHER’S DEAD AND I FEEL OLD

- Succession, “Connor’s Wedding”

Con me into solemnity: send iambs,

call in those steady old soldiering feet

for the 21-gun salute.

Give it to me, the news. Give me

good evening and welcome, give me we’ll be right back

(and there you are).

Gimme thanks for joining us on holidays, maybe.

I’d take it. Take that holly-hollow-holy day pandering

in our small rectangles of light. Children, we watched the day

slide slowly across the floor

tell its whole story on the hardwood

(on the rugs, the mats, the tile).

Tell us dawn is breaking, get up, ask us what do you want,

recount in its unstoppable way its dreams of dust motes and houseplants,

of the dog it rested on an hour.

We watched the day and the door

and backs (our own, hard, a hand, wing)

didn’t touch, don’t. That denial

its own kind of devotion, riverbed-dry and relentless.

And look, I’ve fucked it up: the metre’s gone, the signal’s out,

there’s no more oratory on offer.

No matter (call that my middle name). We’re live again soon anyway.

Good night, and good luck. Inside me a boy rattles, withered,

empty as a gourd. I think your hell will be the desert

they crash the satellites into.

#poetry #poetry on tumblr #succession #parental loss #connor roy #logan roy #fan poetry

[jenniferleecopping]

new perzine in shop, this one about parental aging and loss and suicidal feelings.

link here to buy

#zine #zines #perzine #perzines #personal art #anticipatory grief #grief #parents #parental loss #death #loss #aging #mothers #moms #suicide #suicide tw #suicidal ideation #suicidal thoughts #depression #happiness #grateful #riso #risograph #aritsts on tumblr #female artists #lgbt artist

[puddle-books]

"i miss you more than i remember you."

on earth we're briefly gorgeous - ocean vuong

#book quotations #book quote #book quotes #bookblr #books #ocean vuong #vuong #on earth we're briefly gorgeous #childhood trauma #parental abuse #parental loss #estrangement #estranged family #estranged

[melodyschaos]

Hello, may i request a drabble about Nezha x Afab Reader / Medium Angst - Fluff / Hospital visit, if its fine with you?

The readers father has died. She's lost and gets sickened from all the grief, it causes her to stay in the hospital. Nezha visits her one morning and she's glad to see him but doesn't talk much, she just smiles and listens to him talk while holding his hand.

🎎

CW: Angst, death, parental loss, hospitalization

Of the many inconveniences of the modern realm, hospital visiting hours were one Nezha was glad to duck. It was irritating going through all the hospital floors trying to find the right room, trying to asks nurses which staircase to take, and having them stare at you oddly. The humor was out of place for this particular visit, however. Sitting at the bedside of Y/N, Nezha looked sadly at her ill form. She appeared to be wasting away, the disease of grief stealing her vitality and heart until she appeared almost a shadow of her former self. He understood this grief, he had seen it before, but it always saddened him to see those crushed under mourning’s enormous weight. Without the need for words, Nezha resorted to the universal sign of care: holding out his hand for Y/N to take. When her weak hand held his own, the lotus prince took from the bag he had brought with him a gift: a small sheep plushie with soft wool. He placed the animal beside Y/N and tucked it in as if it were real, saying, “I find sheep to be adorable, faithful animals. Despite facing so many dangers in the wild, they remain able to find serenity. My hope is that this little one can offer you a measure of peace as well.”

Y/N hugged the small animal, kissing its fluffy head and smiling up at the prince. Softly smiling in return, Nezha reached back into the bag and pulled out a book. It didn’t seem to be more than two-hundred pages or so. Holding the book open with one hand, allowing his other to be held by Y/N, he began to read out loud to her a simple story about farm animals going through a silly adventure. About halfway through Y/N had fallen asleep, a smile on her face for the first time in many months. Seeing this, Nezha paused his reading and slipped his hand from hers long enough to make sure Y/N was properly tucked in. After making sure she was comfortable, the prince placed his hand on Y/N’s forehead and closed his eyes, willing through his immortal powers that no nightmares would torment Y/N this night. He pledged to himself to visit every night until she was discharged, and even then he would find her and ensure her safety and continued healing from the devastating wound loss had torn in her heart.

 When sorrow cannot properly be expressed and condolences seem too meager, kindness speaks thousands of words and warms the heart from anguish and its frigid touch.

#lmk x reader #lmk x reader angst #lmk x reader medium angst #lmk x reader comfort #lmk reader x nezha #angst #parental loss #hospitalization #lmk nezha

[chaiaurchaandni]

martyred journalist rushdie sarraj's wife writes to her husband

#CRYING IM GONNA BE SICK #HE DIED BEFORE HIS DAUGHTERS FIRST BIRTHDAY #MAY ISRAEL AND IDF ROT IN HELL #as someone who lost her father at a young age and sometimes has trouble remembering his face and his voice this rlly fucked me up #grief #parental death #parental loss #on love and grief and memory #free palestine #palestine #gaza #long live palestine #glory to the martyrs #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #long live the resistance #death to israel #israeli war crimes

[madeline-celeste]

I’m gonna cry because I was reading an article about affects of parental loss on the children and it considered early parental loss as losing any parent before adulthood. I never even considered that when I lost my dad was considered early

#mental health #early parental loss #dead dad club #parental loss

[mopeymousey]

As someone in the throes of a very complicated grief, I will state that boomers had some things right.

The number of friends who just said "omg I'm so sorry. Lmk if there's anything I can do" when I told them my dad is dead but then never check up on me, come visit, or actually offer anything is astounding.

There used to be rituals. It used to be that loved ones would have more casseroles then they knew what to do with. There would be daily phone calls. There would be friends staying with you and helping you clean your house because it's just too fucking hard to do it yourself right now. I'm pagan as they come, but there used to be prayer trees and circles!

I know this is a rose tinted view of the past. I know that people are going to say my friends don't owe me anything and that they just "don't know what to say".

"Sorry for your loss" has gotten a bad rep as a cliche platitude that means nothing. But it means something to me, which is that you reached out and let me know that you see me and hurt for me.

I'm so fucking alone in this and ive only had one friend actually check up on me everyday.

This is NOT directed at any of my mutuals on here for. Y'all are Tumblr Friends ™ and it's a totally different relationship than the people I see regularly in person whom ive known for years. Those are the ones I feel like are failing me because they can't get over "not know what to say/do". Ffs, Google how to help someone in grief and find the steps.

#totally selfish rant #i know i sound like a prick #but im just tired of feeling like i cant reach out to people without sounding like a bummer and then the conversation abruptly ending #grief #parental loss #boomers #gen z #millenials #help your friends #rant #em- macie- and merle please know this is totally in spite of all the love youve sent me. tumblr friends are my real homies

[ineedfairypee]

Nothing else matters 😫

#grief #loss #trauma #griefjourney #trauma recovery #trauma memes #losing a parent #parental loss #death #grieving #mourning #adult children of alcoholics #adultchildrenofalcoholics #mymum #grief awareness #grief and loss #death of a parent #parents #mourning mum #dealing with grief #memes #sad memes #grief journal #grief/mourning #nothing matters #suffering #ineedfairypee #fairypeememes #I Need Fairy Pee

[deadweight-at7am]

One of the things I miss a lot about my mom is how we'd sit around our table in the morning and have coffee together and then basically share our gossip that we had from the day before. A lot of the time we'd be ships passing in the night in the evenings and I'd get home while she was asleep. So, mornings were our gossip & rehashing time. It's little stuff like that I miss the most. You don't realize how nice it was until it's gone.

#personal post #personal #mom #parental loss

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Chapter 6 ~ It's been a long day

Hidden Depths

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next

Genre: Fantasy whump

Written per Whumptober 2022 prompts

CW: captivity, hallucinations, gender confusion, dry-heaving, implied intimate whumper, creepy whumper, parental loss 

WC: 3699 3708

AN: Um, yeah, I fell behind on this one, sorry! I also... wrote a lot of words. So, this is another break chapter, a little more of a break than the last one. Just some more character development and we get to meet Resh's sister! Isn't that exciting? :D

Resh

Cold. Why was it so cold?

Resh shivered, pulling his arms up to his chest. One of them didn't feel right, but he couldn't keep hold of the thought in the twilight state he currently resided in. All he knew was he couldn't get warm.

"Resh, wake up. Wake up!"

Was someone calling his name? He wanted to sleep. No, he wanted to be warm.

His wish was granted, although not in the way he wanted.

Warmth raged through his body in a flashfire of agony, originating from a point of impact near his ribs. Near his kidney, more like. Resh screamed, curling up in the fetal position as stabbing pain ricocheted through his entire body with no signs of diminishing. His skin flushed, then chilled, then flushed again. 

Resh sobbed. Gods, please make it stop. Please let it stop. Please. 

Bits and pieces of conversation filtered through the pain, although his mind couldn't grasp the meaning.

"Well—wasn't moving!"

"Just lying here..."

"today. Has to—"

"—dying?"

That last word registered. Oh shit, he didn't want to die. He couldn't. Someone… someone needed him. He sniffed, tried to control his breathing. 

Something touched his face, and he flinched away, but the contact persisted–gentle, soothing. A hand, a small one, brushed his hair back.

"Resh, you need t’ get up. You need water, and t'see old man asshat."

Resh opened his eyes, blinking to clear his vision. No tears fell, and he suddenly became aware of how dry his mouth was. Focus, he needed to focus. What had the voice said? He cried out again when something nudged him in the back.

"Do you want him t’ die, dickhead?" the voice in front of him chided. Then, under their breath, "Swear to gods, nothin but a bunch of dimwitted fucktards down here."

An indistinct mumble from over Resh's shoulder. He didn't catch the words but heard Carr's reply. It had to be Carr; nobody else spoke like him down here.

"Mother's cunt, give him a fuckin minute, then."

Resh choked on a laugh, despite the waves of pain it caused.

"Thank fuck," Carr muttered. "If you can laugh, you can get up."

Yeah, Resh was thinking that was gonna be a no. He shook his head.

"For fuck's sake. Pretty sure I'm alive and you're half-dead cuz you gave me your shirt. And some other stuff. So now I owe you. Again. Now, let's sit up." Carr's voice was firm, and he slid his arm under Resh's to help, giving him no choice.

Dizziness washed over him, along with—surprise, surprise—even more pain. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, leaning heavily against Carr's small frame when he moved to brace Resh's body.

"Good, that's good," Carr said.

Was Carr encouraging him? Without even cursing at him? Maybe he was dying. A wave of heat washed over him, followed by a chill so severe his teeth started chattering. His body felt strange, his and not his at the same time. 

Not his would actually be preferable right about now.

"Now, up. I'm gonna stand on your left side, fucktard over here is on your right if you need him." With that, Carr ducked under Resh's left arm.

The guard ended up having to help. He was just too weak, and Carr too small to support all his weight.

The room tilted and spun, even worse than before, and he heard Carr grunt when he put too much weight on him. Resh twisted his head to check on him, his apologies no more than croaks from his dry as fuck throat. Carr was injured too, he remembered. Carr—Resh started, trying to focus as he looked at him. At her? Carr's hair was longer, falling to her shoulders instead of in short, choppy pieces barely a hand-length long. It gave him, her?, a distinctly feminine look.

Resh reached out with his splinted right arm, trying to touch what shouldn't be there. "When did your hair grow so long?" he whispered. If it was real, he couldn't tell.

Carr jerked her head away. "What're you doin? Don't turn into a fuckin creep on me now! And my hair isn't long. It's the same as it's been since I got here."

"It is?" Resh asked, feeling very confused. He overbalanced when he tried to study Carr's features, and the guard on the right sighed, steadying him.

"Let's get going already," the guard said.

Carr moved, and Resh hobbled along, using her as a crutch. The bricks lining the hall swam in his peripheral vision, and the floor felt unsteady, but Carr kept him moving. It hurt less now, the pain subsiding into a dull ache beneath the freezing, or burning, layers of his skin.

"Sorry," he grunted, having put too much weight on Carr again, causing her to squeak. Him. Fuck. "You look like a girl with long hair," he explained. Then, Resh shook his head; Carr couldn't hear his thoughts. Could he?

"What the fuck?" Carr asked, stopping in his tracks. "Why in the name of any ratass fuckwitted bastard on this godsdamned planet would'ya say somethin like that?"

He stumbled at the sudden change of pace, and the irritated guard walking on his right steadied him by grabbing his splinted forearm. What had been numb exploded in a burst of bright, shocking pain. Black spots danced in front of Resh's eyes, and his hoarse scream ended on a gag as his stomach twisted.

Carr yelped when Resh's knee buckled. Even through the blinding agony pulsating through his arm, he knew he was hurting Carr and pushed away from him. Luckily, the guard on his right caught him before he fell.

Unfortunately, Resh had nothing to throw up when he dry-heaved because he would've loved to puke all over that asshole's uniform. He swallowed convulsively, trying to suppress further episodes, and eventually, the pain in his arm subsided into a throbbing ache. It felt almost exactly like when he had first broken it. That was just fantastic.

"Carr, you okay?" Resh asked when he could finally speak again.

Carr didn't answer, too busy lambasting the guard with the worst language Resh had ever had the pleasure of hearing. He just couldn't understand how Carr was getting away with it.

At least, not until Carr said, "The prince’ll roast your asses over the Reaper's pit of flames himself if you dumbfucks don't get Resh to that godsdamn quack of an herbalist. Mother's tits, how hard is it not t’ hurt someone for ten minutes? Fuckin pieces of shit."

Marcus wanted him to live, huh. It was a joke; it had to be a joke. The prince had been doing his damnedest to kill Resh ever since he'd tried to run, it felt like. But no, he knew better. Marcus wanted him to suffer. It was hard to suffer if one was dead.

They started moving again, although one of the other guards replaced Carr as his crutch. Where was his staff? Carr was limping down the hall in front of him, and Resh wanted to give it to him.

"Take my staff, Carr," Resh mumbled. He was so tired he almost cried when they reached a set of stairs. How was he supposed to climb those? “I can’t…”

"You don't have your staff," Carr threw over her shoulder. "And we have'ta go upstairs t’ see Mieste. It's evenin, you've been lyin in your cell all day."

"Thirsty," he complained. And no wonder, if he hadn't moved from the floor of his cell since… since when?

"I know," Carr said, starting up the steps behind one of the other guards. "You gotta climb t’ get some water, though."

He couldn't do it; he couldn't climb these stairs.

The guard forced him to try, anyway. Resh's leg gave out on the first step, and he fell, barking his knees on the hard stone. Tears sprang to his eyes, or tried to, at least, blurring his vision. He didn’t have the strength to rise again, and embarrassed heat burned his cheeks when the guard all but carried him up the stairs and into… into Marcus' torture chamber?

Resh took one look at that awful plant covering the wall, its frilly tendrils waving in the air, and pulled against the guard's hold when he dragged him closer. But his efforts were weak and only hurt besides. He turned into deadweight instead, refusing to go towards the chains, towards more torture.

The guard cursed as he lost his grip, and Resh fell to his bruised knees with a yelp. He started to back away awkwardly but froze in place when Marcus approached. Since when did the prince wear glasses? Resh shook his head.

"What's going on here?" Marcus asked, his voice gruff.

Resh felt paralyzed, unable to answer even though he knew the price of not responding. But then he saw Carr's face peek around Marcus' body. Red-gold hair fell in waves around her face, and her eyes held worry, concern. She wasn't restrained, from what he could tell. He wondered if the prince even knew she was there. Resh tried to tell her to get out with his eyes, not wanting Marcus to notice her if he hadn't already. She was too pretty. Marcus liked the pretty girls.

Carr stepped around Marcus. "Resh? You alright?"

Fuck! She had spoken. "Carr, get out. Get out now," Resh begged.

"What? I can't. I'm supposed t’ help Mieste," Carr said, her brows drawing together. "The table's right there." She gestured to the chains. "Let's get you fixed up."

Resh shook his head, panic rising. He couldn't… he couldn't take another round of that pain… he couldn't. Marcus came closer and reached down, messy gray hair falling across his face. Gray hair? Resh blinked, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him. He flinched when a cool hand brushed his forehead.

"He's burning up. Hmm, probably a reaction to the toxin. I told Marcus it was risky using that particular plant," gray-haired Marcus said, pushing up his glasses.

Had the prince gone insane, talking about himself in the third person? Normal Marcus was bad enough; Resh didn’t want to know what an insane Marcus would do. 

"I think he's… seein things," Carr said.

"Hallucinating?" Marcus asked. "That's not good. Hmm, I think I brewed up an antitoxin. Where did I put it?" He turned away, walking through the wall with the plants and disappearing.

Resh grabbed Carr's leg. "Carr, get out while he's gone. Marcus… he… you're a girl, this is not a good place to be a girl. Please."

"Fuck's sake, Resh, I'm not a fuckin girl. Get offa me." Carr extricated herself from Resh's hold.

"You don't understand," Resh said, desperation limning his tone.

Carr knelt beside him. "I understand perfectly fine," she hissed. "Quit fuckin sayin shit like that. I'm a boy, do you hear me?"

Resh couldn't look away from her, no, his hazel eyes, from the flecks of amber swimming in the green. A boy, that… that was good. So why was Resh's heart beating so fast, why was he still so afraid?

"Here, drink this," Carr said, offering him a cup.

Where had that come from? Resh couldn't remember. He took it, drinking without even bothering to wonder what it was.

As long as it was wet, he didn't much care.

~~~

"I want to see my brother!" a high-pitched, child-like voice shouted.

Orla's voice. Why was she so upset? Had someone said something to her again? Resh would set them straight. As soon as he could pry his eyes open.

A male voice, too soft for Resh to catch the words, responded to Orla. That wasn't right. There shouldn't be any male voices around his sister. Resh had worked hard to get his family into the tiny flat they currently occupied. There was a lock on the door and everything, although that certainly hadn't come with the room.

"I'm not leaving until I see him," Orla replied stubbornly.

Resh smiled. His sister was usually sweet and easy-going, but when she had her sights set on something, she could dig her heels in like no other. He tried to roll over, but his body didn't respond. He grunted his disapproval. He must've worked too hard last night, pushed things a little far with his magic.

"Resh, you awake?" another familiar voice asked.

Familiar, but… Resh couldn't place it. That voice didn't belong in his flat either, which worried him. There were too many people he didn't know; were they in trouble? About to get kicked out? He was pretty sure he'd paid for the week, but he couldn't… he couldn't move his arms.

"It's okay, Resh."

A hand brushed some hair back from his face, and Resh turned into the caress automatically. There was a sharp intake of air, but the hand didn't withdraw. Resh finally found the strength to open his eyes.

"Carr?" he asked, struck by the way the lantern light flickered in her eyes. His eyes. Fucking shit, what was wrong with him?

Carr withdrew his hand, and Resh squeezed his eyes shut to hide his disappointment. When was the last time anyone had touched him with any sort of tenderness? The thought made his heart ache.

"What's fuckin wrong with you is you've been out of it for days. Please tell me you're back," Carr said plaintively.

Resh opened his eyes again, shock rolling through him at Carr's tone. Had he said that out loud? 

"I mean, I'm fuckin tired of playing nursemaid. I'd rather go chop rocks or whatever with the other lowlifes than spend another day watchin over your half-dead body."

Carr sat back on his heels, and Resh realized he was laying on a cot. He jerked his arms again, but they were tied down. Bits and pieces were coming back to him now. Carr's arrival. The thorn collar choking him. Waking up in the torture chamber. Pain, all-encompassing, nerve-searing, never-ending pain. He shuddered, his throat closing up. Carr screaming as Marcus plunged the dagger into his leg.

"How's your leg?" Resh asked, latching onto that last memory.

Carr reached over him to untie his hands. "Had worse cat scratches. Why you worryin 'bout me, anyways? You're the one's been hoverin ‘round the veil."

Resh snorted. Of course Carr would refer to a stab wound like that. He tried not to think about the kind of life he had lived to feel that way. Instead, Resh tried to sit up.

Tried was the operative word because he didn't dare use his right arm, and his left arm was weak, shaking under the pressure he attempted to put on it.

"Sorry," Resh said when Carr helped him up. He massaged the fingers of his—he looked down—newly splinted right arm, pressing his lips together when he realized he could feel them again. Just a little but—he could've cried. Instead, he looked around the room.

His cot was wedged in the front corner of the herbalist's workroom, so he was able to lean back against the wall, the stone cool against the bare skin of his back. The entire wall opposite his cot was covered in cabinets. Cabinets on the wall and cabinets underneath, holding various medical instruments and potions in the process of steeping. Resh’s eyes skipped over the wooden table at the center of the room, where Marcus had almost carved his eye out.

"Guess you're stuck as a nursemaid for a little longer," he said, half by way of another apology and half to distract himself.

He suppressed a grin at the scowl Carr gave him. Instead, he took the cup Carr offered with a suitably serious expression, sniffing at its contents.

"Just water this time," Carr said, sitting on the floor and rubbing his right leg. He stopped as soon as he noticed Resh was looking.

It was hard not to say anything, but he knew Carr wouldn't want him to ask again. You didn't admit to vulnerability on the streets. That was as good as announcing you were easy pickings. Voices raised in the other room again, and he was reminded of what had woken him up.

"Please tell me that isn't my sister out there," Resh begged.

Carr bit his lip.

Fuck. Orla shouldn't be here. Resh had only missed one visit. But something in Carr's expression made Resh ask, "How long have I been out?"

"Umm… for a bit," Carr said, looking away.

Well, that was evasive as fuck. Carr's shoulders were hunched, and he was pointedly avoiding eye contact. Resh sighed, contemplating pushing the issue. Did it truly matter, though? It wouldn't change the fact that his sister was here. Or that the voices were coming closer.

Carr jumped to his feet as the door slammed open. Resh's sister stormed in, followed closely by Marcus, Mieste, and a guard. Shit.

"Oh, thank the gods!" Orla exclaimed when she caught sight of Resh in the corner. "Reshie, why didn't you send word? I've been worried sick about you."

Resh grabbed the blanket at his waist, pulling it up to his chin. He had no shirt on and no idea what bruises or other injuries remained after the undisclosed amount of time he’d spent incapacitated.

Then, he drank in the sight of his sister. Orla was wearing a long-sleeved blue dress embroidered with little white flowers, appropriate for early spring, and even had proper boots to go with it. Her head was covered with a pink scarf, but Resh could see brown fuzz covering her scalp where it had slipped. She had gained more weight since Resh had last seen her, which softened the sharp lines and hollow spaces her illness had left behind.

Sharp brown eyes assessed him, and Orla stamped her tiny boot on the ground. "You've been ill, haven't you? I told the queen something was wrong."

Resh's mouth dropped open. Orla had spoken to the queen? Then he glanced behind her to where Marcus was leaning against the doorjamb, looking irritated and bored. Mieste ignored everyone and went to his workstation, the scrape of pestle against mortar filling the room. The guard stood at attention on the other side of the door.

Motion caught Resh's attention as Orla advanced. Carr twitched from where he stood next to the cot, then looked over his shoulder at Resh, a question in his eyes.

Should I let her come closer?

Resh stared back. Gods, please no. He couldn't tell his sister to stay away, but he also didn't want her to come close enough to see any lingering wounds.

Carr gave the slightest tip of his head, then stepped forward, placing a hand on Orla's shoulder to halt her progress. "Hey kid, it may not be safe for you t’ be this close. His illness may still be catching."

Orla's eyes widened, and she looked up at Carr, who only stood half a foot taller than her at most. "Are you helping take care of my brother? Is he going to be okay?"

Letting his hand drop, Carr looked over at Mieste, then back to Orla. "Um, yeah, and… yeah, he should be fine. Right, Mieste?"

"Huh?" Mieste looked over his shoulder, pushing up his glasses with purple-stained fingertips. "Right, that's right. Danger has passed now." With that, Mieste turned back to whatever concoction he was making.

"Thank you for helping him," Orla said to Carr, her eyes shining.

Resh's lips tilted up as his sister threw her arms around Carr's waist, squeezing him in a hug as tight as Orla's frail body could manage. Carr's whole body stiffened but Resh watched him slowly relax. Watched as Carr awkwardly patted his sister's back when she sniffed into his chest.

"No problem, kid," Carr said, his voice a little strangled.

Finally, Orla stepped back, dragging her sleeve across her face to wipe her nose. "Resh, when you're better, you'll come to see me again, right? When do you think, a week, two?"

Oh no. Resh's heart sank, having no way to possibly explain his absence to his sister. A quick glance over Orla's shoulder revealed Marcus glaring at him. "Um… I don't know how long it will be, La-la. Things have been… pretty busy here. And I'll have a lot of work to catch up on."

Orla's face fell, and she poked her lower lip out. Resh had to remind himself he wasn't lying, per se. Instead, he was protecting his sister. It was a shitty difference, but it was all he had. 

"But don't worry about me," Resh hurried to add. "I'll be fine, and I'll try to… write." It was the best Resh could offer her, and he didn't even know if that much would be possible. He fought his tears away, not wanting to show his sister how upset he was, how much he missed her. "How are you? And… and mom?"

"Oh, I'm good!" Orla said brightly.

Too brightly. Resh tilted his head, trying to listen to the meaning between his sister's words.

"The queen told me I have to attend school at temple now that I'm feeling better, so that's been fun. The temple on the grounds is so pretty, and they have so many books…" Orla trailed off, twisting her hands.

The grounds. A pretty temple with lots of books located on a place with grounds. The queen.

"Why are you attending the temple on the palace grounds?" Resh asked, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Of course, he knew the answer, but he still hoped he was wrong.

Marcus moved away from the wall, placed his hands on Orla's shoulders. She looked up at Marcus and smiled sadly.

That sadist's hands on his sister was possibly the most horrifying sight Resh had ever seen. And with Orla looking up at Marcus like that… like Marcus had been kind to her… like she was grateful…

Resh swallowed, hoping he wasn't going to be sick.

Marcus smirked at Resh when Orla looked away, obviously relishing the news he was about to impart.

"Your mother is dead, and your sister is a ward of the Crown. The queen took a liking to her, and now she's training to be a lady-in-wait."

Next

Image Description

[ID: The banner is a blue-green background, with tree branches arching over a set of blue-green eyes, forming an approximation of a face. The words Hidden Depths are written in white above the eyes. end ID]

#whumptober2022 #no.9 #tears #altprompt #no.20 #it's been a long day #fetal position #OC #writing #captivity #hallucinations #gender confusion #creepy whumper #parental loss #intimate whumper implied #fantasy whump #whump writing #whump #hidden depths

[truthseeker-blogger]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRCjq6bx/

Dean Lewis song and story 😪

🙏😪❤

#Youtube #dean lewis #parental loss

[allthislove]

It really sucks how suddenly I'll get a flashback of my dad, like, when I was a kid or even a few years ago when he was healthy and vibrant, and then suddenly I'll think of him sick, on his last full day alive, laying in a hospital bed. Idk.

I just want to hold onto him. There's so many sweet moments from when he was in the hospital, but I don't want to depress everyone so I don't talk about it. Like, near the end, his lungs collapsed and I think he thought he was going to die right before they rushed in to do emergency surgery, so he kept waving me over. He couldn't talk by then (well. He could talk a little, but his voice was gone and his throat was raw, plus he had the thing in his neck to help him breathe.). I couldn't tell what he wanted, but I went to his side because I knew the medical teams would soon rush me out of the room. He grabbed my arm and kept pulling, re-gripping, pulling. His hand was moving up my forearm, and I figured he wanted me to lean down. And do you know what he did? He kissed my cheek. In his darkest hour, my daddy wanted to kiss me goodbye.

He didn't die, that day. I think he lived for another week or so? But I am so... impressed with him, that he was literally on the verge of death, getting an emergency procedure, and his thought was "let me kiss my daughter." He had done the arm grip thing before, but I didn't know what he was doing, then. I'm sad that I missed it, and I hope he didn't feel rejected. I know it must be frustrating to not be able to communicate well, especially when you've spent your entire life communicating for a living.

Part of me is calm about the whole thing, now. Some days, I can't feel him with me and I am extremely scared about what happens after we die. I fear that he just no longer exists- I fear no longer existing, one day. But other days, it's like he's talking directly to me. I can't explain it. It's not like a thought. It's not like hearing a voice. It's like I suddenly know and then I know it was him who told me.

I asked him, last night, why I can't feel him anymore. I heard nothing. I was so sad, and I kept telling him that I couldn't believe that there was a such thing as heaven, anymore. That the afterlife felt like something I was using to comfort myself more than something real. I'm telling you, I got no answer at all. Radio silence. Nothing.

Then today, I was walking through the house and thought I saw someone out of the corner of my eye. I paused and looked, saw nothing, and rolled my eyes. "Hello, the dead," I said sarcastically, and went to the kitchen to grab food. When I went back upstairs, I felt compelled to go into the bonus room, where Dad would work when he worked from home. Once in there, I thought about him, and I kinda just said, not serious at all, "Dad, are you haunting me?" And I swear, I heard an answer. Like, just suddenly knew. It was "No, I don't need to haunt. I got Jesus." Listen if you know me, you know I'm not that religious. But my Daddy was. He played piano for various churches during his life, and prayed up into the day he died. That was exactly the type of answer he would have given.

I know people think that we mourners make experiences like that up in our heads to comfort ourselves, but it came to me as if it was placed into my head. It wasn't like a thought, or like writing dialogue. And more than that, I went from feeling like "there's probably nothing after we die" and not being able to feel my dad at all, to immediately feeling... good? Like, I knew immediately that he told me that. It's not even my first time... he's done it before. Like, soon after he died, the garage was broken and wouldn't go down. I knew it could be fixed and I casually asked Dad to help. Moments later, the fix popped into my head. I knew to pull the red string on the garage door opener and realign the thing. That's something I wouldn't have known, but that Dad would. As evidenced by me not even knowing what the thing is called. (It's like a little level that has to fit into a notch so that the chain can move properly to pull the door up and down.) It worked, too.

I just wanted to talk about my dad. And like... advocate for the spiritual world existing, I guess, because... idk, these experiences seem real, to me. That's all. I feel better, now.

#tw parental death #spiritual communication #tw illness #tw hospital #parental loss #grief #death #afterlife #father #dad #daughter #losing a parent

[jenniferleecopping]

mini comic about grief and home

#artists on tumblr #female artists #lgbt artist #comic #comics #original comic #original comics #comic art #a+comic artist #grief #dealing with grief #death #parental loss #parental death #family #trauma #hometown #funerals #funeral #catholiscism #catholic art #catholic #pencil #pencil art #pencil sketch #sketches #sketchbook #sketch #black and white art