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shinwoonoh · 1 year

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it’s ep 4 of the eighth sense and i still don’t believe jaewon is in therapy.

i asked myself why? why, when it’s getting quite obvious that jaewon is in therapy, from the woman accusing him of just being here for the drugs and to jaewon stating his parents forced him to come here 10 years ago. he sits there on a couch for four as a silhouette. the water is clear and glowing behind him. she essentially tells him to spit it out for god’s sake, says he has depression, and jaewon tells her i’m getting sick of myself wearing a mask when I’m dealing with others.

(or a deeply personal piece about my experiences with being asian and the idea of therapy, all prompted by the privilege of getting to experience the eighth sense)

[tw: depression, suicide ideation, ptsd]

i’m first generation chinese canadian and queer. my sister has depression, had thoughts of suicide, all while i myself was being emotionally and verbally abused at work. it’s been 5 years but when i drive by a white toyota 4runner (because that’s the car they drove), i’m still gripped with fear. i can only stare straight ahead hoping to god it’s not them it’s not them it’s not. i want to drive the other way onto oncoming traffic

i told my mom then, that my sister needs help - a doctor, therapy, - call the goddamn pastor from church - anything.

she told me, what use is therapy going to do?

my mom was a registered nurse. when i was a kid, she used to bring me with her on her night shifts and i’d eat tuna croissant sandwiches with the seniors in front of the biggest television box i’ve ever seen in my life. cross legged on the floor because the po po’s and gong gong’s took all the chairs. she told me if old white ladies ask for kleenex and you give them toilet paper, they’ll be mad. it’s different here.

so it’s ep 4 of the eighth sense and i don’t believe therapy exists in the minds of asian people and culture

i took a new job. vowed not to make friends at work. clock in clock out. gave limited info when coworkers asked questions. smiled and giggled. i observed and mimicked behaviour that would let me fit in. i learned how to hug someone when they were upset (tight and long, soothe their backs with open palms) even though i didn’t want to hug anyone, let alone have anyone touch me anywhere that was soft

i was masking.

been masking. for a long time.

i fit in so well, everyone likes me. i’ve been told i’m the favourite by pretty much everyone. hell, i’ve had coworkers fighting over me, told i can do and say no wrong. i’m not trying to brag. i hate being the centre of attention. i steer conversation immediately to the other person so i don’t have to talk about myself too much. just enough to seem normal, to look human - to be liked.

(even as i’m writing this, there are too many words and paragraphs about me, why would anyone read this? y’all are here for the eighth sense but i’m going on like a celebrity writing their autobiography about their tragic childhood and how they were able to rise above - so, okay, i should start sprinkling in some actual t8s content analysis, for god’s sake)

jaewon says i want to free myself from human relationships

what happened to jaewon? we don’t know entirely yet. but everybody loves jaewon. the teacher will give him a good mark because he likes jaewon. everybody in class wants him to be their project partner and everybody’s missed him since he’s been away in the army please hang out with us jaewon let’s go drinking jaewon you better show up jaewon or it would be a shame, jaewon you are so likeable loveable cool lucky don’t worry about jaewon he’s got everything going on for him

then he meets jihyun and i think jaewon has a hard time finding the right mask to put on to deal with the freshman. and he slips a lot. when he starts to talk about his brother, after eunji shows up because of taehyung’s scheming, when jihyun repeatedly corrects him that it’s jaewon that wants to be friends - not him. and finally when he kisses jihyun

he’s having such a hard time and he slips up so bad, that the next safest option is to mask right back up

oh jaewon was drunk he has a habit of kissing and yeah he’ll join them after he helps yoon won wrap things up he’s the new best friend so let’s have a meal together with jihyun and his roommate next time

3 years into my new job, someone returns to the company and we become friends, on a soulmate level. i think i was in love with her - i definitely had a crush on her. but anyways, somehow i see her and i was suddenly all sorts of things because of her. i start to look forward to work. i add my coworkers on facebook and ig. we go to parties with our bosses and a few of us go on a couple of road trips even though the pandemic is blazing in the background

she saw me, even when i didn’t want to be seen. i remember getting a particularly anxiety-inducing email from my previous job. i’m in the staff room sitting quietly, staring at my feet. i try to breathe.

i’m alone for the whole of it but i emerge from the room again. ready to leave for the day and somehow, my friend sees me. asks me what’s wrong?

how did she know? i didn’t cry. i looked in the mirror before i came out. i didn’t even say anything to her. but i tell her, quietly at first and then easily and then finally with so much - so. much. honesty.

she tells me i get it. of course you feel that way. why wouldn’t you feel that way? it’s completely understandable. i know you.

we hug. it’s one of the best hugs i’ve ever received.

she leaves for another job. i try to go on, all open and soft parts exposed. but little by little, i go back into my shell.

why would i want to show the entirety of myself? all the bits of me are all the ways i can embarrass myself, expose myself, show myself to people who will take what i show and twist and move it all in a way that becomes unrecognizable and uncontrollable

so i mask

but it’s goddamn tiring and exhausting. jaewon is exhausted. you see it in his eyes as he stares off out into nowhere when jihyun tells him his name. when they’re sitting in the train, and he’s smiling at jihyun at first and then jihyun’s smile falls open, and we see jaewon’s expression: there’s a downward movement to his lips. it’s so miniscule. maybe i’m imagining it

but that’s the moment i think jihyun sees when he tells aeri he ran into jaewon sunbae yesterday, and he didn’t look okay.

what was i talking about? oh yes, therapy and being asian and how disconnected that is to me. nobody asian goes to therapy. i can hear all the aunties and my popo saying sometimes doctors are wrong and medicine isn’t going to help. my grandma didn’t believe my grandpa had dementia and alzheimer’s even to the last minute of his death and past it. she said he was annoying and stupid when he forgot where he put his ring or when he would leave the stove on until a hole burnt through the pot.

in the farewell, a story about a chinese family that lied to their aging matriarch that she didn’t have terminal lung cancer. all of them flew back to china for a rushed and premature marriage, used as an excuse to go tearily say goodbye to their soon-to-be dead grandma/mom/mother in law, etc. the juxtaposition of them celebrating a happy marriage while crying on stage to her about her for her as she claps with happiness and pride, but also with confusion, is funny. they never tell her. and she miraculously is cured of cancer. it’s like she never had it. they lied to her because they wanted her to be happy. be happy so she wouldn’t die.

so what good will medicine, let alone, therapy do? just be happy. easy, right?

i hope jaewon continues to open up. i hope he finds that soulmate of his, maybe in jihyun, maybe in himself. i know opening up and unmasking is scary. but also masking is so uncomfortable that i want to crawl out of my skin. it’s alienating and lonely.

even writing all of this out, i still don’t think jaewon is in actual therapy. i’ve never seen it personally in asian media. so i think it’s so sad that when i’m being given a beautiful example of a korean person in korea going to therapy or whatever type of appointment relationship agreement this is where jaewon gets asked what’s bothering him and he answers truthfully and almost painlessly. like he’s been doing this for 10 years.

and i don’t believe it. it’s so fucked up that i don’t believe it. i keep thinking when will the rug be pulled out from under me? surely there’s no such thing as an asian person going to therapy. fuck, evelyn travelled through the multiverse and there’s not one of her in therapy

but it’s right there in front of my own eyes: jaewon getting counselled and advised, she has a notebook, an aquarium to look at when you’re nervous, big round metal balls to stare right back at you when you need a distraction and it’s been 10 years. i watched it all with the same eyes that saw my parents fight and punch holes in the wall before going to couple retreats at church and coming back stronger than ever. the last time i saw them fight, i was in high school. even as my sister finally spoke to her doctor and she saw a therapist, then a psychiatrist and now she’s on medication and she’s doing better. i’m not afraid she’s going to hurt herself anymore. my soulmate sees a counsellor and messages me randomly and it’s so eerily weird when she knows i’m struggling even when we’re a mountain apart

it’s all in front of me. but i don't believe it.

#the eighth sense #basically: what's it like to be mentally stable? rofl #don't know her #ANYWAYS god that was really personal and i hope this sits okay with some people #the eighth sense really just pulled this out of me and i'm really surprised i'm okay with sharing all of this #mywriting #ok to reblog

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camusscigarette · 6 months

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Violets for Roses:

Le Prologue:

{The one where Hannibal catches a glimpse of Bedelia's old life}

TW: Fainting(?) If continued more trigger warning will be mentioned!

❦

It was a quiet evening. Colder than usual but none the less pleasant. With the flames crackling in the fireplace, eating away at the dried wood. A bottle of Champagne 'Taittinger' left open in a bucket of ice, with a tray of charcuterie well presented rests on the coffee table, barely touched.

Hannibal observed Bedelia as she holds the crystal tall glass of champagne by the flute, in-between her index finger and her thumb. She was slightly more dissociated than usual and less guarded, even in his presence and her own home. It intrigued him. She was never this dissociated nor careless. He knew her as a smart woman with wits and seductions to her ploys and her traps. She was like a Black Widow. Dangerous and Beautiful. Yet deadly somehow.

He couldn't call her a Siren because Bedelia did not play on Illusions nor did she play with her looks. She was more than beautiful and her aura radiated coldness and that is all. She wasn't a Coquette because Bedelia never offered him Satisfaction and delayed it. She wasn't a Charismatic because she showed no interest on Playing the role of a God. Showed no interest in swaying someone off their feet. No aura of sexual energy in the air. If he were to describe her as a seductress, she'd be 'The Star'.

“The Star is a fetishized object. Most people are too complex, reactive, and moody to let us see them as objects. The Star’s power is that they can become an object, and see themselves as one.” He recalls reading once.

And what terrified him about it was that..an object can be used to kill. And Bedelia had proven to him that if pushed far enough..she wouldn't hesitate to fight back and win. He has seen it with Neal Frank, and it both excited and terrified him that she somehow managed to fall into trap and give into her bloodlust. So she reminded him of a Black Widow. Easily crushed yet lethal when stung by it.

"You have a fascinating book collection" He noted, looking now over her book shelves in the living room. His eyes skimming over the book covers before they stopped on a certain collection. "You have Dostoevsky, Nietzsche and Camus all stacked by one another. Existentialism, Nihilism and Absurdism. What I consider to be the three stages of life" He chuckled quietly as he stood up and walked closer to the shelf, his fingers lightly caressing the hardcover of a certain boom. "You have them each in their respective language." He noted again, slightly surprised as he read the russian titles for Dostoevsky, the german for Nietzsche, and French for Camus. "Impressive. You speak all three?" Turning around to face her, he found her lip corners slightly turned upwards.

"I was fluent in all three. Now I can only speak French" She said quietly as a small smile graced her lips.

"I did not know you spoke Russian" To say he was intrigued is quite the understatement.

"I had a Half Russian, Half German Nanny growing up" She lied smoothly, he had to give it to her it was quite believable with the way her body language was relaxed yet her eyes held a sense of nostalgia seemingly triggered by her words. But he knew better. "She taught me quite a lot , and after she died I tried to learn more by reading Russian Literature as well as German Literature. Eventually reading Nietzsche in German was tiring enough so I replaced the books to English but the few ones I had that were in German are stored here. Russian was much easier because I spoke it more than I spoke German. And french..well..My father is french as you already know, so.. It's quite the easy language and the only one I still speak fluently in" The backstory added to her lie was the cherry on top, and he would've applauded her if he didn't want to play dumb.

"May I borrow one of your books?" He asked, picking 'La Mort Heureuse' off the shelf, a rather interesting yet absurd book written by Albert Camus. The original version of 'The Stranger' if you wish to see it that way.

"Sure. As long as you take delicate care of it" She murmured against her glass of champagne before downing it in one shot. She stood up surprisingly on steady feet, despite having had mixed wine from earlier session that day with champagne and ha d drank it all on an empty stomach. "If you'll excuse me" Her voice slightly hoarse as she walked towards the bathroom, leaving him all alone in her living room, Infront of all those books.

He began to look at each book, flipping through the pages carelessly until a picture fell from one of them and it was a picture of a woman holding a small child in her arms, Black and white, the faces barely visible but the woman whom he assumed is the mother of the babe had some similar face features that reminded him of Bedelia's. He flipped the Picture over and to his surprise..

Stalingrad, December 3rd 1928.

It read. A sense of dread filled him for the first time and he flipped the picture almost immediately, his eyes analyzing the faces as much as he could, but the picture was far too old for him to decipher a thing. He returned the picture to the book it fell from and picked another, flipping through the pages hoping for something until..

‘James,

I am writing you this letter to inform you that yet again I have given birth to a daughter. It terrifies me to the core that I had given birth yet to another weapon , once again, for Ivan to use against me and the world. I pray to our Most Holy Lady Theotokos and Ever-Virgin Mary that he shows them mercy. You know how our world is. The Red Room won't stop until they are ontop of the world. They won't stop until their reign returns, and that itself terrifies me.

I can not decline the fact that the birth of my newest daughter didn't make me a bit happy. Natalya is excited to have a sister, and I'm considering naming her Yelena. She has Ivan's blond hair, unlike Natalya whom has my red hair. But none the less she still has some resemblance to me. I can only hope that she turns out strong like her sister, or I'll have to lose her like I lost Anastasia. In a week I am expected to return to the field while Madame Boleslava watches over the babe, and Natalya is already in training. I can only hope that one day, you and I, my dearest soldier can escape this hell hole before it'll be too late. And my worst fear will come true. The Red Room would've won and we have become slaves.

Yours faithfully,

Dahlia’

He was confused. He was more than confused as he re-read the letter once more. Who was James? Who was Dahlia? Why are they mainly russian names in this? What is the Red Room? Who is Ivan? Slaves? What does it even mean? And most importantly...What did Bedelia have to do with all of this and why does she have possession of such a thing?

His usually high functioning brain and his unique intellect seems to have given up on him, as he couldn't even put two and two together, and to make it worse, he flipped the letter again and it read.

Stalingrad, May 17th, 1939.

He closed the book immediately and put it back in place as he heard the sound of Bedelia's heels getting closer. The letter folded neatly and tucked away into the inner pocket of his blaze as he took back his seat and grasped the glass of champagne, downing a full shot of the drink as he kept the book he chose in his lap. He looked un-bothered. His body language not betraying a thing as Bedelia approached him, fixing her skirt, pulling at the hem of it as she sat back down in her seat.

A moment of silence reigned over the room before he eventually broke it.

"I never thought you to be the kind to speak multitongues" He said carefully, pouring himself another glass of champagne.

"It's nothing interesting" She said dismissively.

"Am I right to assume you grew up wealthy, no? It would explain the lavishing lifestyle you have about yourself and your exquisite taste in dressing" He couldn't hide his smirk as he eyed over her form in that Channel suit she was wearing.

A dry chuckle escaped the blond woman's throat as she offered him the faintest of smiles. "You are right to assume so"

"What was your father's work that made him the wealthy man he is?" His curiosity was getting the better of him and if Bedelia suspected a thing she did not comment on it, only offering him a raised brow at the sudden questioning.

"He was a Doctor. Neurosurgeon to be exact. He worked in France, Lebanon and Italy. He stayed more in Lebanon because during the Mid 70s till very early 90s a Civil war had broken through and he made lots of money there" She said simply, almost nonchalantly.

"So you spent your childhood in Lebanon?" He asked curiously.

"I was in a boarding school in Switzerland." She said again. Her answers to him felt overused. As if she had prepared this conversation long ago and a sense of dread filled him once more, thought he masked it pretty well.. something in Bedelia's eyes terrified him yet intrigued him more and more.

He felt the urge to reach for her.

To caress her cheek before his hand would soon wrap itself around her throat and squeeze out the answers he desired out of her.

But he knew that it was a dangerous move of him to commit. As the lies and stories she could be hiding behind her tales could be quite.. unfathomable.

Yet, his feet carried him to her and he sat besides Dr Du Maurier on the couch. His hand reaching out for her cheek, thumb caressing her under eye.

"What games are you trying to play, Hannibal?" She asked him coolly, her eyes searching his though no signs of emotions nor an upcoming reaction was portrayed on her face. Everything hidden behind her cold mask.

"Who are you, Doctor Du Maurier?" He asked leaning his face closer to hers as she did not budge."What secrets do you hide my Dearest Bedelia?" He asked again, their lips mere inches apart.

She knew that he was trying to seduce her into speaking, but she was far smarter than he'd give her credit for. Her hand rested on the back of his neck, eyes staring deeply into his, letting her grey blues portray a sign of faux fear and before she struck him.

A tight pinch to the Vagus nerve and he was out in seconds.

"Crétin" She mumbled as she pushed him off of her. Grabbing one of his arms and his leg before she threw him on her shoulders and carried him to her bed with ease. Removing his clothing and keeping him in his boxers she did a fast job of removing her own clothes and putting on a nightdress as she sat on the other end of the bed.

Tucking the gun beneath her pillow she turned to face his unconscious form before she said quietly. "Doux Rêves".

And her eyes did not fall shut.

She remained awake. Observing him. Until the Sun rose eventually.

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