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kiefbowl · 6 years

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I'm super duper insecure about my boobs. They are the same size, but my areolas are two completely different sizes. The one on the right is huge and hangs so much lower and it makes me so scared to look at myself in the mirror. Any tips on how to jumpstart the self love? I just want to stop thinking about it every day :(

Sorry this took awhile I wanted to give the time to answer it because I’ve been busy this week, but also something about this ask struck me deeply, and that is your word choice. And so what follows is what I doubt you were expecting, and is not within the tone of you question, but important to me and ultimately your word choice betrays you so I think you’ll want to read it, sweet sister.

Because this struck me as a very odd thing to say, though I believe it’s true even if you didn’t intend me to extrapolate as much: “the one on the right…hangs so much lower…it makes me so scared to look myself in the mirror.”

What are you afraid of?

You posses the reality in your mind about your right breast, but you’re afraid to look at it. It’s a strange duality because there seems to be the idea that you can handle that it’s true as long as you don’t have to perceive that it’s real. It speaks very true to me that that is the case because we see the same sort of rhetoric played out in so many different ways everyday that I argue is a byproduct of living under patriarchy and capitalism, among other things. There is definitely a cleave in our mind of our physical reality, our perceptions, and our mental self. I’ve spoken about it before, but essentially we compartmentalize these 3 parts of our selves, our existence, and deny the functioning whole of all 3. It allows us to also disassociate with one when we don’t like it or don’t want it.

Meaning what we see is some how different and excused from the space we’re occupying. The space we’re occupying has nothing to do with out thoughts and existence. Our body is temporary and disposable. Our senses are deniable when we don’t engage them. Our minds can be whatever we want as long as we believe strong enough. It’s false, but it’s played out in so many of us (even me!) in interesting ways that sometimes we don’t even recognize it. It’s a fucking existential nightmare, but at this point in time it’s par for course. We don’t realize we’re living in a way that is agonizing to the whole of us because we’ve been told it simply is. It simply IS that your employer owns your sleep schedule. It simply IS that war is necessary and it’s own art. It simply IS that the earth can be sectioned off for destruction for things like Nike shoes, iPhone chargers, and McDonald’s kids meal toys because it simply IS that you don’t want a life without those things, but of course. God forbid we lived in a world without Nike shoes, and the thousands of brands just like them.

But imagine the horror beyond horror if you took an ancient ancestor of ours and explained the destruction of a nuclear bomb, that people created it purposefully, and that people used it. At this moment, you might be like, where the fuck is a nuclear bomb related to my fucking right titty, but all things are connected sister. I want you to really imagine what it takes for even the generation before the nuclear bomb to really conceptualize the bomb’s existence alone, not to mention it’s soon to be future (and now current history).

And I mean really imagine it. Imagine the space between the people dropping the bomb vs. the people experiencing the bomb. Imagine the reality of people actually advocating for the production of these bombs. Imagine the body horror of people who have been victims of these bombs, and imagine a person who is so far removed from this reality in time, but is just as much human as us having to entertain these realities of all I’ve just described for just this one thing. It would probably be nightmarish to even think about. There would be refusal it is even possible, not scientifically, but humanly.

And imagine you, my lovely sister. You live in a post nuclear bomb world. And you live amongst people who all live in a post nuclear bomb world.

Is it no wonder that capitalists can propagate nonsense so easily that allow us to sever the ties with out body, our senses, our minds? Indeed, must they have done so themselves in order to be in the positions they are, to promote such evil things? Can you believe there are constituents who argue against universal health care? Our ancient grandmothers would not be able to comprehend the stupidity in which we so disregard our bodies, deny that they are as living in this world as us. It’s so ridiculous, it’s hard to come up with words to describe it. My sentences are almost nonsensical. “Deny that our bodies are as living in this world as we are” is dancing on a line of crazed lunacy. We are fighting against something in our minds that is so mounting, dark, and delirious as we live amongst the things and realities we now have assumed to be the natural progression of our world.

So…your titty. You can’t look at it. It fills you with fear. Fear of what, dearest? It hangs too low, unequal with its sister. This fills you with fear? Fear that it’s real and inescapable? But what is in the reality of your titty hanging low that is so fearful? What does a life look like with a low hanging breast that makes you too scared to live it?

Is it the fear of being unloved? Unlovable? Unsexed? Unconsumed? What life could lived better with a breast that sits higher? Are you watched more? Watched less? Do men attend to you? Is their attention desirable? Is it agony to find clothes? Would it be some relief for once to just buy clothes without breasts, and to look at yourself in the mirror reminds you that your life is filled with this nuisance until death?

Dear sister, I’m not joking when I ask, does she remind you of death? Your breast, is she age? Is she time passing? Is she illness lurking in the future?

Are you scared of words? Of lovers? Will nothing they say or do satisfy your fear and dislike of your body, and you know it’s true and you dread the experience?

But perhaps it is more like:

Are you aware of your body when you look in the mirror? Must you use your eyes to see that when you are reflected back to yourself you are, in fact, an animal of the world? That you inhabit, you survive, you feel sensations? And these sensations, they exist in your mind as well? Does the mirror remind you that you are entwined with your own self, a self you live to some degree shattered. Shattered because you’ve been told to, but also shattered because it is easier than the agony of facing what we know is true. It is easier living a shattered self when the world we now live in demands we live so inhumanly.

Does the mirror taunt this from you? Does your titty, does she laugh at your plans? She does nothing, and still continues to be. Her existence is the proof of gravity, of time, of natural forces. And she lives so unconcerned of it, she simply is at this time and place. Is your titty at peace while you are not?

So now that I’ve gone on a kafkaesque rant that does not at all match your tone of your original submission, let’s talk about what you actually asked: self love.

Self love I think is realizing that the above is true, and desperately, agonizing for the correction of it. Be intoxicated by the idea of your mirror self. Demand reality in your own life. Love the Self, not just your boobie. Your boobie is unaffected by you. She doesn’t care you don’t like her. She is not her own entity, she is a part of your functioning whole. She’ll continue to be. She is as unaffected by your mourning of a “better” body or a “perfect” body as your heart, or arm, or teeth.

So be her. Be her! She’s you!

Take time every day to stop and experience the world around you in the moment. Stop, and feel the presence of your moment, the energy of the people, the sun on your skin, the warmth it fills you with. To love your body is to love being alive on this earth as a human. You have to want those 3 things to be special and meaningful to you, all working together. You cannot escape that you on this earth at this time, that you are on this earth as a human, and that you are a living human. You have to make peace with the fact that you’re alive. You have to practice active living.

Since you’ve made it this far, here’s what you were actually looking for that is also useful and more fun to read:-masturbate!-try drawing yourself. I like to smoke weed and draw my self in front of the mirror no joke. -walk around naked as much as you can-go braless as much as you can!!!!-read up on biology because it helps you remember that your titty is just a titty-look at unsexualized pictures of titties-and of course masturbate!!:)

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hummingbee-o0o · 7 years

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The Haunting of Gareth Mallory

My effort for Occult October. Thanks to @castillon02 for her prompt, which was ‘skulls’.

MI6 allows some dress creativity on Halloween prior to an informal party in the evening (ironic, considering to what degree death is part of their profession), and Mallory very nearly has a goddamn heart attack when Q turns up in Q-Branch wearing a skull mask.

The mask in itself is more beautiful than scary, Mallory imagines. It’s masterfully crafted, clearly not something bought for 50p in a Tesco Metro till queue; the bones are all anatomically correct and well sculpted, and the dirty white colour looks remarkably like real bone. It looks like expensive porcelain craft and sits on Q’s face uncannily well, emphasising his green eyes (sans glasses today) in a way that really doesn’t make it odd that Bond is practically winding around him like a cat in heat.

(Q is a very attractive man. Just because Mallory is asexual it doesn’t mean he’s blind.)

All in all, a very nice mask, matched cheekily by Bond wearing all black and a tie with a spinal column printed on it in stark white. No cause for alarm. And yet, when he first saw Q in that mask, Mallory felt his blood turn cold and his breath catch in his chest like painful fire. A horrifying thing, carefully buried in the back of his mind, roars and blazes back into life and for a moment he’s frightened he will have a bloody panic attack.

Still, bureaucrat or not, he is in the spy business, so he manages to collect himself and retreat into his office where his hand shakes only the slightest bit when he pours himself some brandy.

Calm. He needs calm. It was just a mask, nothing to be frightened of, nothing that means anything. He knocks the whole glass back in one go and pours another.

The thing is, a part of Mallory doesn’t really like Q.

He almost feels bad about it, because Q is objectively a fairly likeable person - if one likes lofty geniuses who talk about things one has no hopes of understanding - and he mostly does like him, but there is that part of him that doesn’t. It’s not Q’s personality that he dislikes. Not at all. Q can be very entertaining, quite charming, and dangerously charismatic to a point where his staff have chosen to call themselves his ‘minions’. No, Mallory has nothing against Q’s personality. It’s the other thing.

It’s Q’s mind.

Q and his genius are indispensable, safeguarding MI6 with invisible walls and traps that snag and destroy people half a world away. All of MI6′s digital security has been re-designed, engineered and put up by Q, and Q has a masterful control over each and every nook and cranny of it.

And that’s what sits so uneasily with Mallory. Because recruiting Q’s genius to work for them had been a clever move on M’s - the old M’s - part, but in Mallory’s mind it’s something of a double-edged sword. Because now they need to keep Q. They need to make sure he has the best toys and the best playground, that he isn’t tempted to stray from them.

Because it’s Q’s genius that has built MI6′s intangible defences, and it’s Q’s genius that could horribly, inconceivably, strip them away and gut the entire organisation in several seconds flat. Mallory has watched him slice into their enemies’ sophisticated defences with ruthless precision and a gleam of relish behind his spectacles, and then either sleekly stick to the shadows, find elegant shortcuts, and lift only the few details they need before leaving like he never was there, or rip out the enemy system’s entrails, spark mayhem and let chaos devour everything until it collapses in on itself, with Q standing at the helm of it all like a graceful conductor.

Mallory tries not to be unfair; Q obviously loves his job and is happy in MI6. Q is also loyal enough to Queen and Country not to keep Mallory awake at night with anxiety, but he realises he doesn’t enjoy the same guarantee of personal loyalty that the old M did. And that, in a way, is probably what worries him.

It’s also where the mask comes in.

The entire Silva nightmare left them all shaken: the explosion, then the whole Skyfall incident culminating in M’s death. Plenty of people have been scarred in one way or another, and Bond’s trauma seems to be the one that people remember the most when thinking about Silva. And while Bond’s experiences have certainly been the most spectacular, no one ever stopped to realise what a fucking horrifying trauma Mallory got left with after the whole ordeal.

Silva haunts him.

Sometimes, Mallory almost sees him.

Some days, when he’s tired, when a mission is going poorly, when Q clenches his teeth and tries not to lose an agent, his eyes hard and merciless as he condemns a dozen henchmen to death in an explosion, Silva breathes a chill on the back of Mallory’s neck.

He’s terrified of Q one day becoming his own Silva, going after him with an all-destructive fury, scorching the earth in his wake and inevitably ensnaring Mallory in a horrifying trap, pulling the final strings, and destroying him.

A few months ago, Bond got snatched by enemies on a mission, and Mallory felt like he was looking into death’s eyes when Q faced him, stone-cold and composed to an inhuman degree, and demanded to redirect all efforts to rescue Bond. Mallory agreed, because he is for saving human life, but (to his shame) mostly because in that moment he saw in Q’s eyes all the terrifying possible outcomes and among them Q grieving his lover’s death and turning against the people - the man - who was willing to abandon him and let him die.

Cue another Silva. Mallory’s Silva. A genius holding the entire digital world in the palm of his hand and ruthlessly ready to crush it.

Bond was recovered within two days, and the four people responsible for his torture died in ways corresponding with their private fears and phobias. Q, eyes hard as steel and voice smooth like glass, denied having anything to do with it.

And today that skull mask hit just a little too close to home, uncomfortably reminding Mallory of the sugar skull Silva had taken as his macabre logo of sorts. A reminder of paths that conceivably could be taken.

(Mallory is still terrified of Q being kidnapped and not recovered. Of having to spend the rest of his days in permanent terror of inevitable vengeance.)

It’s just a mask. It’s just a pretty Halloween mask, it’s nothing.

Mallory takes another sip of his brandy; his hand manages not to shake, and he takes a fortifying breath. Just a mask. Just a coincidence, just a bloody couple’s costume between Q and Bond. Almost endearing, if they weren’t both such headaches for Mallory even on the best of days.

He finishes his brandy, straightens his suit jacket, and leaves his office to find Moneypenny back behind her desk and sporting a jaunty witch’s hat complete with a fake spider dangling from the tattered brim.

“Very dashing,” he tells her, because she always makes him feel better.

“Thank you, sir,” she smiles. “No costume for you?”

“I think I’m plenty scary already,” he tries for humour and a smile, and going by her small laugh, he mostly succeeds.

“Of course.”

He goes about the rest of his day. Bond is very nearly glued to Q’s side, lounging about Q-Branch and pointlessly rearranging the spooky decorations, probably just to be a nuisance. The witching hour is over. Silva is gone. All that Mallory sees is Q in a Halloween mask, smirking when Bond leans in to murmur something in his ear, and in that moment Mallory is downright fond of them, god help him.

Q types something on a keyboard, and one of the screens is taken over by a digital dancing skeleton in a top hat. It tips the hat and a flock of ravens fly out accompanied by a cackle from several speakers.

Mallory looks at Bond’s warm smile directed at Q and hopes never to collect any sins to think on.

#Occult October #it's SUCH a headcanon of mine that deep down Mallory is traumatised by Silva and terrified that one day Q might turn on him like that #I don't believe Q would but I like the idea that this is Mallory's deepest and most secret fear #I've been meaning to explore this forever thank you so much Cas for prompting me and getting me to do this :D #00Q #00Q fic #Mallory #Gareth Mallory #my stories

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