#or getting taken advantaged of when she was on the brink of the suicide

[loominggaia]

How would each of our crewmen (minus Evan and Zeffer) react to contracting their class specific afflictions? Our Commoners becoming lycanthropes/ Fae becoming vampires/ and Gaians Jackass curse. Let’s also say they contracted their newfound curse while out on a job and not from their fellow crewmen (I don’t believe Evan or Zeffer would be able to live with themselves if they spread their curse). How would these effect each of them and what would their Werewolf/ vampire or animal form be like?

That's interesting to think about! I had to give this a lot of thought, but I think...

Lukas: Lycanthropy. Let's just say that Lukas does not envy what Evan has to go through with this disease...realistically, I think he'd just kill himself. Not only to spare himself the misery, but to spare the lives of others around him too. He's already on the brink of suicide on a good day as it is, I think an affliction like this would be enough to push him over the edge. He doesn't have half the mental/emotional resilience that Evan has.

Glenvar: Lycanthropy. Glenvar has very little self-discipline, so I could see him easily succumbing to "lycanthrope lunacy"--the urge to go feral and cannibalize people. Evan is extremely strong-willed so he's better at resisting these urges than most. Glenvar's lunacy would quickly escalate until his friends had no other choice but to put him down.

Alaine: Lycanthropy. Lycanthrope + mermaid can be a really nasty combo, because now you have a bloodthirsty beast that can't drown or be slowed down by water. Her werewolf form would have scales on its face, tail, and all four of its limbs. When submerged in water it would transform into an aquatic form, resembling a crocodile-like beast. Alaine is just as strong-willed as Evan, if not moreso, so I imagine she would have pretty good control over her lunacy. She would function with lycanthropy about as well as he does.

Jeimos: Vampirism. Normally vampires avoid fire because they're unusually flammable, but Jeimos' red elf genetics might just cancel that out. Given their ability to teleport, they'd make a really effective and terrifying vampire. But on an emotional level, I don't think they could handle that kind of existence at all. If they couldn't find a cure, they would most likely kill themselves to protect those around them.

Isaac: No one knows what kind of afflictions Isaac is susceptible to, because no one is 100% certain that Isaac is even human.

Linde: Vampirism. Linde is also quite strong-willed, so while she would grapple with suicidal thoughts, I can't imagine her actually going through with it. She'd limp along with vampirism as long as she could, trying to feed as ethically as possible but inevitably resorting to violence like all vampires do. Without a cure, her friends would be forced to put her down, but she wouldn't go down easily. She'd put up a hell of a fight with her floemancy.

Balthazaar: Lycanthropy. Balthazaar is just too dumb and irresponsible to manage a disease like this. He'd fuck up on month 1 and his beast would get loose and kill someone. He'd probably get taken down by a Great Kingdom's disease control task force before the night was over.

Skel: Vampirism. Skel is terrified of getting sick, and contracting something as nasty as vampirism is his biggest fear. Still, he's way too prideful to even consider suicide. I could see him running away and leaning hard into his disease, becoming a real menace to Allkind to feed his bloodlust. His sense of morals would slip away very quickly.

Javaan: Jackass Curse. He would transform into a little black rat at random, which many would find inconvenient but Javaan just uses it to his advantage. He realizes it's much easier to steal stuff and spy on people in his rat form. His friends try to cure him, but he evades their attempts because he thinks this "curse" is awesome. The only time it's not awesome is when he's trying to get it on with some chick, and suddenly she's not so impressed with his size...This is what convinces him that maybe this curse is a bad thing and he should seek a cure.

Elska: Jackass Curse. She transforms into a golden draft horse. This is very distressing to her and everyone around her. Suddenly losing the use of her hands at random is ruining her life, so she and her crew stop at nothing to find a cure.

Mr. Ocean: Vampirism. I'd be curious to know how Mr. Ocean's unique fungal infection interacted with vampirism. According to Dr. Che, every organ and tissue in his body is infected by the greenlite fungus, so I wonder if the vampirism could even take hold. Or if it did, maybe he wouldn't feed on fresh blood, but decayed flesh instead. He would basically become a mushroom. Either way, he would require the corpses of peoples to survive, and there's no ethical way to manage that long-term. He would ask his friends to put him down.

*

Questions/Comments?

Lore Masterpost

#ask #askliterature #askafflicted #asklycanthropy #askvampirism #askjackasscurse

[wingsandembers]

I mean it’s funny that all the ship wars is over who gets to be with Azriel, who is literally the equivalent of Elain when it came to character development, yet he’s getting simped on while elain is getting called boring and uninteresting. Just like with elain and her gardening, until his bonus excerpt Azriel having the largest wingspan was his entire and only personality.

And it’s also, again funny, to see both pro and anti elain trying to turn elain into the new Nesta, with either giving her an evil theory arc or wishing she’d stand up to the IC (like for what, coz they didn’t hate her when she also didn’t do anything for her sisters???), or how she’s misunderstood like Nesta was, when elain is probably the least complicated and straightforward character in the series.

Does she have the ability to be as interesting as her sisters when given her own arc? Yeah definitely. But let her have her OWN arc, and not recycle pre-acosf Nesta theories on her.

And elain was terrible to nesta like most characters were to her post acowar, she failed nesta like she did with feyre but she’s getting away with that too. Just coz she gave her books to read aint the big gesture that makes up for everything else.

Cant want Elain to grow a backbone but at the same time refuse to have her own her mistakes, coz pre-acosf there was a sure loud demand for Nesta to admit and be punished for all her supposed crimes against feyre and the IC.

#acosf #elain archeron #Azriel #elriel #gywnriel #elain hating the ic standing up to them #being separated from the IC #that didn’t happen with nesta you think it would happen with elain 😂😂😂 #I’ll defend elain with the shipping stuff #but when it comes to her as a sister to Nesta #she’s on her own coz she got away with murder for YEARS #like I don’t get the defense that she was too sheltered and therefore her mistakes and shortcomings are somehow Nesta’s fault too #like the fuck how this is nesta’s fault too when nesta was literally trying to save her from the cauldron #or getting taken advantaged of when she was on the brink of the suicide #when nesta set aside her own mental health to help her heal first #she became the adjusted one and was able to choose a quiet life coz her sisters made it possible for her #it’s not about her being too sheltered or coddled it’s her lacking accountability #I get the Sanaa stark in her #but we also yet to see her evolve the way sansa stark did #also sansa took responsibility and paid for her mistakes #not saying elain needs to be punished but she can’t or her stans can pass the blame on nesta for Elain’s shortcomings #cant blame nesta for both failing to protect one sister while protecting the other #nesta archeron

[samanthadalton]

Star crossed lovers (au) part 3

pairings: poppy x mc (bea)

warnings: throughout this fic there will be mentions of substance abuse, homophobia, sexual abuse, violence, NSFW, mentions of abandonment, depression and death including suicide

reader discretion is advised

taglist: @somewillwin @save-me-the-last-dance @baexpoppy @cloud9in @stanzoeywade @ognenniyvolk @thepotatobleh @crazzyplays @rxssians @helpconfusedpersonhere (if you wanna be added or taken off just let me know😊)

(i had a huge writer’s block and im getting back into writing more often so this chapter is pretty short but next chapter will definitely be longer) 

word count: 3.3k 

part 1: part 2: 

The make up 

After the never ending nightmare provided by Chloe and her idiotic clique, Bea’s reputation at Belvoire couldn’t possibly be worse. Everywhere she went she was met with stares, or laughter, and some students would even go as far as to catcall her or demand a dance or two. Never so badly did Bea wish she could be invisible but alas it felt as if the world was against her even more and she couldn’t bring herself to find comfort in the person she loves the most, Poppy. After feeling heartbroken from Poppy’s actions, or lack of, Bea had been busying herself over the last couple of days so she wouldn’t have to see the blonde. 

It didn’t help that Poppy was constantly blowing up Bea’s phone almost every second, not knowing why the brunette was ignoring her. It wasn’t until cheer/volleyball practice on Thursday that the blonde managed to steal a moment alone with her girlfriend after waiting for the girls to leave the locker room and then making the excuse she needed to find her speaker for practice and pulling an unsuspecting Bea to the back of the locker room. 

“Poppy what the hell, let go. I have to be on time for practice since I missed practice on Tuesday because of work.” Bea’s tone is slightly agitated as she tries to shake out of Poppy’s ironclad grip but the unwavering blonde just tightens it embedding the shape of her slender fingers on the brunette’s arm. 

“Not until you tell me why you’ve been avoiding me,” her voice is quiet, as she tries to catch Bea’s eyes searching for an answer.  

Bea defeatedly sighs and faces the girl, her head slightly tilted down to look the blonde directly in her eyes, “You know why Pops.” Poppy’s grip slightly loosens up and Bea takes advantage and shakes her arm out of her grasp and sits on the bench in the corner with her head between her hands. “After what happened on Monday, I can barely walk through school without some asshole making a comment or giving me a weird look. I feel so… violated.” Her voice was low but soft like she was tired of it all. 

Poppy wasn’t used to seeing Bea so vulnerable… so broken, usually when something like this happened at school Bea would reassure Poppy that she was okay and that Chloe’s words couldn’t hurt her. Only this time, it wasn’t just words, they publicly humiliated her girlfriend, and Poppy had never felt so powerless, as she watched her girlfriend on the brink of tears, fists balled up, but she couldn’t bring herself to move, to speak, all she could do was watch. Until Veronica broke out of her own faze and moved towards the brunette and tell everyone off. In the back of Poppy’s mind she knew that she should’ve been the one to defend her girlfriend’s honour, that she should’ve been the one by her side, not just this once but all the other times before, but her fears of everyone finding out the truth prohibited her from supporting her girlfriend, that damned fear that everyone would find out they were together which could be social suicide. For her career obviously, not her friends, they could eventually learn to love Bea, right?

Poppy pushes all thoughts from her mind and sits down next to a crestfallen Bea who’s breaths are becoming quicker, hands still wrapped tightly against her head. Poppy reaches over and wraps the girl in a one armed hug hoping the brunette doesn’t pull away, and feels a wave of relief when Bea nestles her head in the crook of the blonde’s neck and begins to regain her breathing. 

“Poppy… why didn’t you say anything?” Bea’s voice was low, slightly muffled as she spoke into the blonde’s neck, if she wasn’t nestled in Poppy’s embrace Poppy would’ve missed the question altogether.

Poppy places her chin above the girl’s head and sighes and as she opens her mouth to answer, she realises that she doesn’t have an answer, or at least one that would satisfy both herself and Bea. Instead she stays silent, though her deafening silence is enough for Bea to know that neither of them had an answer. Bea pulls away from Poppy and pushes herself away from her on the bench leaving some distance between themselves, in more ways than one. 

“I… see..” her voice is strained, as she battles with the tears that threaten her eyes, on the brink of exposing her hurt. 

“So what do we do now? Bea.. I…I miss you so much,” Poppy murmurs, her voice slightly chokes as she apprehensively fiddles her fingers together. 

Bea’s nostrils flare slightly as she grips the bench before using her force to push herself off to face the petite girl, anger flashing across all her features, she involuntarily raises her voice, “You think that this has been easy for me, Pops? It’s literally breaking my heart because I can’t talk to you about this,” her voice cracks slightly but she quickly masks it by clearing her throat and looking away. 

Poppy jumps up from her seat and tries to grab Bea’s wrist to turn her around to face her and Bea pulls out of her grasp and moves towards the front of the locker room, Bea’s tone almost pleading as she looks at Poppy with sorrow in her eyes, the angered tone replaced with a softer one “just..give me some space Poppy, I just can’t really be around you right now.” Poppy tries to intercept and just as she opens her mouth Bea puts up a hand to stop her, “seriously Pops, please. After what you and your friends did I just can’t be around you right now.”

Poppy feels anger flaring up inside of her as she scrunches up her face and runs a hand through her hair, “Me?’ she points to herself, losing control of her voice raising it, ‘What the hell did I do? I didn’t even kno-”

Bea practically screams her whole face turning red as tiny specks of saliva leave her mouth as she shouts, “It’s what you didn’t do! You watched them humiliate me and you didn’t do anything! I thought my girlfriend was supposed to support me but maybe I was wrong.” With that she turns and walks out of the locker room leaving behind a broken hearted Poppy who just falters at the harsh reality of Bea’s words. 

Poppy sits down on the bench, alone, thoughts running wild through her mind. She doesn’t care about the fact that the girls are probably waiting for her at cheer practice, her heart just hurts too much. She sits in silence until the sounds of heavy footsteps interrupt her thoughts, she looks up hoping it’s Bea but feels dejected when she sees a hint of grey-ish ombre hair. 

“Poppy what the hell? We’re all waiting for you to tell us what to do.” Veronica tone impatient and she stands in front of the blonde with a hand on her hip, eyebrows raised. Poppy just hums non committedly, earning a frown from Veronica who in turn, proceeds to grab the girl by her arm to lift her off the bench, pulling Poppy from her reverie. 

“Ow, chill V- what the hell” Poppy rubs at the spot which the ombre-haired girl just grabbed and pushes her slightly back, “Can’t I just take like 5 minutes to myself?” 

Veronica has known Poppy long enough to know that something is on her mind since the blonde has a pretty clear track record for when it comes to showing up to practice on time, she sighs and cups Poppy’s cheeks staring directly into her eyes, “Now are you gonna tell me what’s up or are you gonna waste all of our time pretending you’re okay?” 

“I’m fine V,” she moves towards the entrance of the locker room but is quickly pulled back by Veronica who knits her eyebrows together, features looking downcast. 

“P, I’ve known you long enough to know something’s up, tell me.” 

Poppy bites her lips her gaze drifts to the ground and she lets out an annoyed sigh, “I finally spoke to Bea” 

Veronica perks up a little, “that’s good right?”

Poppy responds with a shake of her head obtaining a look of disapproval from the girl, “what happened when you guys talked?”

“She practically blamed me for what happened on monday, I mean how was I supposed to know that Chloe would do something so cruel? I didn’t think she had the brain cells to even come up with something like that.” 

“What the hell?! It wasn’t your fault, do you want me to talk to Bea?” Veronica’s protectiveness bursts out as she awaits Poppy's answer. 

‘No, I-, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean she’s right.’ Veronica sits down on the bench and pats the space next to her and Poppy obliges and sits down. “Bea was mad because I didn’t do anything, and she has every right to be mad. I mean, am I a shitty girlfriend?” She looks over to Veronica praying that she holds the answer to her question. 

Veronica wraps her arm around Poppy and sighs before speaking, “Do you know why I got involved and stood up for Bea?”

“So my girlfriend could hate my guts because it should’ve been me?” 

Veronica exasperates a little, lightly slapping Poppy’s back, “No idiot, I did it for you.” Poppy grimaces as she waits for Veronica to continue. Seeing that she isn’t going to interrupt Veronica carries on speaking, “I saw your face when you realised what they were doing to Bea, and I know that you were feeling conflicted. I mean I wouldn’t want to be in your place, having a girlfriend that no one can know about because our friends hate her because she’s part of the working class or whatever. Or a homophobic dad who has extremely high expectations and expects you to be the best of the best because he thinks it’s what your mom would’ve wanted.” If Veronica’s known for one thing, it's her bluntness. Her cold hard deliverance of the truth stunned Poppy, who for the first time does not have the words as reality dawns on her. 

“... You’re right,” Poppy eyes frantically move side to side as she reflects on the past and realises that Bea has had to endure a lot of crap from her friends over the past couple of years, and she berates herself for thinking that her girlfriend could handle it on her own. She groans into Veronica’s shoulder, “God I’m such an idiot… I've been expecting Bea to just be okay with all the verbal abuse and I’ve never said anything to Chloe, I just let it all happen.” She jumps to her feet, suddenly feeling resolved, she looks down at Veronica who just blankly stares at Poppy hoping for an answer for her sudden awakening. “I know what I have to do” and with that she runs out of the locker room ignoring Veronica as she calls out to her. 

Poppy moves with determination as she heads over to the hall where volleyball practice takes place and before she opens the door she peeks her head though the window and sees a disheartened Bea running laps as Chloe barks out orders to the rest of her teammates. 

She throws the doors open and charges towards Chloe who notices a furious Poppy moving towards her and breaks out into a smile, “Hey P, aren’t you supposed to be at prac-” Poppy practically slams Chloe into the wall and practice comes to a halt as all the girls, including Bea watch the ordeal unfold. “Owww, what the hell” Chloe tries to move from Poppy’s hold as her back is flat against the wall but the shorter girl filled with anger and adrenaline rams the girl back into the wall. 

“That crap you pulled on Monday wasn’t cool and you’re not gonna bother Bea or speak about her mom again. Otherwise you’re going to regret it.” Poppy’s eyes bore into Chloe’s, her tone threatening but low, only meant for the blue-eyed girl to hear. 

Chloe’s temper flares as she looks over Poppy’s shoulder to see a confused Bea watching the two girls with a frown and in the moment she manages to shove Poppy back and overemphasises her height against the strawberry blonde, keeping her posture straight and her head bent slightly to look down at her, “So what? Because you’re lab partners you guys are all buddy buddy? Who gives a shit about that tramp? What you’re not going to do Poppy is walk into practice and try to embarrass me in front of my team.” Chloe’s voice echoes throughout the hall as she struggles to keep her temper under control. 

Poppy’s somewhat startled by Chloe’s outburst but maintains her stoic expression and leans in to whisper, “I could end your life Chloe, don’t test me.” She looks down at Chloe’s hands to see them shaking as they’re balled up into fists, she knows the girl would never touch a hair on her head but she also doesn’t want to escalate the situation any further in case the fallout is bad for Bea. Well, there’s just one more card for her to play, she sighs and rubs her forehead with one hand as she reaches out and clasps one of Chloe’s fists with her other, “I don’t want you talking about Bea’s mom because at least she has one, no matter how shitty she may be.” 

All the colour drains from Chloe’s face as her body relaxes and she looks more embarrassed than anything else, using her dead mom as bait for no one to find out about her and Bea? She’ll take that opportunity. 

Chloe simply splutters struggling to find the words, so she just wraps her arms around Poppy and mumbles into Poppy’s ear, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise how much that would’ve affected you.”

Poppy rolls her eyes slightly as she knows that Chloe’s sincerity is only for her and not Bea but she releases herself from Chloe’s embrace and places a hand on Chloe’s shoulder, “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have barged in here during practice but it was eating me up inside and I just had to say something.” Chloe aggressively nods along to each and every one of Poppy’s words and her lips form a small smile, which Poppy reciprocates. 

“Well, umm I should get back to practice and so should you, I’ll tell the guys as well to stop too” 

Poppy genuinely smiles at the girl and gives her a small thank you before turning around to leave the gym. Her eyes catch Bea’s and she crinkles her eyes a little, giving a small smile before leaving the gym to go to practice in the field. 

……

After a couple of gruelling hours of practice Poppy and the rest of the cheerleaders all shower and change before forming a small semicircle around the team captain. Poppy’s gaze shifts between every girl before landing on Veronica’s who gives her a wink. “Great practice today girls, remember that we need to be in top shape for the first football game against Hearst in two weeks.” She claps her hands together as all eyes are entranced on her, “I’m sorry I was late to practice so you guys had to stay back a little longer but remember that your dedication is what’s most important to the team. Also I’m still deciding who will be part of the smaller group to cheer at the volleyball games. When the teams make it to nationals we will be representing Belvoire at the games and will be invited to stay with the volleyball team for two weeks in spring. So…. impress me girls.” The cheerleaders disperse as Veronica and Poppy walk out of the locker room side by side and Veronica bumps Poppy’s shoulder slightly as they walk out to the dimly lit empty parking lot. 

“So I’m guessing whatever epiphany you had worked out”

Poppy chuckles a bit, “what makes you think that?”

“Well you weren’t a crazy bitch today in practice so there’s that. What exactly did you do?”

Poppy lazily picks at one of her manicured nails, “What I should’ve done from the start, gave Chloe a piece of my mind.” 

Veronica lets out a loud exaggerated cough and Poppy looks up at her eyebrow raised, “well whatever you said, I’m guessing it worked,” she nods her head towards the direction over Poppy’s shoulder and Poppy turns to see Bea leaning against her motorbike her eyes fixated on hers and she smiles. “Well, I’ll take that as my cue to leave” she gives the blonde a quick hug and salutes to Bea before heading into her car and driving away. 

Poppy saddles up to Bea and awkwardly tucks in some of her hair behind her ears. Both of them just stare at each other, waiting for the other to initiate the conversation until Bea lets out a laugh. 

“So…” 

“So….”

 “I liked that tactic of yours, slamming Chloe against the wall, I mean I’ve been wishing to do that for years.”

Poppy throws her head back and laughs, “Not my finest moment but I had to do something,” She nervously chews on her lips as she awaits for Bea’s reaction. 

“Yeah, that was uh something,” She hesitantly reaches out to the blonde gripping her waist and pulling her closer, “I’m not fully happy with you though, but thank you. I don’t know what you said to Chloe but this was the first practice where she treated me with some decency.”

Internally, Poppy screams with happiness as this was the first time in days where Bea just simply holds her and she wraps her arms around the taller girl’s neck resting her forehead against hers. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, I know I have to earn that. And I know I’ve been a shitty girlfriend-” 

Bea shushes Poppy her hand moving up to cup Poppy’s jaw while her thumb circles her cheekbone, “You’re not a shitty girlfriend Pops. It’s just I wish you could just I don’t know, publicly support me a little. No one’s gonna suspect anything about us just because you’re being a respectable human being.” 

“I know, I know. If I’m being honest, I just froze, I didn’t know what to do but my first instinct should’ve been to help you. It’s just so hard sometimes when everyone’s watching because honestly speaking Bea? I don’t know how you do it sometimes. You’re the most incredible person ever and you deserve to be with someone you can actually be with, not just someone you have to hide in the shadows with.” 

Bea places a finger on Poppy’s lips, silencing her, and when she speaks it’s with the greatest intensity and desirability, “I choose you Poppy. Everyday I choose you. I know it’s not without its challenges but I would rather do hard with you than have it easy with somebody else. You’re worth it all. I just want a little more support, that's all I ask.” 

“And that’s exactly what you’re going to get Bea, I promise,” she leans in and places a soft kiss against Bea’s lips and whispers, “I love you so much, and I promise to do better.”

Bea feverently kisses the blonde before whispering back, “I love you too. Now that we’re okay..how would you like to accompany me to a party this Saturday” her eyes gleam with hopefulness as she knows that Ford is already planning a back to school party on saturday and Poppy’s obligations would usually fall align with her friends. “There’s even going to be fireworks.”

Poppy kisses the brunette, “Fireworks huh? I would love to” she kisses Bea again, filled with passion as the couple of days they spent without each other catches up to them and Bea grips Poppy’s hips tighter pulling her impossibly closer to her. 

Unbeknown to the girls, a figure in the corner of the parking lot watches the girls locked in a passionate embrace which is eventually broken as the brunette offers to drive the blonde home and they drive off together, happy and content. 

read part 4 here: 

#playchoices #queen b #poppy min sinclair #poppy x mc

[writeyouin]

The Crooked Man X Reader - Purpose (COMMISSION)

A/N – Thank you for yet another commission from @petitelepus​. I hope this is to your liking.

Warnings – Minor thoughts of suicide. Minor harassment.

Rating – T

Commission Request: A female Reader Fable who is loyal to the Crooked Man down to the bone! She knows what he is doing is wrong but he also gave her life a meaning.

Word Count - 1827

You clung tightly to your purse which was the only thing you had left in the world; all it contained now was one lonely five-dollar bill and a pocket-sized painting of your cottage in the homelands. You had never been one of the main fables that the Mundy’s talked about, only one of many scullery maids in Prince Charming’s palace; nobody of great importance.

Ever since you had come to the Mundy realm, it had been one problem after another, going week to week trying to scrape enough money together just to survive. Now, with no money and no job prospects from either Fabletown or the surrounding Mundy area, you were forced to go to the Business Office for help. If Old King Cole was still around, you doubted it would be a problem; he was a merry old soul after all. However, the person you had to convince was Ichabod Crane, and you had heard that he didn’t have much in the way of generosity. Although it was late and you were the last person awaiting a meeting with Mr Crane, you hoped it wouldn’t affect his judgement, and that he might be moved to help you.

Finally, Crane himself opened the door but it wasn’t to see you, it was to kick both Snow White and Bufkin out.

“TAKE THAT WRETCHED CREATURE AND KEEP IT AWAY FROM THE BUSINESS OFFICE MISS SNOW! I WILL NOT TOLERATE ANY MORE OF ITS DISRUPTIVE BEHAVIOUR.”

Snow looked like she was about to argue, but had evidently had enough that day, “Come on Bufkin, let’s leave the Deputy Mayor alone; it’s closing time anyway.”

“Yes, Miss White,” Bufkin agreed, not caring that Crane had kicked him out. The advantage of being a flying monkey was that he could always get back into the Business Office from the outside window whenever he wanted to, and now he could mooch a drink off someone before returning.

“AND YOU-” Crane pointed an accusing finger at you, seeming to lose some of his bluster afterwards, “Make it quick.”

“Yes, Sir,” You squeaked, stepping into the office and closing the door behind you.

Crane walked to his desk, closely followed by you as you explained your plight. At the sound of your desperation, he started paying closer attention.

“So you need money,” Crane concluded.

“Yes, Sir, but a loan would be fine, I’ll pay it back as soon as I find work.”

“That’s redundant. If you are unable to find work, then I’ll have wasted an investment. It would be better if I simply gave you a job myself.”

“That’d be wonderful, Sir. I used to be a scullery maid so I can clean and-”

Crane waved your explanations away, “I am not in need of a maid. I have another job in mind for you.”

“Anything, Mr Crane. I’ll do anything.”

Crane closed the gap between the two of you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear in a way that only made you feel vulnerable and afraid. “That’s what I like to hear.”

You tensed up, clenching your teeth, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as Crane trailed his hand down your arm. Under his touch, you froze, feeling cheap and abused.

“I happen to need someone for various roleplays,” Crane told you. “And since you’re willing to do anything-”

Coming to your senses, you pushed Crane away from you, running out of the office as fast as you could with tears in your eyes; Crane’s screamed insults following you out of the room.

In the dark of the night, you kept running, not daring to stop lest your shame catch up to you. Without Crane’s money, you had nothing, not even enough to rent somewhere cheap for the night. Once you got to the park, you finally stopped running, walking along the bridge so you could look down at the glassy water that reflected you and your many failings.

Catching your breath, silent tears slid down your cheeks. What was the point of living in a world crushed in the fist of capitalism? With all that you had in the tiny handbag, you may as well resign yourself to starving to death, if the cold didn’t take you first. It would probably be better if you drowned yourself now. Unlike Mundy lakes, the one in Fabletown was deceptively deep, and would serve as a half-decent final resting place. Mechanically, you inched your leg over the side of the little wooden bridge, so you were straddling the handrail.

“Begging your pardon Miss, but I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a cockney voice said from behind you.

You turned to find Tiny Tim watching you sympathetically.

“Tim,” You breathed, recognising him instantly; it was hard not to when he was such a major character.

“Aye, thanks for leaving off the tiny. I hate it when people say that. You wanna come with me? I have someone interested in employing you.”

You looked towards the glassy water once again, fear now clutching your heart as you scrambled to get away from it, back onto the safe side of the bridge. Tiny Tim put an arm around you to steady you. “Do you want my coat, Miss? You’re freezing.”

You nodded jerkily, stuck with the thought that you had been close to throwing your life away. Tiny Tim removed his coat, wrapping it around your shoulders. “Alright then, you coming? I’m s’posed to take you to the boss.”

“Who is it?”

“Ah…Best he explains it, he’s had a bit o’ bad press lately, so his name does no good.”

You started thinking of all the villains you knew of. Bluebeard, the Tweedles, the Jersey Devil; you couldn’t picture Tiny Tim working for any of them.

“I promise he’s good. He gives people like you and me jobs. Who else’d hire me as a bodyguard?”

“…Alright, I’ll join you.”

With an amiable smile, Tiny Tim led you towards an out of place door on the bark of a tree, deep within the park. From the door, he led you down a rich hallway till you were in front of two solid-oak doors.

When he opened them, you found a man like no other. He was an older gentleman with a sagging left eye, as if he’d had a stroke. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once, and he held a cane, to keep up straight.

Instantly, your breath left your body in a state of panic, for who did not know of the Crooked Man? He was whispered to have taken part in every recent major crime in an attempt to control Fabletown, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do; suddenly, Ichabod Crane was starting to look like a real martyr.

“Miss (L/N), Sir,” Tiny Tim announced, before leaving you alone with the Crooked Man.

“Ah, yes, Miss (L/N), please, take a seat,” The Crooked Man gestured to the sofa opposite him in the small office.

“Why am I here?” You asked in a small voice, sitting down.

“Why? Because I heard that you were looking for employment, and I saw the manner in which Crane was planning to abuse you.”

“How? That only just happened…”

“Ah, it is of no real concern,” The Crooked Man answered, thinking of Bloody Mary and all she managed to see through her mirrors. “Tea? Coffee perhaps?”

“No, thank you.”

“Ah, I see you have manners. They’re so often overlooked nowadays, don’t you think? Alright, down to business,” He sat down in the armchair and scratched his chin. “I have heard that you are in need of employment, and it so happens that I’m looking for a personal chef, as well as a house maid. You will be free to come and go as you like, and you will be handsomely compensated for your work. The only thing I would ask is for your discretion. You see, my name has certain connotations, as I’m sure you are well aware of.”

A small part of you wanted to ask whether you would be executed if you didn’t take the job, but another larger part of you didn’t seem to care. You had met Tiny Tim time and time again, and he seemed to be a reasonably good judge of character. Perhaps he was right; it wasn’t every day you got offered a job that you were suited to for a good wage.

“It will be a pleasure to work for you, Sir,” You inclined your head politely.

After three months of working for the Crooked Man, you had never been happier. The work was good and it paid more than you deserved. You found yourself looking forward to taking his meals to him, enjoying every interaction with him. He was always polite and respectful, in a way that nobody else had ever been before, and whenever you brought the tea tray to his meetings, he made sure his goons always treated you with the upmost respect. Once, Tweedle-Dee had dared to lay a hand on you, and he was immediately punished. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it had warned the others off you for good.

While you knew that the Crooked Man’s business dealings were morally wrong, you found that you didn’t care. He had brought you back from the brink of depression, and for that, you would forever be loyal to him.

“Breakfast, Sir,” You announced yourself into the office where he spent most of his time.

“Hm,” He replied, reading through some paperwork. He was unusually quiet as he scanned the script in front of him.

“Everything alright, Sir?”

He put the papers down with a sigh, managing a smile for the first time that morning. “Nothing that cannot be fixed. Just a dip in some stocks of mine that I find rather disappointing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It will all be fine, my dear,” He said with a grin.

Your breath hitched in your throat; he’d never called you anything but your name before. Was it possible that he held the same feelings for you that you harboured for him? Or was it merely a platonic nickname, now that you had been working for him a while.

“A penny for your thoughts, (Y/N)?” He asked, noting your distress.

As coolly as you could, you approached him with his morning tea. Upon delivering it to his desk, you pecked his cheek. It was a move that could possibly lose you your job, but you decided to risk it anyway. If the Crooked Man had any thoughts, he kept them well guarded as you silently left the room, your heart pounding. Once the door was shut, the Crooked Man pressed a hand to where your lips had been and took a deep breath. He would have to find a way to repay the gesture ten-fold; you had very quickly become more to him than just another employee.

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#the crooked man #the wolf among us #telltale #tw #harassment #suicide mention #the crooked man x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #fables #reader insert #reader #purpose #commission

[howlnikiforov]

TW // mentions of suicide, sexual harassment, mental illness, cheating 

Pls lmk if the keep reading doesn’t work, I’ll try to fix it if that’s the case. Hopefully it’ll work on mobile too

At this point in my life, the only thing grounding me and keeping me from making poor decisions is my mom. I look around and just about everything I own was bought or made by her. Some things were from my dad, like my car or my most prized necklace. My mom’s made me blankets, spent hundreds on albums for me. That’s the only thing really keeping me here. Because I know if I do anything, or if anything were to happen to me, it’d break her. There are times, when it feels like she doesn’t care. Times like when she’s cheated on my dad, or when she drinks alcohol. It’s hard to ignore those times, the feeling like it’s all a lie. But I know she loves me. I know I’ve wrongly taken advantage of that, that i’ve asked for my parents to buy me things so i wouldn’t have to pay for it myself, using the excuse that i’m an unemployed college student. In the end though, I remember my mom’s depression. I remember how when I was in eighth grade, sometime in the week between my birthday and my brothers, she tried to commit suicide. It haunts me to this day. My parents tried to get me therapy when it happened, but it was only a few sessions and at the time i didn’t understand anything for it to be helpful. Now though, I feel terror at random times when she texts that she loves me. I feel terror when she does something unusual and outside of her daily routine. The cheating has the same effect. I don’t trust her coworkers. While I stayed with my parents these past few months I often listened to her work calls and wondered if she was cheating again. It hurts. I think it helped breed my anxiety. The times my parents have almost gotten a divorce hurt too. I still have trouble eating at a restaurant I used to love because I remember going there when they were on the brink of divorce. I still have trouble going to the dealership where they took me and my bro bc of a car. I often struggle with how I feel towards my parents. I don’t consider us close by any means. We have our moments, but I can’t feel comfortable enough to tell them I really want a boyfriend, that I have trouble making friends, that i need a therapist, that i’m too scared to get a job, that i’m bi, that i don’t want kids. I can tell them I have a friend who was recently diagnosed with autism, and that another has developed multiple cysts on their ovaries. I can jest about them getting pulled over or making the same mistake twice. I can’t show clean and shaven legs. It’s either basketball shorts and leg hair an inch thick or sweatpants. I can’t go braless. I know if I told them about any sexual harassment encounters they’d pull their guns out, that they’d protect me. Yet somehow I still can’t sit around them without a blanket covering me. It makes me sad. I see my friend talking to her mom like their best friends and wonder what it’s like. I wish I could be closer to my parents, my dad especially. But everytime I try the words die before they even make it out of my glottis, or even larynx. I know my dad has anxiety too, I know he doesn’t feel as loved as he deserves to be and it hurts. He deserves so much more than we’ve given him. He really tries his best, in the way only a dad who doesn’t know can. He takes care of us, he’s why we’re able to do what we want. If he hadn’t joined the navy idek if i’d be in college rn. or if I’d be able to see bc the navy’s health insurance covers everything i need to keep my eye from deteriorating anymore than it already has. I hope my parents know how grateful I am for them. I hope my friends know I love them, even though I don’t know how to socialize and be a good friend, a good person. I hope I’ve been able to give my pets a good life, that they’ve been able to feel like the luckiest animals in the world. In the end, I don’t think I’d be here if it wasn’t for the relationships I have, or at the very least, the silent, unspoken things most people don’t pick up on. That’s one thing I consider myself good at. Reading people. I’m shit at socializing but I can tell when smiles don’t reach eyes, when people are hiding, the depression and anxiety and heaven knows what else they feel. I know when I’ve made ppl uncomfortable, when I’ve said something wrong, when the friendship really isn’t going to work out. Even through texts it’s painfully obvious. I think the only reason I’m still here is so the ppl around me can use me as a rock, cause that’s all I’ll ever be to ppl. Someone to turn to when they feel upset. I’m always that person. I know if I left the ppl around me would leave too, and I can’t bear the thought of it. My purpose is to make sure other’s don’t fall to temptations that I have, and that’s okay. I’ll accept that as my purpose in this world. I’ll be everyone’s rock. Maybe I’ll gain another purpose in life, or maybe I won’t. Who knows. Almost 20 years on this earth, and i’m only barely starting to accept that seemingly small role. It’s not small, not when lives and mental health are at stake. But it’s overlooked by everyone. That’s okay. People like me prefer to lurk in the shadows anyway, unnoticed until sought out for. 

[mgrgfan]

Past of the future, future of the past...

Chapter 6. On the brink. "Do you think it's time already?" the Empress asked her husband. "I do," replied the Emperor, who has arrived to the palace via his own supersonic tiltjet not even ten minutes ago. "Look, dear, with this machine in orbit, we can declare pretty much whatever we want." "I don't really think so… but yeah, this allows us for much more freedom. Okay, tuning up to Nation's comm." The Empress opened the communications app on her computer and initiated call to her delegates, which were supposed to participate in talks with Pokemon Nation. Right now, one of the primary priorities will be what to deal with the corpse of Rayquaza - a pretty big radiological hazard... ---- "We're the guardians of heavens / Protectors of the skies / We'll fulfill our duties / We've been born to fly…" the pilot was quietly singing, to, surprisingly, no annoyance of the rest of the crew in the CIC. "About that - it's about time we rotate the shifts. The first shift will take the stations in a few minutes." said the XO. "Aye-aye," replied the rest of the officers. When the first shift came back, the rotation went without problems… but the captain was slightly unnerved by the contents of the transmission, which came to the ship in the meantime. Apparently, there was a possibility, that they'll have to deploy the retro-missiles today… ---- In the Meteor Village, things weren't easy. Right now, Damien and Elder were talking. Even though the head of the man was still somewhat aching, he could work through it. Because of how the Rayquaza was brought dead by the sorisian space warfare ship, the prophecy was rendered nil, and the sheer radioactiveness of the corpse of the Sky High Pokemon made any attempts to recover it equal to the suicide. And, as if to humiliate them even further, right now, there was an announcement on TV about how Soris Empire sent their giant nuclear-powered dirigible to recover the remains of Rayquaza for burial in the radioactive waste storage facility, as well as quite a few government agents, sent to oversee the extraction and make sure, that everything will go smooth. Even though most of the Draconids were against it, Damien has managed to convince the Elder that it was still the best thing to do, since sorisians, given their proficiency with nuclear tech, must have a great experience with decontamination too. Several especially head-strong Draconids, who decided to not listen to his words, got to look at Rayquaza's corpse and got radiation poisoning, only made the talks with Elder easier.. Of course, it was not normal for Draconid to be like this… but Damien was not a normal Draconid. Besides, having a girlfriend, who was a nuclear physicist and, as he recently learned, was involved in Castelia Project, helped to understand full ramifications of nuclear technology involved major time. The only thing Damien was really worried about was how, thanks to the actions of Soris Empire, now there wasn't anyone to stop the Groudon and Kyogre, should the awaken and rage again... ---- Not too far away from Zemlino, the giant launch assist sled track was, after many years of disuse since the pause of the "WHITEBIRD" project, finally repaired and prepared to be used once again. The hypersonic spaceplane for it - the "Dreamwing" - was already loaded with everything and almost refueled with liquid hydrogen and oxygen, awaiting the load on the sled and launch. This machine, unlike the Space Shuttle of the Pokemon Nation or Project 21A Space Ferry, was long, sleek and even somewhat ominous, resembling unovan SR-71 strategic reconnaissance aircraft. It had two short, somewhat angular vertical stabilizers near the the tail, alongside with two similar horizontal stabilizers. However, the most unusual thing about this human creation were three long, boxy engines, suspended beneath the fuselage. The engines of the spaceplane were hybrids between usual scramjets and pure rocket engines. They've needed the spaceplane to be pre-accelerated to more than 1320 km/h before they could be started, but once they were up and running, they would accelerate the spaceplane to more than 7 times the speed of sound and get it to the edge of atmosphere, where it'll switch to internal oxygen supply and finish the orbital insertion. As big as this spaceplane was, there wasn't too much place for payload bay, crew cabin or like this - the machine mostly consisted of giant fuel tanks for the liquid hydrogen, because such was a price of being an SSTO. Because of this, the crew was forced to live in conditions somewhat harsher, than aboard the 12-meter LRV, though they didn't really mind it too much. ---- "Your Majesty, the "Dreamwing" is fully loaded and installed on the launch assist sled. T-1 hour and counting," said one of the technicians in Zemlino. "The "Red Explorer" is ready to receive the cargo," continued the other one. "Wonderful, just wonderful…" the Emperor replied to them via videolink, looking beyond merely pleased with how events were unfolding. "Notify me of any anomalies or mishaps. I'm sure our guys up there'll like this little present…" ---- "Vanya, please, can you explain to me - what's up with all those launches in such a short time?" Empress Svetlana asked her husband. "First - we need to make sure, that our big ship is supplied with everything they need, and there wasn't really too much of a place on the "Water Dragon" to cram everything we needed. Second - we need to get our launch infrastructure up and running again, if we want to continue to hold our advantage in space over the Pokemon Nation." "And the third one? I feel, that there's a third reason for it." "... Yeah, there's one - it's a chance for me to challenge the Pokemon Nation to a space race." "And why do we need it?" "Because it's the future!" the Emperor snapped in all sudden. "Space exploration and exploitation is the answer to almost all questions! The medical researches on both Space Lab stations showed amazing results, but the special drugs, developed during those researches, can only be manufactured in microgravity, as well as some of the ultrapure materials! The orbital solar power plants can easily supply us with enough energy to start rerouting our nuclear fuel production from being used for powering planetary grids to be used in space for engines of long-distance interplanetary ships. With heavy spaceships out there, we can easily deal with any asteroid! And with colonies out there, even if something happens to Earth, humanity will persist!" The Empress was taken aback with the sheer fervor in the voice of her husband. She was always worried about his intense desire for space exploration, but he never got that excited and angry. "However," Ivan calmed down no less suddenly, "we must not forget, how challenging them to the space race will also allow us to subtly steer them in directions we desire." "But they can try to do it to us too." "Yeah, but it doesn't mean, that we shouldn't try. Oh, by the way, the "Dreamwing" will be launched in one minute! Gonna watch it…" "Nearly forgot to ask - why did you resurrect the WHITEBIRD? I've thought you'd rather go with the BLUEBIRD…" "I'd really like to do it, but the BLUEBIRD nuclear spaceplanes are still in process of development, even if nearing the final stages, "Water Dragon", while reusable, takes decent time to prepare for launch again, so, the cheap WHITEBIRD, with pretty short turnaround time and non-extensive refurbishment, is our current best ground-to-orbit ferry." "I guess I can see that." ---- "...Three, two, one, launch!" sounded words of the operator in comm. Crew of the "Dreamwing", trained as they were, still were somewhat surprised by abrupt acceleration. On the outside, the sled, loaded with huge spaceplane and propelled by both electromagnetic forces and hydrolox engines, started to move and gain speed almost as fast as an adult Garchomp. In less than a second, the sled passed the 100 km/h mark and continued to accelerate, soon entering the "ramp" portion of the track, which was going on for several kilometers both in length and in height. The engine ignition on the spaceplane happened mere moments before the sled with it passed the highest point on the ramp and performed the separation. After that, one human-created machine stopped on accelerating and continued to slide down the rails - now towards the depot, where it'll be prepared for another launch assist procedure, while the second one steadily accelerated and climbed into the skies, continuing to squash its own pilots with g-forces in the desperate attempt to pass the atmosphere, the horrible thief of velocity and heat-giver, as soon as possible. A few minutes after, the airflow through the scramjets thinned out to the point, when it was no longer sufficient to sustain the engine operation. The supersonic combustion ramjet engines went silent for several moments, as the air intakes were closed, injectors were reconfigured and nozzle extensions were deployed, before starting again - this time, as pure rocket engines. ---- "Another launch detected from the Soris Empire," noted one of the operators in the Mossdeep Space Center. "Apparently, this time, it's some kind of spaceplane, if we go by the trajectory and acceleration." "They sure do a lot of launches these days," grimly replied one of the generals of Hoenn Self-Defense Forces, who got recently transferred here because of the actions of Soris Empire. "Let me guess - another supply mission to their space battleship?" "We don't know for sure, since the plane is still in the atmospheric phase and yet to begin the actual orbital insertion…" "Whatever. Still, they've decided to bet on their space tech… and Arceus-damn it, they now have a space battleship with WMDs above our heads! And I'm sure, that they're now stuffing even more weapons in there… Can't wait, until usage of Legendaries for warfare is decriminalized again…" Most of personnel, present there, paid no attention (or, at least, played paying no attention) to a horrible, bloodlusty smile, that has appeared on general's face. ---- Several hours after the launch, the "Dreamwing" spaceplane was finally docked to the "Red Explorer". Even though this was mostly a cargo mission, with three retro-missiles for reloading the ship's storages and some provisional supplies, the cosmonauts from both vessels still've had a small chat about the events both on Earth and in space. Pilots of the "Dreamwing" were astonished by the deeds of the crew of the battleship, while their colleagues from the "Red Explorer" were pretty surprised to hear the rumors from the ground. Alas, all good things come to an eventual end, so, after four hours in docked state, the "Dreamwing" separated from the battleship and began the deorbiting burn, with resulting trajectory ending right on the airfield of Zemlino, while the ship continued silently orbiting the planet. Inside the ship's CIC, the things were pretty professional and quiet. The thrill of battle and victory was gone, the tension of the diplomatic talks on the ground (which, apparently, weren't going exactly good, if a few whispers from the crew of "Dreamwing" were to be believed) was in the air and… the very fact, that they've manned a humongous weapon platform was pretty unsettling by itself. Suddenly, the comm came to life and the words from it made the blood of the officers chill: "Zemlino to "Red Explorer" - this is the Emperor speaking. Prepare to perform the Operation D-2." "Acknowledged," said the commander, concentrating and trying to stop his panic, then gave an order to the weapons officer. "Prepare the nuclear ordinance for planetary bombardment." "Aye-aye. Nuclear ordinance is now ready for planetary bombardment," replied the officer, who held himself only so well. "Arm the retro-missile #6." "Retro-missile in silo 3-25 is now armed." "Enter the confirmation code: 12-342-24-553." "Confirmation code entered. Retro-missile is now ready for launch. Key it, captain." "Zemlino to "Red Explorer" - the launch permission is granted, I repeat, the launch permission is granted!" "Acknowledged. Three, two, one, retro-missile away." As those words were being said, both the commander and the weapons officer inserted their respective keys into locks and turned them at once, sending the final confirmation signal to the ship's ordinance systems. On the outside of the ship, one of the round hatches opened again, much like back in the battle with Rayquaza or recent resupplying procedure… but this time, it was different. A small explosive charge ejected retro-missile, shaped like a short cigar, out of the ship. After clearing some distance from the ship, it turned around, received a final package of guidance data from the ship, then activated powerful chemfuel engine, decelerating from the orbital speed and preparing to drop down the gravity well. Onboard microcomputer calculated the burn with great precision to deorbit the retro-missile at designated coordinates. A few minutes later, heat started to build up on the retro-missile, which prompted for separation. The now-empty and useless propulsion bus got detached, while the front cover fell apart, allowing all individual warheads to leave their nestings and enter the terminal phase. The atmospheric ram pressure burned the fronts of conic machines, but arcanotech-enhanced ceramic held well, allowing the vessels of death, now engulfed in plasma, to continue accelerating towards their targets. Tiny steering flaps helped the warheads to constantly correct their trajectories, all of which were converging on the island, placed between Soris and Sinnoh. Roughly 40 seconds later, all warheads reached their target points. In each of the machines, altitude triggers sent signals for the airburst detonation... but there was nothing to respond to it - the thermonuclear devices inside were replaced with mockups, since this retro-missile was a dummy one, loaded on ship purely for demonstrational purposes. All six warheads impacted the ground not even a second later, vaporizing in the bright kinetic explosions. "Wonderful," came voice of the Emperor from the comm. "Great job, guys. We've filmed it. Stand by for additional orders… and deactivate the habitation centrifuge for now. I feel like you'll have to do some maneuvering soon." "Aye-aye, sir," replied everyone in the CIC, relaxing. Of course, the fact, that they've had to launch a dummy retro-missile instead of live one, helped them to get through it, but the possibility of actually using nukes for attacking the targets on the surface of Earth still persisted. A few more stressful hours passed, before the comm received another transmission from the Empire: "Zemlino to "Red Explorer" - this is the Emperor speaking. Perform the trans-lunar injection and enter the Moon orbit ASAP, I repeat, perform the trans-lunar injection and enter the Moon orbit ASAP!" "It will be done, Your Majesty, but… why?" the captain decided to go slightly off-protocol. "We've shown them the power of our weapons. We now need to show, that they'll only be used for self-defence - after all, you'll need several hours to travel from the Moon to Earth. If something really bad happens down there, you are authorized to open the code packages and perform the global thermonuclear bombardment - the hundred PBRM-1 retro-missiles with MIRVs and another hundred with big booms should be more than sufficient." "I don't quite follow that logic, but okay, we are already preparing and will activate the bomb drive in three minutes." "Acknowledged. Good luck to you, guys, and thank you for all of your deeds." Soon after those words were said, the pulse engine started thumping once more, setting the ship on the transit trajectory to the Moon. ---- Young Latias looked in the skies, seeing small white flashes. Even if she didn't know about that, those flashes, which belonged to the working nuclear pulse engine, marked the definite end of the usual flow of destiny, the true beginning of the new age and the new fate of this world - fate, which was not shaped yet. Now, it was up to the inhabitants of this world to create their own fate. ---- "Ram heating has reached threshold #2. Atmospheric ionization detected, blackout imminent," reported the pilot of the "Dreamwing", looking at the MFD. "Acknowledged, "Dreamwing", we're tracking you, return safe," replied the flight control center shortly before the radiolink got drowned in static. "Aaand we're deaf again," noted the commander. "Well, good to fly our birdie again!" "Uh-huh," mumbled engineer, looking at his own MFD. "Wow!" "What's that?" immediately asked him both pilot and commander. "Some kind of a directed flash of arcane energy - draconic one, of Legendary level... or was it? Most likely, just interference from ionization hitting the sensors, like back during the third test flight..." "Draconic, you say? Let us really hope, that those were merely interferences..." grimly said the commander, turning his gaze towards the window. "Because if it's not - we're in the world of trouble..." Author's notes: The launch sequence of the "Dreamwing" is partially inspired by the Silbervogel project and the launch of "America" hypersonic spaceplane from the "Silver Tower" by Dale Brown. SSTO - Single Stage To Orbit. MFD - Multi-Function Display. Hydrolox - a type of binary rocket fuel composed of liquid oxygen (lox) oxidizer and liquid hydrogen combustible.

#Ancient Soris Empire #mgrgfan writes a new fic #Shift Universe

[starspatter]

Heroes and Thieves, Ch. 11

Title: Heroes and Thieves Fandom/Universe: BTAS, pre/post-RotJ flashback

Summary: A story about second chances, healing, and having hope.

Rating: PG-13, for references to character death, child psychological torture and trauma.

Genre: Romance/Family/Friendship/Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 4,380 Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Also on ff.net and AO3.

There was a time when I was alone Nowhere to go and no place to call home My only friend was the man in the moon And even sometimes he would go away, too

-Ruth B, "Lost Boy"

————————–

Before.

“Batman, wait!”

Robin was too late; Batman had already charged ahead by ruthlessly breaking down the door to the house with the sole of his boot.  A low-key villain calling himself “Cluemaster” (whom Robin had incidentally never heard much of until now compared to the likes of Riddler or Joker, having supposedly gone “straight” for a couple years – at least according to Batman) had led them on a lengthy chase, and they ended up pursuing him all the way out to a small neighborhood in the suburbs.  As they infiltrated the dwelling, Robin hastily checked around to make sure no homeowners were present who could be caught in the fray – or worse, taken as collateral.

Fortunately the room was empty, aside from their glaringly orange-clad target in the middle of it, reaching for one of the plasti-glass pellets attached to the front of his costume. Batman had already anticipated the move though and launched forward faster than the other, lurching a blurred glove into his opponent’s throat, which caused him to drop the canister as his body was slammed hard against the wall.

“You’re under arrest for multiple counts of grand larceny, Cluemaster.  Or should I say, Arthur Brown?”

With his other hand, he grasped at the bandana covering the lower half of the man’s face, which had already come loose from the force of impact.  He jerked the rest of the kerchief off to expose a snarl under the guise, the owner evidently infuriated by the idea his identity had been so easily discovered.

“Now, where’s the money you stole?”

Arthur sneered.

“Why don’t I give you a clue to its whereabouts, and you can figure it out yourself, since you’re so smart?”

Batman growled as he grabbed his foe’s collar, lifting high into the air, letting free-dangling feet flail frantically.

“I don’t have time for these games.  Either you tell me voluntarily, or I’ll make you confess.”

Robin was getting anxious by the aggressiveness in Batman’s tone; making threats of violence wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but he’d been out of sorts all night, acting excessively and extremely hostile, leaping into enemy territory with heedless disregard to danger – to himself or those around him.  Sans his usual sangfroid.  He was starting to sound like that time Scarecrow dosed him with a gas that took away all his fear, resulting in Batman almost taking a henchman’s life.  It had taken all of Robin’s strength to haul him back up after Batman cut the line…

The current captive seemed to be getting panicky too, as he quickly changed his attitude, appealing to sympathy instead.

“Listen, I’ve got a wife and kid.  They’re asleep upstairs.  I just needed the cash to help support them.  We’re in a bit of a financial jam, y’see…”

Robin’s conscience wavered, recalling the time they had to prevent a penniless man from holding up a drugstore in order to obtain medicine for his daughter, who was simply sick with a high fever.  Of course this was theft on a much greater scale, but he still couldn’t help having some lingering empathy – especially based on his own past experiences dealing with poverty.

“That's one of the hardest things about this job, Robin.  Sometimes we have to stop someone from doing the wrong thing for the right reason.”

“…Daddy?”

As if on cue, all three revolved towards the top of the staircase, where a young girl with golden curls – probably about his age – was standing in bare feet and violet nightgown, beholding the scene before her with baffled eyes, big and blue and broad.

“Darling, why don’t you go back to bed?”  Arthur choked out, his own eyes bulging as cheeks turned indigo as well.  “You’re just having a bad dream.”

“Arthur?  What’s going on here?  I heard a loud noise…”

Robin swallowed as a woman emerged from behind the adolescent, gripping the girl’s shoulders as she drew her daughter in protectively, eyeing the pair of home intruders with fear and suspicion.  The situation was steadily turning from bad to worse.  He hurriedly bounded up the steps, trying to block at least the shorter one’s view with his arms and cape, acting as both shield and shroud.

“Both of you should stay back…”

Batman’s prey put on a pleading, pathetic look.

“Now now, you wouldn’t hit a guy in front of his family, would you?”

While his quivering lips pouted, his pupils seemed to flash triumphant.  Robin felt a sick chill in his stomach.  Had he set this up just to take advantage of innocent citizens – and his provider status for them – as an alibi?

Whatever the reason, Batman wasn’t falling for it.  While he slowly lowered his fist, he continued to glower viciously at his victim.

“I’m still taking you in. The police will be here soon, they can interrogate you.  And if you don’t admit to them, well…”  He leaned in close, crescent slivers narrowing.  Intimidating.  “They’ll just have to call me.”

With that, he twisted his prisoner around, pressing head harshly against partition again as he slapped a pair of handcuffs on.  Robin sensed the two frightened females peering over his shoulders, crying and clinging to each other as sirens started to wail outside, and the junior one almost looked like she was about to join them.   He thought about reaching out to try and comfort her, but a cold bark from Batman halted him.

“Let’s go, Robin.”

“But Batman-”

“Now.”

He was already halfway out the side exit when he said this, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Robin bit his lip and vaulted over the railing to race after him, cloak whisking out of sight just as officers began filing in.  As they headed back towards the Batmobile parked in the shadows close by, Robin hissed his irritation.

“You know, there were a million other ways you could’ve handled that.”

“I did what was necessary in order to get him to talk.  The police should have an easier time of it now.”

“Yeah, but did you have to do it while his wife and child were watching?  This is exactly the reason Nightwing left you, remember?”

Batman blatantly ignored the bold declaration of disapproval as his pager began to beep: a message from Batgirl, requesting backup.

“Armed robbery in progress, escalated to a hostage situation over on the north side.  We’re needed.”

“Did you even hear what I just said?”

Batman brusquely cut him off.

“We’ll discuss this later, at home.  Now get in the car.”

Robin grumbled, but grudgingly obeyed.

They never did discuss it though.  Concurring collectively, both Batman and Batgirl determined there were too many hired guns in the building, deeming it far too “risky” to bring Robin – the “kid” – along. …Plus it was a school night.  So Batman swung swiftly by the manor on the way, dropping Robin – Tim – off unceremoniously at the front gate despite loud and adamant protests, where Alfred was waiting to pick him up and march him straight on inside to get changed and ready for dinner.

“And ‘don’t forget to do your homework’,’” Tim mimicked Bruce’s reprimanding voice with a querulous whine as the vehicle sped off, leaving him in the dust.  “God, he still treats me like such a child.”

The butler patted his charge’s back consolingly, ushering within.

“Come along, Master Timothy. There are cookies and cocoa waiting for you inside – after you finish with your studies, that is.  We wouldn’t want to spoil your appetite, now would we?”

Tim shot an exasperated expression at the patronizing statement, but acquiesced.  Upon entering, he immediately tore off the mask and tossed it on the table in frustrated anger, flopping sullenly onto the couch without even bothering to remove the rest of the suit.  Alfred tutted, but made no remark as he disappeared into the kitchen, promising food would be served shortly.

As Tim gazed at the fireplace, he stewed over Batman’s earlier reckless – not to mention downright rude – behavior.  How could he even be so cruel and insensitive?  It wasn’t just the bossing around that bugged him, but he was genuinely rather troubled by Bruce’s mental state.  …Truth be told, he had a guess as to the cause for callousness.  He’d noticed a common trend in increasing indiscretion (and intractability) after their latest visit to Arkham, when they stopped by Two-Face’s cell following another escape – and subsequent suicide attempt.  Ever since he’d developed a third personality who judged himself guilty and sentenced to death for his sins, his condition had been gradually worsening.  It was to the point he – and his coin – had to be kept under constant watch and isolated lockdown.

Tim was never really sure how to feel about Two-Face (in the same way his chest was always confused and ached a little whenever he faced Clayface).  The man murdered his father; Tim supposed he should hate him for that. In addition, he’d even once mercilessly electrocuted Nightwing with a wire taser, forcing the senior superhero’s heart to completely stop.  …Had he not promptly administered CPR and literally brought his brother back from the brink of death, he might have lost another family member that day.

But, according to Dick, Bruce and Harvey had been good friends once – which explained why his guardian always bore a grieved semblance whenever they went up against Dent.  …Tim tried to imagine what it must be like, to watch one’s once close companion fight a losing battle against himself.  Clearly it was taking a capricious toll on the old man’s emotional and psychological well-being as well, making him far more mercurial and volatile – prone to violent vagaries.

Yet, even Tim recognized that didn’t excuse him taking it out on others, especially when it interfered with their work.  (Frankly that didn’t seem to be the only thing distracting recently either, given Batman and Batgirl had been ditching him more and more often as of late, citing his “immaturity” as pretense.  …But he didn’t really want to think about that right now.)  He was concerned about that girl as well.  Screw Batman, he should’ve stayed to try and talk to her.  At least give her some reassurance after witnessing such a harrowing event.

Making up his mind, he snatched his domino from the counter and was out the door (cautiously evading the security cameras he knew were watching overhead) just as Alfred came to call him for dinner.  Upon finding the parlor empty, and after exhausting all other options of where the lad might have gone to within the mansion (including underground area), the caretaker finally murmured in alarm.

“…Oh dear.”

…

It took Robin longer to get back by grapple alone, but eventually he made it to his destination. Descending on the rooftop from a nearby tree, he tiptoed towards a single annexed dormer window which jutted prominently from the tiles.  Testing the lucarne’s latch, it luckily wasn’t locked and slid open with relative ease. Silently slipping in, he was greeted almost instantly by an unpredicted punch to the face.

As he was thrown flat onto the bed, survival instinct triggered to roll over and try to fight back, but his own fists arrested when he saw his assailant was the same girl from before, glaring at him with mistrust.

“Who are you?!  Some kind of creepazoid stalker?”

“Whoa, whoa!  It’s me, Robin.  You know, from before?”

She stared at him, realization dawning.

“Oh.  …Sorry.  I didn’t know it was you.”

The way she said it, she still didn’t seem very impressed.

“…I’d hate to be someone you were expecting,” Robin muttered, rubbing at his sore jaw.

She folded her arms firmly.

“So?  What the heck are you doing here?  Again?”

“I- I just wanted to check and see if you were okay, after… all that.”

An eyebrow raised.

“And you thought coming in through the window was the best way to go about it?”

“…In hindsight that might not have been the best plan,” he acknowledged, repentant.  “Sorry.  Being with him tends to rub off on you.  I apologize if he scared you earlier.  He’s really not a bad guy.”

She exhaled, letting her limbs down.

“No, my father is, right? …It’s okay.  I know who and what my dad is.  He deserves to go to jail.”

Robin cocked in confusion at this unanticipated acceptance.

“But… He’s still your dad.”

“Yeah, and I hate him.” Her knuckles clenched, tightening. “He just wanted to use Mom and me to get away with his crimes.  We’re basically just tools, a means to an end for him.  He’s a total class-A jerk.”

Robin blinked, unsure how to respond to that.  He certainly hadn’t been prepared for this outcome.  An uncomfortable hush filled the chamber, which he idly noted details of as he glanced around nervously.  He’d never actually been in a girl’s room before, so he wasn’t sure what to expect.  He supposed the piles of stuffed animals and boy band posters were probably typical, though he was surprised to see some large prints of Superman lining the walls, and a bulletin board covered with newspaper clippings of Batman and Robin – mostly his predecessor – busting the Cluemaster’s previous petty heists.  She apparently wasn’t kidding when she said she had it in for her father.  (…The image felt almost eerily familiar, reminding of the days when he kept a similar chronicle in a corner of his own pops’ apartment, much to the old man’s displeasure.)

“…You’ve got weird taste for a girl,” he mused aloud.

“And you’ve got weird fashion sense for a boy,” she retorted, nose wrinkling.

“Hey, I didn’t design the suit,” he huffed defensively.

“And who did?  Your mom?”

Robin winced a bit, but bit his tongue.  “…Would you believe me if I said Batman?”

She sniffed.  “I mean seriously, what’s with that getup anyway? It’s so bright, it makes you look like a clown.”

Fed up with her criticism, he started to skulk back towards the outlet again.

“Look, I didn’t come here just to be insulted.”

A hand reached out to clasp his wrist, and he rotated to see her regarding him sincerely.

“Sorry, I was just joking. …You don’t have to leave.”

He gulped, blushing a little at the light touch.  The last time a girl held his hand like this for so long, she’d followed with a…

“Um, okay.”  He rubbed the back of his neck uneasily, growing tense as she inclined forward and grinned – before passing him by to hop onto the sill instead, sticking out her tongue at him.

“Ladies first.”

He whirled around in shock as she stepped out over the ledge.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?  That’s dangerous, get back here.”

“Relax, I do this all the time.  Besides, you jump around rooftops every night, don’t you?”

He impulsively climbed after her, keeping a careful eye on her footing, hovering close behind in case she fell.  But, true to her word, she did seem to have practiced this pattern many times before, effortlessly picking her way over the slates to the top, where she plopped down and petted the spot next to her.  Indicating invitation.  Tentatively, he took it and traced her wondering sightline to the stars above.

“…You know, I used to dream I’d see the Batman someday.  Drifting across the moon, dark against the night sky…”  She hugged her knees to her breast.  “This is the first time I’ve actually seen him in person.  For a second, I almost thought he was a monster.”

Robin remained quiet as she continued.

“But, my dad’s the real monster.  I know he’s hurt a lot of people – myself and Mom included.  He doesn’t care about us at all.”

“How come she doesn’t just divorce him?”

“She can’t afford a lawyer to kick him out.  He still owns the mortgage on the house.”

She smiled bitterly, drawing circles on the shingles.

“As a kid, I used to think about running away.  Getting on a plane and going somewhere far, far away from here.  Someplace exotic, where no one knows who I am or where I come from – like Africa.  …But, I could never do that to my Mom.  She’d be lonely if I left.  Even though she has some… ‘difficulties’, I still love her.”

She looked at Robin, who was still listening attentively.  Patiently.

“Sorry,” she mumbled in a slightly sheepish manner.  “I’m just making you sit through my random rambling.  I don’t usually get a chance to talk to anyone about this, let alone someone my age.  Having a lame, insane supercriminal for a dad isn’t exactly something I can tell all my friends at school.”

“It’s all right.  I wish there was more I could do to help…”

He replied, feeling as utterly useless – hopeless – as when he came across a bunch of homeless youths in his hunt for Annie after they’d gotten separated, the ragtag group of street rats sleeping together on a filthy mattress in an abandoned shelter; huddled under each other for warmth, sharing but one thin, dingy blanket between them.  (…The kind of neglected kid he could’ve easily ended up as had he not happened to be so lucky, to be “chosen” – caught before he slipped through the cracks into faded obscurity and was overlooked – forgotten – by society.)  There were some things punches and kicks just couldn’t fix.

“You’ve already done more than enough, thanks.  I’m grateful to you both for putting a stop to him.  …Even if it’s probably only temporary.”

“There has to be something that can be done though.”

“Really, you don’t have to go out of your way or anything.  Besides, why do you care so much anyway?”

He shrugged, surveying the distance.  “Maybe it’s because you kinda remind me of someone.”

She scanned his wistful countenance, scrutinizing closely.

“…Was she cute?”

“What- no.  I mean yes.  I mean, uh-” Robin stammered, flushing red as he was abruptly taken aback by the unexpected inquiry.  She giggled in snorting amusement at his oh-so-obvious reaction.

“Relax, Boy Wonder, I’m just teasing you.”

He coughed, regaining composure.

“To be honest, that’s not the only reason.  My dad wasn’t much of a prize either.  …Although he can’t compete with yours.”

“Ehhh?”  She gaped at him in astonished awe.  “But he’s so cool!”

“Huh?”  He puzzled for a beat, then it clicked what she was talking about.  “Oh, you think that Batman’s- no, he’s not my real dad.  I’m not even sure I would even go so far as to call him much of a ‘father figure’ actually.  He’s more like a… mentor?”

It was her turn to listen as he ruminated, reflecting.

“He saved me though. Took me in when I had no place else to go.  Gave me a second chance.  I’ve… done things I’m not exactly proud of either.  If he hadn’t found me, I’d likely be dead or in jail myself right now.”

Sensing a buzzing interruption from his waist – a warning summons from the butler no doubt – he consulted the timestamp in the corner of the display, and cringed upon calculating how much interval had elapsed in his absence.

“…Speaking of which, I should probably get back soon.  Batman’s gonna kill me once he finds out I’m gone without letting anyone know.”

Her forehead creased with contriteness.

“You didn’t have to go that far for me…”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. It’s the least I could do.”

She looked reluctant to end the conversation though.  He wondered if he was the first person she’d ever been this open to about her feelings. …After some thought, he fished around in a pocket and pulled out another spare backup communicator.

“Listen, don’t tell anyone about this; Batman doesn’t like me lending out tech.  But if you ever need anything, you can get in touch with me on this.  I’ll come as soon as I can.  …Only if it’s an emergency though.  He’ll really give me an earful if he finds out I’m using our gadgets for personal stuff.”

She looked down at the device in trepidation.

“Is it really okay for me to have this?”

“Yeah.  It’s no problem, don’t worry.  I know how to keep a secret.  And I’ll definitely stop by again sometime, so we can hang out some more if you want.  Whaddya say?”

Her eyes lit up, and- without warning, she flung her arms around him in an appreciative hug (that very nearly knocked him off balance).

“…Thanks, Robin.”

His hue embarrassed again, but he gently reciprocated the gesture.

“Hey, what are heroes for?”

After an awkwardly long minute, she propelled back from the embrace with a self-conscious laugh.  Once the rapid beating in both their ribs had calmed down (and she’d surreptitiously wiped some tears from her face), she afforded him a somewhat odd look.

“…What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s just… Calling you ‘Robin’ feels kinda weird.  It’s like a girl’s name.”

“Hey, it can be a boy’s name too,” he sulked in indignation.  “Besides, at least it is a name.”

She shook her head, concentrating intently on him as she contemplated.  After a bit, she brightened with sudden brilliance.

“I know!  I’ll call you ‘Peter’ – since you came in through the window.  …And ‘cuz of the tights.”

Robin blanched as she pointed playfully at his leggings.

“…I think I’d rather be called ‘Robin’.”

“Nope,” she cheerfully announced.  “You’re ‘Peter’ to me now.”

Robin sighed, but didn’t object further to the nickname.  It wasn’t like he could tell her his real title.

“Fine.  ‘Peter’ it is then.  …Does that make you ‘Wendy’?”

She smirked with a wink.

“If you want me to be.”

He blinked, clearing his throat as he stood up, almost stumbling over his heels as he backed up in haste.

“Right.  Well then.  Wendy.  …Guess I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.  See ya.”

“…’Kay, bye.”

“’Kay, bye.”

He waved as he fired his grapple into the branches and swung away, and she merrily returned the motion. Elated, Robin’s spirit soared over heightening city structures back to the estate, performing as many flips and tricks as he could on the way.  …Although come to think of it, he had failed to ask for her actual name.  …Oh, well. There was always next time.

Rather than directly approach the porch or cave entrance, Robin thought about endeavoring to sneak back in through the second-story opening to his own bedroom, so he could pretend he’d been there all along.  …Unfortunately, as soon as he’d made it inside and detached his façade, he bumped straight into a severely stern-looking Bruce towering over him.

“Where the devil have you been?  We’ve been trying to contact you for the past hour.  Barbara’s out there searching all over for you right now.  Meanwhile I’ve had to help Alfred double-check every secret room and passage in the manor.  Do you know how long that takes?”

Tim merely shrugged.

“I went out for a stroll. Is that a crime?”

“In this house, it is. Do I need to start putting a tracer on your utility belt again?”

“No, sir,” he squeaked meekly.

Bruce heaved a grunt.

“Just hurry up and go get changed, young man.  Your dinner’s cold already.  Alfred made soup.  Make sure you apologize to him too, he’s been worried sick.”

“Yeah yeah, I hear ya, old man.”

“And did you finish your homework?”

Tim flinched.  He knew there was something else he’d forgotten.

“You had better get to it if you want to come patrolling with us tomorrow night.”

“I will.”

Before he vanished into the privacy of his enormous closet (which, in his own private opinion, was way too overly spacious – though no one would certainly hear him complain), Tim paused, calling softly back over his shoulder.

“Bruce.”

“What?”

“Thanks… for caring.”

…

About a month later, a couple men dressed in black arrived at the Brown residence, carrying grim, serious auras and stiff briefcases containing various important-looking official documents.  An obstinate Stephanie insisted on sitting down alongside her mother on the sofa as they discreetly disclosed the news she never once conceived she’d get to hear like this:

Her dad was dead.

Apparently he’d cut a deal while in prison, and became a part of something clandestinely known by a select few outside those in power as a “Suicide Squad”.  He’d perished while on a covert mission for the government, and – according to these strange men’s confidential report – he’d died a “heroic sacrifice”.

Stephanie didn’t know how to react.  What to feel. …How she was supposed to feel.

As she sat in her room, trying to write in her diary but coming up blank, her observation shifted to the window still left ajar each evening, through which a mild breeze blew. Opening her desk drawer, she retrieved the hidden miniature handset from the far back, tucked neatly behind all sorts of stationery.  She had avoided using it up to now, afraid of coming off as an annoyance.  …But she hadn’t seen Robin at all since then.  No one had.  Based on what she’d gathered from growing gossip, he’d been fully MIA over the course of the past few weeks, and rumors were starting to spread.  It was like his existence had been entirely erased, simply evaporated off the surface of the earth.  …She was worried about him too.

She pushed the button, hands shaking in mounting apprehension as she elevated to her ear.

There was a long, low hum of crackling static, before someone (presumably) picked up at last.

“…”

“Hello?”

“…Who is this?  How did you get access to this comm line?”

“I’m… a friend of Pet- Robin’s.  Is… he there?”

An extensive gap stretched.

“There is no more Robin.”

The pronouncement was deep. Disturbing.  Definite.

“Do not contact here again.”

With a final click, the other end hung up.

She tried, repeatedly – desperately – to dial back – but the machine seemed to have been remotely disconnected.  Slumping forward in defeat as she let go the last potential link – lifeline – she buried her face in her sleeves, and burst into sobs.

At length, she dried her sniffles and rose, dragging her feet to the wide frame.  Casting one last look of longing out at the pitch gloom, she shut the pane.  …Shutting out pain, and all the brief memories associated with it.

…

She never saw Robin again.

————————–

He sprinkled me in pixie dust and told me to believe Believe in him and believe in me Together we will fly away in a cloud of green To your beautiful destiny As we soared above the town that never loved me I realized I finally had a family

#TimSteph #Tim Drake #Timmy Todd #Stephanie Brown #Batman the Animated Series #Batman Beyond #DCAU #Return of the Joker #fanfiction #starstories #Happy Father's Day #for some reason I can't seem to insert a horizontal line anymore? #so please excuse the slight change in formatting

[seyaryminamoto]

A long overdue message, and an apology

I’ve really not felt like myself for the past few days. Initially, I figured I’d leave my feelings to just settle and die down, but truth be told, the little things are always what push things overboard, and such little things have definitely taken advantage of my vulnerabilities and weaknesses as of late.

Truth is, the problem I’m facing isn’t new. It’s been a snowball, really, and I think it’s gotten so big that it damn near crashed and exploded this time around. I nearly allowed it to, I was more resolved than ever to allow it, but as I was in a better mood, I decided I’d try to deflate things before it comes to that. I’d think you guys deserve an explanation for it all, if anything.

I genuinely feared for myself for a long time, after facing a depression that brought me to the brink of suicide when I was 13. I never talked to anyone about it at the time. I forced my way out of it with nothing but selfishness and stubbornness, because I can’t honestly say it was anything else. The experience shaped me, damaged me, and I still face consequences for it.

I couldn’t say I was feeling better for at least a year or two. While I cut off the trigger of said depression and started looking after myself a little more, I was still at a loss. I still felt numb, to the point of wondering if I was capable of actually feeling ANYTHING, well, other than rage whenever it surged within me, that is.

In time, I came to the conclusion that I only was as numb as I was because I lacked actual living experiences. Because I constantly had to resort to fiction, in any sense of the word, to find something worth investing my time into. So I couldn’t get out of my pointless, cyclic life, and I couldn’t expect my situation to change because I was what, 14 at the time? I was stuck in a city and a country worthy of being called a real-life dystopia, where your life’s at risk at any given moment, where the only thing you can feel you own, truly, is your own mind. So inevitably, I wondered what it would be like to live a different kind of life. To actually experience things, rather than sit by waiting for SOMETHING to happen.

This is why I started writing for real. This is what drove me to create the first story I wrote relatively seriously. I threw myself into it, and it kicked me out sometimes, resulting in writer’s block of months, weeks, even in me dumping storylines for half a year just because I hadn’t thought them through, and I lacked the motivation to think them through, really.

Nevertheless, it was an awakening. I started to feel things that I hadn’t, to actually experience life in a surreal, absurd sort of way. But it was the only way I knew how. This is really why I dislike that typical writing advice people throw everywhere: “write what you know”. Heh, so I should write stories about that girl who went to school and went home every day, feeling empty and wishing something would happen to get her out of her rut? Really? I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t care to expose my feelings of inadequacy, to air my depression through writing. I wanted to experience what I couldn’t. I wanted something different from what I always had seen and known.

It was, truly, healing. I never thought it’d be so healing, but it was. By the time I was finishing those first stories I was in a whole different place, emotionally. I had unlocked my emotions somehow, despite I hadn’t known I’d jolt myself awake through writing as I did. Where I could have stood stoically through life before, I didn’t anymore. So much changed for the better...

.. But see, I didn’t show a lot of people what I’d written. Only my closest friends at the time had a look at it. And, uh, someone who never should have had a look at it got her hands on it, too, but that’s beside the point...

I wasn’t writing for anyone’s sake but my own. It was all coming from me, and from my own interests and needs. So yes, selfishness. I finished that story instead of forgetting about it and leaving it to pile dust, like most my other writing endeavors to date. Alas, stubbornness.

When the story was over, I inevitably caved into the urge of making more for it, and indeed, I came up with ideas for prequels and sequels, but they never really made it far. I knew that what I had really needed to write had already been laid down, and I had learned a ton of things about myself, and about writing, in the process.

Writing that story over the course of three years really built me as the writer I am today. The stamina, the perseverance, the plotting... I learned everything there. I learned everything, alone.

I moved on then, to another story, but I got stuck over technicalities. Then I thought maybe I should put a pin on that one, seeing as I was going to start Lit school, and I probably would do better to write something else so I could actually be at my best when I sat down to write this story, after I graduated college.

That plan has honest to gods backfired and died. I can’t get back to that story, not without fixing A TON of things that really could use a whole different approach.

But as anyone would know, because you probably would have been here long enough to know... when I moved on from this story and to ‘something else’, I moved on to the sphere of fandom life. I moved on to fanfiction. I moved on, that’s right, to Sokkla.

The power those two characters hold over me isn’t normal, and I’ve never tried to pretend otherwise. I was worried at first about how deeply I was losing myself in the possibilities of that ship, but in the end, I embraced it. I thought, what’s the harm in it? Honestly, they’ve brought me no harm at all. 

Everything I’ve experienced, everything I’ve learned, my every single step has brought me to where I am now. And when I opened the door to this ship, and to writing for it, I felt ready. I felt like I was jumping into a huge tunnel, and the excitement of what I might find on the other side just compelled me further to jumping inside it right away.

So I jumped. And I can safely say I seldom have looked back. I can safely say these five years of my life have been something extraordinary, especially compared to the monotony that led and accompanied me through my depression.

Yet... I saw that the Sokkla community was mostly dead, really. I couldn’t see recent art for it, I couldn’t find the fics I HOPED I’d find once I really got to looking. I was actually disappointed, wondering why on earth would this fandom, so big and wide, find Sokkla and simply shrug it off as “another random ship”. This ship was so powerful! It had so much potential!

So I consciously, genuinely, took it into my hands to start talking EVERYONE’s ears off about Sokkla. I did it on Facebook, a lot, and haha, I got quite a lot of hate for it. I made a few friends with that, but I eventually drifted away from them when they just weren’t what I was hoping they’d be. When I realized their support for me was as good as conditioned, because they weren’t interested in most of what I wanted to do.

I think that specific facebook page was the first bump in the tunnel. The first real crash that left me tumbling against the walls. Because it was the first time someone read my story, Origins of Pro-Bending, which I indeed wrote because of that person... and they said I was a great writer. They said I did an amazing job. They were completely fascinated by what I’d done, and I was utterly ecstatic about that.

So then I told them I’d write the Reason. And I did. Same friend only read, uh, two chapters? And he started to get annoyed. Really annoyed. He didn’t care to read more from me, unless it was on his terms. And his terms were, what do you know, a ship I didn’t really hate until he made me write it. Until his constant begging and whining, and assurance that he’d read what I was doing “if it was what he liked better”, brought me to make a decision I regret to this day.

It’s not even about the story, not anymore. It stopped being about the story ages ago, and it’s not even about the ship either. It’s about how I felt cornered, stuck between a rock and a hard place, risking losing a friendship if I didn’t do what they were asking me to do. 

When I finished the story, I concluded it wasn’t worth it. A friendship on that basis simply wasn’t worth it.

In the end, I cut off all contact with that guy. I don’t really think about him much anymore, even though he gave me actually good things sometimes. He’s the one who introduced me to Halestorm, and no lie, the one who made me write Origins of Pro-Bending in the first place. Without him? I wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be reading this, because you wouldn’t even know I exist. Hell knows what I would’ve been doing over the course of the past five years, really.

But there’s someone else I owe my current situation to. Someone who really got me into Sokkla despite we weren’t even acquaintances at the time. Someone I admired from afar for months, and when she first acknowledged my existence I damn near fainted right then and there. To this day, I admire that woman with every bit of my beating heart. Honest to gods, I’ve never cared for someone the way I do for her.

The first thing she ever read by me was Waiting. I was mortified, because THAT was the last thing I wanted HER to look at. Break In followed not long after, and ah, now I was thrilled by her response, and by her praise. When I came up to her with my idea for Gladiator, she didn’t even let me make a choice. She literally told me to WRITE THAT. IMMEDIATELY.

And I obeyed. I was terrified out of my mind, but I obeyed. By then I knew other fandom people from Tumblr, and from FF.net, and they were close enough to me that I would bounce ideas with them. When Gladiator got started, I was more excited than a kid on his first real birthday party, with friends and family and in the coolest place in town. I felt I was doing something insane, and I honestly, TRULY wanted to do it.

The excitement for Gladiator was more short-lived than I ever thought it would be. You might think I’m kidding, or exaggerating, because by every sense, that fic is my life’s biggest success. And it is. But truth is... you don’t know the full picture. The problems that come with writing Gladiator aren’t something I’ve ever talked about before, and they’re something I’ve been carrying within for a long, long time.

That lovely woman I still adore to this day was the biggest support for the first 20-odd chapters of Gladiator. She was so excited every single time I told her about any of my ideas, and she was the first one who wanted to stir up drama and watch things shatter so I could put everything back together again.

Color me surprised when everything changed once chapter 28 attacked.

Her enthusiasm died. Everything about it, just... died. I went over that chapter ten thousand times, trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong, what did I do, what exactly had brought her to react that way. I knew it was a hurtful chapter, of course I did, but... even all my assurances that Sokka was going to grow a lot, and change, that they were both going to undergo a ton of development in time, and that things would get back on track afterwards, did nothing to reassure her. Nothing I told her mattered. Not at all.

To this day, nothing has changed since then. To this day, asking her to read anything I wrote for this story is mortifying. I honestly think she hates it. I really do. Is it true? I don’t know. She hasn’t said she does. But maybe she’s just trying to protect me from the truth, which I honestly can’t appreciate anymore. Not after four years of this routine. Not after all this time.

I’ve beaten myself over this endlessly, more times than anyone ever knew. Why? Because I refused to talk about this. Because I kept asking myself, why was I supposed to tell anyone about this? It was private, it was between her and me. Nobody else I knew even knows her, nobody else talks with her on a daily basis. Nobody would get it. Worse, I figured telling others would lead them to tell me: “you don’t need her, forget about that and move on without her”.

Because the truth is, even if someone told me to do that, I wouldn’t do it because I don’t want to. I don’t. I relished in what had happened when the story had just begun. I still feed off her excitement, whenever I write stories just for her... stories about anything other than Sokka and Azula. I love it when she loves what I do.

But honestly? I will never forgive myself because I killed this ship for her. She has denied it when I’ve brought it up: even if she says it was a long time coming, even if she would rather blame the whole fandom and not me, I will forever carry this guilt and hate myself for this. It’s not optional. It’s not something that I’ll forget if anyone just tells me to get over it. I can’t. She’s my best friend. And I hurt her, and in turn, having hurt her hurts me every damn day of my life.

You’d think, though, that the story ends there. It doesn’t.

This is a trend. This hasn’t stopped. This is cycle, a very vicious, disturbing cycle that I’ve seen happen over, and over, and over. I’ve watched people come and go for five years, and I’ve watched them go from being my most passionate readers, to the most lukewarm ones who, more often than not, don’t even read what I write, for whatever reasons.

There’s a lot of people who still read my fic, no doubt. There’s many people who have never made me feel this way, such as the mastermind who gave me Gladiator’s initial idea, and some faithful readers who’ve been here all along. But... my closest circle of fandom friends? Not one of them reads Gladiator anymore. Is it the length? Beats me. Is it my writing? Too often I’ve told myself it is. Is it the plot no longer interests them? Or is it the ship? Do they just not care about Sokkla anymore?

It’s no secret that I’ve practically devoted five years of my life to this ship. It’s also no secret that I don’t regret it. And my passion for it certainly blinds me to why other people don’t see the things I see. Why is it other people can’t seem to get as attached to Sokkla as I am?

It’s been extra frustrating for the obvious reason: I wanted to bring back Sokkla. I wanted it to thrive, I wanted it to be a bigger ship than it ever was. And I sure as hell was doing everything I could for that purpose: I wrote like a maniac, I drew a ton of things even if 99% of the time I’d see my art and think it wasn’t good enough. I even made fan videos! Though, yeah, Viacom certainly has killed a fair share of them, thank you for nothing, jerkfaces...

I wanted exposure, I wanted to go for the gold, to try my best every day for this ship. And little by little, I felt... that I was succeeding.

I saw people start making art. I lost my shit every single time it happened, because it was spontaneous: THEY WANTED TO DO IT! I couldn’t contain my joy, and I still can’t whenever it happens. Then, when I saw new stories popping up, and most of all, coming from people who said I’d inspired them? When some of those readers were actually writing fics about my story?! I was in cloud nine. I really was.

So, for the longest time, those things drove me to keep going stubbornly onwards through my tunnel. I moved on, pressed forward, thinking that maybe my friends had dropped my stories, didn’t care much about them, but I still had this. I still had the community this ship was starting to build. All those newcomers, all the new content... I was ecstatic about it. Watching all of this come alive made me feel that this was what I’d worked so hard to see. This was the picture I had wanted to paint.

The problem is, I guess I forgot to paint myself in it.

The cycle of friendships that flat-out stop reading me has continued. I’m friends with so many people in this fandom, namely, on Tumblr, and I read what they do. They are excited to show me what they think I’d like, and I love to see all new content. I’ll gladly encourage them every single time!

And yet...  despite it’s not happening with EVERYONE, too often I’ve found myself waiting for said encouragement from some people, and gotten nothing in return. I’ve stood there, watching as they’ll reblog every single story for a challenge, except for mine. I’ve asked them questions, wondered what they think of this or that. I’ve given them everything, tried to compel them to return to my story, because I legitimately thought they loved it. They had said they did, at some point. Why did that change? Why didn’t they love it anymore? Did my experiments with fanfiction backfire that badly that I discouraged everyone from what I was doing?

In the last few days, I’ve come to conclude it may just be something else: maybe I’m just being taken for granted. I’ve been here, trying to move mountains, for five years. I’m never going anywhere, am I? That’s what I keep promising, after all. That’s got to be the case, right?

And thus, Seyary doesn’t need acknowledgement, encouragement, or much of anything in the way of feedback. Why would she, after all? Proud boaster of being the only Sokkla story in the first page of top reviewed Avatar stories, even prouder boaster of the actual longest story in the fandom. She’s got 3K+ reviews, what more could she want?

Well, turns out I wanted to be in that picture. Turns out that my efforts to help bring back this ship from the zombie state it was in weren’t so I could stand back and smile upon everyone else from my marble tower: I wanted to be there too, with everyone, and to discuss everyone’s stories as they discussed mine.

Because in the end, this was all I had left. This reborn Sokkla fandom, with all these new voices and new fans... it was the only source of genuine validation I could find anymore. The majority of my close friends, as I said, don’t give a damn anymore. The closest of them all is as good as pained every single time I send her a new chapter. So to muffle the pain that all this rejection was causing on me, I turned to Tumblr. I came here, thinking... at least it would be different here. At least I could count on you guys, right?

And yet I’ve seen the cycle start again. It’s happening, and nobody would know it’s happening because I never talked about it, but it is. As soon as I grow close to some people, they’d stop reading my work. I could name at least four users that I’m dead sure stopped reading me ages ago, but I’m not here to call out anyone because of this, because that is, indeed, the thing. Why should I be calling out anyone? Why would I? What sort of authority do I have, why would ANYONE be expected to read what I write, just on the virtue of it being written by me?

But alas, that thorn stings hard and bad every single time any of the droppers dares say I’m a great writer. Boy, does it sting. I’m so great... that you stopped reading me. I’m so great... that you scroll past my content because it holds zero interest for you anymore. Because you’re taking for granted that it will be there: it’s everyone else who’s ephemeral, whose interest in the ship can wane and waver, but Seyary? She’s a given. She’s here to stay.

Well, that’s certainly true. I’m here to stay. But not on the basis I was before.

My love for Sokkla has not changed in the slightest. My passion for Gladiator burns brighter every day. But with this post, I’ve resolved to stop kidding myself, to stop pretending that these things don’t bother me, because they do. Because I’m aware of the fact that it won’t stop happening, for whatever reasons it may happen.

But I did decide that I’d apologize, here and now, to everyone I’ve expected anything from, and to everyone I’ve been, unknowingly, dumping the weight of my self-worth on. I decided I’m done kidding myself, done with this role of the ever enthusiastic, ever supportive fan-friend who can’t ever say a bad thing to anyone. I’m done reading things from people who don’t extend me anywhere near the same courtesy, done pouring all my support to push everyone else higher, when I’m bumping harder and harder against the obstacles and walls in my endless tunnel. I’m simply not strong enough to carry every weight out there along with my own. Mine’s already heavy enough as it is.

My writing is flawed, and for some people, probably really bad. For a lot of people, it’s just not worth it. Investing ages of your life into reading the story that crazy girl from Venezuela decided to write? Feels like you could probably be doing better things with your life than that, right?

Well, I��m done expecting otherwise. I will appreciate what I do have, the readers I have left, and the new ones who are still pouring in, to my eternal surprise. The friends I still have, who still read me because they want to, and who still cherish my stories, are precious to me as both friends and readers. And you’ll know who you are, because you’d know you’ve stood by me through it all, even if you changed fandoms, even if your main interest is something else entirely. You still love what I do, still read it, and still come to me, even if only once in a while, excited about whatever I wrote recently.

But I am absolutely done with begging, and waiting, for everyone else to read me if just out of pity. I never, EVER, wanted to be a writer who’s a drag for people to read. But it seems I’ve become that for a lot of people. So, never mind. Don’t read me anymore. Don’t bother promising you will one day, because I honestly don’t expect anything from you anymore. I’m not here to berate you into reading me, hell no: NOBODY is forced to read me, and you already made your choice not to. I am not going to be such a two-faced dog that I’d demand more than what I’m willing to give, not at this point.

But I’m also done with trying to do things I don’t want to do, for other people’s sakes. I’m not going to write anything I don’t want to write, no matter if I’ve taught myself to work even when I’m uninspired. But I’m no longer going to force myself to be involved in anything and everything, just for the sake of giving the ship more exposure, or for the sake of encouraging people who simply are using me as a crutch, who will swat my content away like it’s meaningless while moving on to other pastures.

This problem has been building up since year one. I am only acknowledging it publicly now, and not even just to air my dirty laundry: I’m doing it to strengthen my own resolve. Now that it’s in writing, now that it’s out there, I’m not going to bury it back inside myself again. I’m not going to pretend any longer.

I can safely say I’ve given more of myself to his ship than anyone else has, whether during the fandom’s early years or nowadays. And rest assured, I will continue to do so, but now I’m doing it on my terms. That’s what everyone else is doing anyways. I’m pretty sure I get the right to choose now, too, if I want to read or if I don’t. If I want to reblog or if I don’t. If I want to publish or if I don’t. If I want to write or if I don’t.

I reiterate my apology: I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you needed to read or like or enjoy anything of mine, especially if you never cared for it. I’m sorry if I expected too much of you, if I ever pressured you to do anything you didn’t want to do, just to please me. 

I played my part in this story. I have experienced things I never did before, and I was the happiest I’ve been in ages when I cried, for the first time, while I was writing Gladiator’s 126th chapter. I can safely say I’ve broken out of the rut that my first depression was dragging me through. I’ve felt things I never thought I’d feel, and no doubt, the majority of them have been thanks to my writing. The majority of them, thanks to Sokkla.

So I will continue, for those two, and for my story. But at the brink of another huge, disgusting depression, I’m plugging out my people-pleaser mentality. I’m not here to police anyone, and I’m not here to get anyone to behave nicely. If anyone wants to be at each other’s throats, I’m not stopping them anymore. If anyone wants to create content I disapprove of, they can go ahead and do whatever they damn please. If anyone wants to badmouth me and say I’m an arrogant bitch for making a post like this, be my guest. Maybe I am a whiner, maybe I am making mountains out of molehills. Ultimately, though, maybe I’ve just seen the bigger picture and realized it’s smaller than I thought. And maybe I’ve realized it’s time for me to get back to my selfish side now. Maybe I need to take care of myself, and stop trying to take care of everyone else around me before it tears me apart.

I’m truly not going anywhere. But I’m going to focus on what I want, first and foremost. If every single person I know drops my fic at this point, I honestly don’t even have it in me to give two shits anymore. Because I’m done writing it for anyone else, and done feeling guilty for loving something that so many others seem to hate or be indifferent towards. I’m done. I’m sorry, but I’d always refused to live my life with my head bowed and my eyes on the floor. I’ve never wanted to depend on anyone else for anything, and depending on them for my self worth was probably the most masochistic idea I could’ve resorted to, especially after having undergone that damn depression ten years ago. I love Gladiator, and I’ll never love it any less. And whoever wants me to love anything else, to stop writing this, to write whatever they want me to instead... well, I’m sorry to say you’re not getting what you want. Not anymore. I’m doing this on my own terms now. I’m responsible for myself, and nothing more. 

There’s plenty of content to go around by now. I’m pretty sure newcomers will find something to their taste, at one point or another. So yes, I feel I’ve played my part in the community. Now I’m taking my breather from that, and doing whatever the hell I want to, for a change.

So there. Everything’s out now. And yeah, I already feel better. Chest feels a little less hollow than before. It’s kind of sad, though, because I know a few people who probably could use reading this, but alas, reading through my posts gets very boring, eh? Heh. At any rate, if you got to the bottom of this, thanks for caring. I’ll be around, even if I’m not going to be quite the same anymore. I’m done lying to myself. I will be fine, but I’m not right now. I have to work to get back to being fine for good. And that’s what I’m going to do, from now on.

#the most personal post I ever wrote #this has been building up for over a week now #but I'm done hiding what I'm feeling

[sherbies]

so uh. it’s 5:30 am but I can’t sleep and I need to thought dump. 

Please don’t think any less of me after I rant like this. I love you guys.

“Are you a feminist?” “No.’

“Ugh, so you’re an anti-feminist.” “Oh GOD no.”

“Egalitarian? Libertarian?” “NO.”

There really isn’t any label that fits me comfortably here. I find it so hard to try and live and fit in this world with constant destruction, corruption of power, murder, a supposed “rape culture”, and the constant danger that I could be taken advantage of because of my sex. But, I’ve gotten so cynical and desensitized over the past few years that I just feel...powerless. On top of that, I feel selfish for trying to prevent myself from having a panic attack or a depressive episode. “Oh, you had a panic attack today? Pffft, a black man was murdered by a white cop today!!” my brain tells me. And oh boy, after Orlando last year, especially since I was personally affected by it, I could barely leave my house after three days. I was obsessed with the events of Orlando out of guilt. I barely ate or went anywhere because I felt guilty if I did. I was also paranoid that if I went to the grocery store, someone was gonna come and shoot me. Same thing happened with Charlottesville. Thought I had desensitized it to myself after a while, but then I thought about it, and I thought about it, and I thought about it some more until I was reading every news story and every opinion piece on it and just not knowing what to make of it for days. I just feel hopeless, like no matter what I do, these things are completely out of my control. Some people find peace with that, and I’m honestly jealous of those people.

This is the point where you might ask me “well what about feminism? Feminism can help!” See, with me, being a feminist implies a lot of things - you have the mental energy and emotional stability to read these news every single day, you have something to fight for, you have that energy, that anger, and you have an idea that somewhere, sometime soon, things will get better. I have..absolutely none of that. Feminism, instead, makes me more paranoid and more afraid. I have friends that are feminists - hell one of my best friends from my sophomore year of college was a feminist and she was one of the nicest people I had ever met. But in this day and age of feminism being branded as “Sexy” and “Cool” and all over the place like some kind of fashion accessory that’s bound to come and go when the next trend takes over. 

And on top of that! People only like “””minorities””” (ugh that’s so gross to say) because of their traits and nothing else. People only like me because I’m a bisexual girl. Strip those away, they couldn’t give two fucks. I have a personality and a sense of humor, and all of that is just stripped away by you guys who just can’t help yourselves.

And don’t even get me started on the feminists that make the movement look bad. The Francesca Ramseys and Buzzfeeds and shit. Their shenanigans just make so many more similar people including myself turn away because they have such an attitude of “well not only do you have to be willing to fight for women’s rights BUT YOU ALSO HAVE TO ACKNOWLEDGE POC AND LGBTQ PEOPLE HAVE IT WORSE WITH EVERY GROUND YOU WALK ON AND APOLOGIZE FOR BEING WHITE then you can be a real feminist unless you’re already white” well pffttttt fuck that

So, with all the good feminists and bad feminists, and similar political stances and the actions they take...what’s all this supposed to accomplish?

This is where the cynicism kicks in. Everything is set in stone. Obviously us now rallying together didn’t work because we have Trump. All the rallying together now didn’t work because we STILL have Trump. We’re still cycling through natural disasters like this happens every day, we’re still on the brink of war with North Korea, people die, gun control goes moot when people mass murder using cars and trucks, it’s all.... very out of my control. Donating money, making cryptic posts about it on social media with the appropriate hashtag, protesting...what’s all that gonna do? My cynic brain says nothing. Unless you’re Supergirl and can actually save the world forever, nothing. The world will do as it does, the sides will split apart more and more, the anger throughout the world will increase, until one day we all implode. And all you can really do is live your bland life, lay down, and let it kill you before you kill yourself.

Yes, these things have made me feel suicidal.

And I still don’t know what to do about it. My latest bits of coping with bad news has been to become numb or (even better) not know they exist in the first place. But I can’t keep doing this forever. I need some hope that change is possible, that people are good, that the world isn’t full of evil and anger and hatred. Because with all the bad news, the good in people is impossible to find right now.

#personal #anxiety/ #depression

[shy-mel]

Time for Shiraishi’s route!  This and the following two reviews will be out of order (in regards to the order I played them) as I wanted to go back and get more screenshots for Sasazuka and Okazaki’s reviews.  There are spoilers below, as usual, so be warned.

Getting the biggest spoiler out of the way first, Shiraishi is apart of Adonis.  That is his reason for working with Hoshino at first, though of course, he begins to care for her along the way.  Along with being apart of Adonis, his general upbringing left him without knowing much about the more social and cultural parts of being human.  He lived at the training facility versus having a normal life.  Which is shown in some of his more abrasive remarks to others, though it does show itself in a more fun way when Hoshino has to explain Santa.  It also ties into why he numbers the cats, versus naming them as the same process was applied to him.

Satomi Takeuchi, Shion, and Suzune Uno are the focuses of the X-Day crimes on his route.  Yurine Uno was Satomi’s friend and the mother of the two Uno children who was pushed to the brink of murder and suicide after being harassed for not wanting to engage in a relationship with a student.  She kills her husband and herself while her children see the aftermath.  This leads a lasting effect on them, as Suzune develops a mental disorder and Adonis takes advantage of their vulnerability.  Three of the people involved end up dead, with the Uno kids planning to kill themselves.  Hoshino finds them and they talk, where the kids detail that Satomi was nice to them. 

 Satomi herself was at first hesitant to talk to talk to any more police does eventually open up to Hoshino.  In fact, she goes as far as incriminating herself for the three murders.  When Hoshino makes the kids aware of this, they go with her to the police station where they have a chat with Satomi who tells them that she saw them as her children.  Adonis of course then does its work and wipes their memories of committing the crimes.

Once that is wrapped up, the detective agency receives a message stating that Adonis is coming for Hoshino.  She and her brother end up staying at the agency for protection.  They set up more security, which does not help in the end as Shiraishi is part of the setup crew.  Around this time, Shiraishi kills the prime minister's son.  Once it is time for her to be whisked away, several of the building’s floors catch fire and when Hoshino gets separated from the group, she is taken.

Upon waking up she is in the underground area belong to Adonis.  Zero comes out, still hiding their identity, and here it is revealed to Hoshino that Shiraishi has ties to the organization.  She is then told to execute Shiraishi.  Of course, she does not want to and tries to get Shiraishi to listen to her, who seems to be fully under Zero’s command.

After some time, Shiraishi and Hoshino get way from Zero for a bit.  Upon Zero catching up to them, Hoshino shoots at them.  Hoshino’s fate depends on your choices and there are three final endings.  If you miss the shot, you get the Blighted Love ending where Hoshino ends up becoming an executor in a zombie like state wearing a wedding dress (which I feel would make her easy to track down).  

If you get the shot but have low affection, Hoshino falls into a coma as she the poison is injected into her upon shooting Zero.  Once she wakes up she suffers memory loss.  Shiraishi tells her that he is her boyfriend and the two live down in the underground indefinitely.  In the good ending, Shiraishi tells her that he is her doctor upon her waking up from her coma.  Once she can walk again, he takes her back into society.  She starts regaining her memory and the two kiss.

His route left me feeling very conflicted upon finishing all the endings, including the good ending.  I already was not too keen on him after the scene in his apartment where he pins Hoshino’s wrists and gives the old “You came into a man’s house, what did you expect?” speech.  Then there was the Adonis stuff, and finally, him keeping Hoshino underground for a year versus letting her go to an actual hospital.  That is not loving, it is selfish and dangerous.  Even though she and her brother do not have the best relationship, I refuse to believe Kazuki or any of the others think this was a good idea

#Collar x Malice #Collar x Malice spoilers #spoilers #Kageyuki Shiraishi #Otomate #Aksys Games #PS Vita

[ratherhavetheblues]

KELLY REICHARDT’S ‘WENDY AND LUCY’

© 2018 by James Clark

The truest way to the heart of Kelly Reichardt’s film, Wendy and Lucy (2008), may turn out to be its penultimate moment. This was not always my approach, as a reading of the Wonders in the Dark blog from February 15, 2012—A Dangerous Devotion: Lars von Trier’s “Dancer in the Dark” and Kelly Reichardt’s “Wendy and Lucy”—would show. There I was intent upon engaging the protagonists of each work having risked everything (like Joan of Arc) for the sake of getting to the bottom of a dilemma unfortunately even beyond their very alert and brave powers. What, specifically, drives such souls to the brink of destruction?

There are ways of taking a closer look at the phenomenon, and Wendy and Lucyshows the way. Like Mouchette, a classic film figure under heavy fire, Wendy can no longer stand her emotionally violent, Midwestern blue-collar family and neighbors and their Rust Belt home base spanning Muncie and Fort Wayne, Indiana. Unlike Mouchette, the famous waif, she does not choose suicide as a meaningful change (nor is she destined to be immortalized by a forum of movie buffs). She hits the road with 500 dollars in savings from unspecified jobs, and a clunker supposedly capable of reaching that land of fool’s gold, Alaska. (Where others dream of gold, she—speaking volumes—dreams of a job in a cannery which, at least, does not resemble Indiana.) However, she does also bring a stunningly vast fortune in the form of her golden retriever, Lucy (a born retriever of buried treasures).

Right from the get-go we know Wendy will precipitate some kind of screw-up. Getting to that late and primary revelation mentioned above, there is Lucy in the back yard of a suburban Portland, Oregon, home, having become a foster-home for her as the upshot of Wendy’s jail time for shoplifting. (Perhaps before beginning with that end of their era together, in that tranquil yard, we should notice that, in the course of Wendy’s return to freedom she distributes posters including a photo, around the area where Lucy was last seen. “I’m lost!” the tag-line runs. When Mouchette is confronted in a forest by a figure suspicious about her intent, she defends herself by blurting out, “Lost, Sir! Lost!” The truly lost, Wendy, having found where her beloved had landed, proceeds there to confirm her incurable lostness. (And Lucy proceeds to confirm her genius.) The subversion of mainstream sentimental film reunions here is an important gift.

Wendy first sees Lucy gazing at a flock of seagulls circling her new and possibly very short-term yard. Calling out to her and saying, “You miss me, Lu?” Wendy passionately clings to the chain-link fence. Lucy forgets the seagulls and rushes to the only familiar aspect of a life having undergone a shock we never fully see, this being a remarkable hallmark of Reichardt’s narratives. “I’m sorry, Lu,” is a recognition that Wendy sees her friend as having smashed out the cliché ceiling where jerks come up smelling of roses in the hands of infinite forgiveness. “I know… I know, Lu” the wanderer emotes. But does she in fact comprehend that when, at the entrance of the grocery store she was about to rip off (after not entirely sincere calming kisses and caresses), Lucy could read her friend’s being a disappointment as spiked by, after Lucy’s desperate barking a warning, undergoing Wendy’s marching up to the leashed-secured companion, clamping down her snout and angrily telling her, “Don’t be a nuisance! I don’t need that?”

The beginning of Lucy’s painful realization that she doesn’t need the felon includes the frenzy on seeing her partner brought back to the store by a clerk and then taken away in a squad car (all the more disturbing in never seeing the back-door departure while left to puzzled and desperate staring at the front door). However, the generally supposed-to-be dull-one’s real struggle is left for us to reconstruct. As now newly composed, Lucy listens to Wendy’s solicitude and her heart is both joyous and something else, very hard to undergo. “Don’t be mad, Lu… Here, I got you this!” [a stick, to fetch]. She throws it toward where the seagulls were. “Such a good catch! Drop it! Good dog! Good girl!”  Lu happily plays, with old-time and not old-time energy. (Lucy’s flagging and once prominent lodestar [with funds having dwindled by way of the shoplifting fine, the car disposal and a theft/ assault in the woods] had become a lachrymose spent force like Mouchette; while Lucy had become a form of another cinema figure—unforgettable to a choice clientele—namely, Baltazar, the donkey, carelessly regarded as “The Mathematical Donkey.”) “I’m sorry, Lu,” is followed with a defeated cry. “I lost the car…” comes next, followed by the rather hasty, wishful thought, “That man seems very nice…” Suddenly it’s, “You be good…  I’m gonna make some money, and I’ll be back! OK, Lu, be good…”

How good Lucy could be in face of that collapse requires inference about how she weathered the abandonment. After Wendy’s release, she looks for Lucy at the pound. Though she comes up empty, we can imagine her dog going through the fear and depression seen in all the inmates on hand. We can imagine Lucy’s sense of being ripped away from not only a person of great interest but the infrastructure by which they had been sustained. Missing the interpersonal love intrinsic to that stemming would not be the end of Lucy’s heavy reflections. The moment of their kiss and caress through the fence out in the suburbs, fathoming how much is left and how much is gone, offers a wider range of action whereby other entities (seagulls, for instance; and the sea itself) offer creative love more resilient than that of Wendy.

From that perspective, accessible only to those who, with passions unstinting, beat back lostness, Wendy’s way of concluding the interplay is far more breathtaking and chilling than any gun battle. The intensity of this kinship should not be allowed to filter down as a sentimental highlight of melodramatic, advantage-addicted presences bending to the dubious powers of physics, religion and morality. Wendy, by and large, seems common and flighty. But, as we are about to investigate and define, her awkwardness and suspicion (and responsiveness to generosity) stem from an aristocratic spell. She does not cherish many others of her species for the very good reason –but too bluntly rendered—that they are far more remote from her energies than Lucy.

In the subsequent Reichardt film, Meek’s Cutoff (2010), Emily (played by actress, Michelle Williams, who also puts Wendy on the map) sees her real world shrink to one American Indian heading for the hills without her. She had considerably come to the point of being enraptured, from which to chart a difficult and seldom seen course. Here it is Lucy who sustains what Emily is about to undergo, while Wendy more closely approximates Emily’s game but uninspired husband, Solomon. While Wendy was spinning her wheels to little effect, Lucy was bringing lucidity to the matter, lucidity in the sense that effective love requires effective hate. That shocker, in the context of a sweet pup, requires incisive explanation. Creatures great and small, as our film makes efforts to highlight, find themselves intent upon many objectives. But their most remarkable action, namely, participating along with creativity itself (mustering the energy to complete its presence) is not widely accomplished among humankind. Wild creatures, including pets more fluent with carnality and its paradoxes, put together far better numbers of this sort. Though much of the world’s humans hunker down in finalities seeming to them consummate, from the perspective of that other way (being about kinetic coordination, rather than a stand) there comes to pass a state of impasse massively hindering forward momentum. By the same token, wild creatures (including some humans) feel at war; but also—through agencies of daring and reflection—a kind of peace. As the reservoir of coming to grips with impasse veers to more sanguine areas, there is the possibility of oscillating overtures amongst the options, especially in the syntheses of blithe percolation, increasingly putting heat on the opposition by attractive ways careening (like happy wolves) as part of a delicate wolf pack. Thereby, the problematicness of such a pragmatic inertia, never to be dislodged, can paradoxically flourish in ways integral to a cogent primordiality.

The power of the scene where Lucy and Wendy go their separate ways derives from that unique, compelling infrastructure. Such a smash-up, between those who have travelled where so many haven’t, elicits a post-mortem (where no one has actually died) for the sake of casting light upon a skill with consequences far beyond domestic viability. When it comes to breathing down Wendy’s neck to discern what’s the matter, we can begin by availing ourselves of Reichardt’s previous film, Old Joy (2006), where a couple of incompatible guys waste the beauties of rural Oregon and spend a bonfire night worsening their intrinsic depressiveness. In the course of Wendy’s joyless playing fetch-a-stick with Lucy where we first see them along a forested path in Oregon, the retriever stumbles upon a tribe of runaways spending the night around a bonfire. Actor, Will Oldham, who, in Old Joy, joylessly goes through the motions of play with the dog of the hour—Lucy, in fact—comes back to haunt Wendy and Lucy as once again a nocturnal presence proud of making a statement against those who work with a will. A (strategically significant) responder to Lucy’s neglect—an unwashed young girl with a large ring through one nostril and looking more affectionate than Wendy—readily becomes the leading light, eclipsing the loudmouth (Icky), though another boy, weighted down with a sense of his own errancy, also outperforms the medicine man. Wendy eventually comes into the picture, a picture of wanting to be somewhere else. She—a mixture of shyness and mistrust—divulges her travel plan, which prompts Lucy’s new friend to call out, “Hey. Icky, this lady’s going to Alaska!” That sets off Wendy’s having to hear the know-it-all recommend a company to work for (later we see her jotting down the particulars), without any recognition that she has anything in common with him. Increasing the alienation is Icky’s follow-up boasting about totaling a two-hundred-thousand-dollar earth mover there, when stoned, of course (Oldham’s playing the part of a stoner, in Old Joy). “They couldn’t pin it on me… I was gone!”) Her rather brittle body language here is a case of being all to the good and yet all to the bad. Before Lucy rushes ahead to that intriguing underworld, there is a play of twilight in the trees, smudges of vivid color—forming a dynamic incentive leaving Wendy far behind.

Following directly upon that wake-up call where a bonfire has a hard time priming Icky and Wendy toward some semblance of viability, there is Wendy’s parking her car on a quiet street; and a blurry pink figure, due to car and house lights springs, up by her window. “Sleep, girl,” she tells Lucy; but wakening is the keyword. Next morning our protagonists are wakened by a security officer, who informs her, “You can’t sleep here, Ma’am…” Almost simultaneously, a pigeon flashes skyward by that same window touched the night before. Its joining the patterns of exhortation constitutes a final bon voyage before Wendy’s limitations take over.

Her malaise and hard eyes in spying at the periphery of Icky’s campsite, before joining Lucy being treated well, bespeak more fear than alertness. The prompt death of her car (an Accord, of all things) while being told by the officer to move it sends her into an anxiety attack hardening into crude defensiveness. That same morning of ignition not happening brings the revelation that Lucy’s food bag contains 10 small kibbles. Rather than dip into her puny war chest to care for her partner, we have Lucy on a tight leash and Wendy scavenging for bottles and cans (an occupation of Oldham’s Kurt, in Old Joy). In their constriction (Lucy on the lookout for anything edible on the ground), Wendy ties her friend to a fixture at a strip mall while she goes off to a public washroom. She brushes her teeth, gives herself a sponge bath (attending to an injury at her Achilles heel) and fills a bottle with water; but Lucy does not become a beneficiary of that exercise, exposing how patently hopeless the master of rugged and woozy individualism amounts to. On the other hand, with the lady going to Alaska chewing on some nondescript scrap and Lucy at a loss to find even a scrap, their peril, pain and stoicism disclose that this is no mere folly but an enduring and profound love, however disastrous.

The dead car having changed a rout into a massacre, Wendy attempts to shoplift a can of I AMS (and sundry snacks), and the young stock boy who intercepts her proves to be an instance of all she hates and carelessly hopes to hide from. (The shoplifting scene in Greta Gerwig’s film, Lady Bird [2017], where two young check-out girls regard the effort as a laughable farce, seems to be more Icky than Wendy—a somewhat inadvertent underlining of how uniquely pitched our film has been composed.) The clerk may be a schoolboy part-timer, but his rhetorical apparatus, as fortified by a crucifix, comes to us as redolent of a fanatical opportunism able to override the far more rounded and easy-going manager. So well on top of her subject, Reichardt endows the moralist with a voice recalling smug Eddy in Leave It to Beaver; and also Kurt in Old Joy and Icky in our film today. Not leaving the experience with that, she shows us that Wendy herself has little trouble slipping into that murder-inciting register. “Excuse me, Ma’am? I think you’re forgetting something…” More an Inquisition than a secular mishap, Andy, the born cop, impressively hounds his boss, Mr. Hunt, who had begun with the modulated outlook, “OK, well, what are we talking about here?” Having nothing to do with grey zones, the upstanding choir boy invokes an egalitarian axiom being hard to deny. “The rules apply to everyone equally.” With the can of I Ams on the desk as Exhibit A, the clean-up drive puts forward another indubitable truth, “If a person can’t afford dog food, they shouldn’t have a dog.” Wendy, who had only too quickly put out the fabrication that she was intending to pay for the loot after checking on how her dog, tied outside, was doing (far worse, in fact, than Wendy was able to comprehend), expertly directs her smarts and phony sincerity to the generous motives of Mr. Hunt. “I’m very sorry… This isn’t going to happen again…” (The frenzy, despair and hopelessness of Lucy, on seeing her being ushered back in, comprising what we can imagine to be far from a unique error.) Andy presses on, with, “The food is not the issue. It’s about setting an example, right?” Wendy’s being as annoying a sophist as Andy kills any hope she might have had. “I’m not from around her, so I couldn’t be an example…” This brings Hunt to say, “We have a policy, Ma’am.”

Film stories about troubled humans and their dogs seem to invite the clientele to an evening of strong feelings everyone can easily appreciate. Wendy and Lucyis a film far from easy to fathom. In their first walk seen together, after a rather routine fetch-and-drop ramble, Lucy upgrades to that remarkably rough-hewn young girl who, when Wendy finally catches up, tells her, “Great dog!” [greatness being measured not by looks but by another kind of presence]. Learning of her name, the nomad declares happily, “You’re a sweetheart, Lucy!” What she sees, even if she can’t begin to explain it, is depth. She asks Wendy about Lucy’s breed, not as if it matters. The question catches the owner only half-listening, “I don’t know… a mix of hunting dog and retriever…” That verbal fumble becomes one of a series of sloppy assertions in Reichardt’s films, exposing the speaker as lacking articulative grip but unable to admit any shortfall in mastery within a troubling preoccupation. (Propped upon that bemusing skid, there is the nearly magical dialectic of hunt and retrieve, the “greatness” of which Wendy misplays and Lucy embraces.) Another form of elegant and ironic composition comes our way here in the form of a reprise of hugging Lucy, this time by Wendy. On realizing that collecting empty drink containers is not going to fit the bill, Wendy, outside the grocery store, performs a preamble to theft she has repeated frequently. She, too, caresses Lucy, and Lucy, as with the person the night before not having any ulterior motives, licks her face, always having been on the lookout for Wendy being as heartfelt as herself. Why would the supposedly advanced discernment need to prepare the lower form toward passivity, unless the latter has been treated to Wendy’s dark side, again and again? (Here, once again, the Shirley Temple, Depression Era concomitants of this duo lead first only to the shattered, for the sake of harder and deeper gifts.) “Don’t bother anyone, OK?” is the remarkably cynical patter on account of providing for her dear one’s breakfast. Lucy begins to wail and swish her tail fiercely in a vain gesture to make the coming outrage devolve to some kind of creative lift. Wendy turns back in anger and scolds, “What did I say?” She clamps Lucy’s snout and we wonder at the crude hysteria by which she would suppose to attain to innovative distinction.

After paying the $50 fine, Wendy returns to the scene of the crime and the scene of the end of her partnership. The bus that drives her there (a conduit of freedom) contains an ad which runs, “It’s not too late to sleep like a baby.” That seems the right time to attend to the sizeable unemployment and poverty constituency at that moment of truth. Having scandalized so many other expectations, this film is very apt to transcend political and moral bromides. All the scavengers flocking about the bottle returns depot are unfailingly gracious. When Wendy, seeing fit to retire from that trade after an hour or so, contributes to the cache of a man in a wheelchair, he describes her generosity as “cool.” Right from that first walk, ending with Icky and associates having more in common with the scavengers than marauders, a murmuring, lullaby motif of a woman’s voice wafts over moments of promise. Accordingly, it comes to light during the first moments of her bottles pick-ups. Its maintaining a sensuous balance, where imbalance so overtly threatens, combines with Lucy’s vigorous command of emotions (and capacity to be still) to expose sleeping-like-a-baby inertia as decadence, not accomplishment. Wendy, for all her gross incompetence, has had the drive to leave Rust Belt Fort Wayne. But choosing an extravagant (“cool”) destination she clearly cannot afford, from the points of view of money and maturity, leaves her floundering in distraction and melancholy similar to the casualties of the defunct saw mill which pushed a modicum of self-confidence to the total loss of such a state. (There is a startling and thrilling cinematic delivery apropos of this vale of anxiety. The district repair shop is closed for Sunday and a dispirited Wendy cups her hands to the shop’s window to see its interior free of reflection. In Mark Romanek’s Never Let Me Go [2010]—where a “Miss Lucy” is fired from her teaching job for siding with school children having been being bred for body parts—the schoolgirl protagonist and her friends cup their hands to a travel bureau window in order to ascertain that an employee within is the mother [the “origin”] of the doomed protagonist.)

Two other fixtures of that Portland exurb are the grandfatherly Walgrens parking lot minder who is mindful of Wendy; and a demented, self-pitying and rather far-seeing thief who steals about half of her meagre liquid assets. The man who said a mouthful when he said, “You can’t sleep here, Ma’am,” does in fact demonstrate alertness to Wendy’s predicament and that of those meek undead. Though he never deals with Lucy, the parking monitor functions in this distressed-dog movie the way Edmund Gwenn calms the maelstrom in Lassie Come Home (1943). Here, once again, good-will folk wisdom and cliched expectation in the foreground are no match for that nature in the background which Reichardt knows to be paramount. In response to Wendy’s counting on the local pound to eventually produce a Lucy Come Home, the Gwenn figure recommends the more active strategy (seemingly proven in his family history) of leaving on the ground items of her clothing to induce the missing loved-one to the happy fate befalling Lassie. Her departure from him includes his gift of a few dollars, all he can spare on a minimum wage salary, while making sure his granddaughter (having a body language in league with Andy) doesn’t see what is transpiring. (Just before that, we found Wendy angrily stalking about, demanding Lucy to appear and stop spoiling her excellent life. She catches up with Andy, being picked up by his mother after work, and punk-style, howls, “Have a great night, OK? Your son’s a real hero! [“Lucy! Come now!”].) A sweetheart, like Gwenn; but careful not to disrupt mainstream family priorities. Gwenn’s independence as a tinker provides food for thought. Waiting for news of Lucy, Wendy—perhaps feeling the need to do justice to the greenery she has denied herself—thinks to spend a night in the forest nearby the train tracks, where a golden patch of foliage only slightly steadies her. But her bid for bracing solitude exposes her to, like so many other of her overtures, a down side of the open road. The soporific aura of that hard-luck, wrong-side-of-the-tracks constituency seems to confirm her assumption that risk inheres in a field readily and quite pleasantly consumed. With her elderly friend (spending numbing days standing on the dead cement, and counting it a great improvement over his previous all-night job), she hears him declare, “It’s all fixed!” [needing a job to find a job]. “That’s why I’m going!” [to another type of numbing]. Suddenly highlighting the meaning of true risk is a predator who tells her, “Don’t look at me!” as he loots that portion of her money she hasn’t kept in her money-belt. The real plus of this episode consists in the sociopath very closely seeing-eye-to-eye with Wendy. “I don’t like this place… It’s the fuckin’ people that bother me… I’m out here trying to be a good boy, but they don’t want to let me… They treat me like having no rights… They can smell the fear… Fuck! I killed more than 700,000 people with my bare hands! Fuck if I know!”

“They can smell the fear,” is a brief sentence presiding over many horrific missteps. (Lucy can smell the fear.) In the aftermath of the car trouble, Wendy calls back to Indiana and her sister and her sister’s husband, on the vague supposition they might be interested in her troubled life to date. The far more sanguine husband picks up the call and kindly listens about the end of the vehicle. “It’s kinda bad here, actually…” “What does she want us to do about that?” the sister loudly asks, being like one of those the invader imagines killing with his bare hands. Wendy comes back with, “I don’t want anything,” [from the likes of you]. But countenancing the likes of her—and him—makes, as Lucy knows, more sense than going to Alaska. As with the complaining mugger and the whole town, it seems (and maybe the whole planet), vividly addressing sleeping babies seems to be a forgotten, or perhaps never found, skill. (Andy’s rabidity being merely a variant of falling prey to a gigantic creative exigency no one wants to pay the cost of.)

Lucy, on the other hand, has shown us what succeeding-to-thrive looks like. (A recent Time magazine expose, of the very smart and the very workaholic hogging material wealth, prescribes ways of letting others in on that rational advantage binge. That would be way down the track where Lucy thrives.) Wendy hops a freight going North, and as she slouches on the floor with a scowl on her face she looks out at the countless conifers (the most primordial trees), pulled along like toffee, into a mysterious weave by the speeding train. Lucy, too, is carried along, by the vicissitudes of foster care. Wendy is crushed by the countless obstacles. Lucy, by her own lights, knows of a fluid, mysterious range she is acute enough to recognize as being her real home. Lucy Come Home.

#kelly reichardt

[gayyogurt-blog]

What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown

What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown

October 10th is World Mental Health Day.

You can't tell by looking at me, but three years ago, I had a complete breakdown-or an emotional health crisis. A lot has happened in the time since. I've taken a few steps forward, then twice the amount of steps back. I've been split apart and put back together. But most importantly, I'm still here, still navigating who I've become in the aftermath of something so earth-shattering, and still hoping to be seen.

If you've never witnessed, experienced, or heard of a mental health breakdown, it's an acute manifestation of an already lingering anxiety, depression, or bipolar disorder. The result is an inability to function in everyday life, feelings of hopelessness, and/or a feeling that you will never be “normal” again. It's an isolated state because you've either hidden the warning signs from loved ones, or denied them yourself. Even when managed, my anxiety and depression have me white-knuckling a cliff so as not to drop. If you know what panic feels like, then imagine a breakdown as a heightened version of that state-like trying to see through your car windshield while driving in a monsoon. That feeling doesn't let up until you've quite literally cracked up.

My experience, which happened after months of ignoring red flags, was a combination of stress, undiagnosed disorders wreaking havoc on my everyday life (specifically OCD and PTSD), occasional suicidal ideation, and the smallest of triggers (an argument that quickly went awry). In an instant, my panic inflated from 1 to 100. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see past my rapid heartbeat. I not only felt like the room was collapsing in on me, but the whole world. This definitive moment-one so burned into my memory that I can recall an internal sound, like the heated sizzle of my short-circuiting brain wires-became the catalyst for why I split in two.

There was the me before this event, and the me after. The in-between no longer existed.

Immediately after, I was numb. I'd been protected by a shell until the shell splintered and disintegrated to nothing. Left to fend for myself (or so I felt at the time), I became catatonic, fueled only by tears and the belief that I could never be okay again. I still remember lying on the floor with my laptop in front of me, desperate to find the help I knew I so desperately needed. But, as I quickly found, mental health care is complicated.

Here are some things I learned throughout this incredibly raw time. I hope this information can help you if you ever find yourself in a similar situation:

1. You have to reach out, even if you don't feel like it.

At the time, I was blessed with an amazing support system at my job. They weren't only my friends or my coworkers, but my family. Even still, I hesitated telling them what had happened to me, for fear of judgment. I was embarrassed by something that I couldn't control.

When I finally sent the emails and texts explaining what I was recovering from, I felt a sense of relief by getting it off my chest and I was greeted with the exact love, support, and encouragement that I should've come to expect from these people. I will forever consider them my saviors for hearing me, seeing me, and reminding me that I am not alone in this world. If you don't have a support system, it's imperative that you talk to someone. Take advantage of counselors through accessible mental health resources. It could mean the difference between coming back from the brink or dropping from that aforementioned cliff.

Your mental health is important too #WorldMentalHealthDay pic.twitter.com/9Y2znMhm5P

- Action for Happiness (@actionhappiness) October 9, 2018

2. The path to recovery may be tedious.

Shortly after my breakdown, as I lay on the floor with my laptop while my husband desperately tried to understand, I searched for help. And I searched. And I searched. And I searched. Turns out, when you factor in insurance barriers, the fact that you are not feeling suicidal in that exact moment, and a doctor's track record for successful treatment, finding good health care is more difficult than it sounds. Most of the professionals who I wanted to see were completely booked with appointments that had already been set months in advance. and had room for emergencies only. I wasn't a threat to myself-just more dazed and lost than usual-and I told myself that those spots should be reserved for someone in far darker places than I felt at the time. But I still needed help.

Days later, I called a help line and an inpatient facility, and the reality of it all terrified me into hanging up. I believed I could figure it out on my own-however wrong that idea was. But I forced myself to keep searching for treatment because my life and emotional well-being was at stake. I am so glad I did, because I eventually found the right, available doctors for me.

No matter how much work it is, you have to keep searching.

Leanne Surfleet/Getty Images

3. Go to the appointments and do the work, even when it gets exhausting.

At the beginning of my treatment, I went through three forms of therapy. I'm a believer in going big or going home, and this was the most important thing I've ever needed to go big for. One therapist specialized in cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), where I learned tools for grounding myself in the present moment. CBT challenged me to stop grieving my past and to stop looking into the future so I could breathe in the present. I'm not going to lie; it's hard. I failed (still fail) often. It takes practice, and sometimes, I don't feel mentally fit to go through the motions. But when done properly, it works for me.

My second therapist helped me work through childhood traumas that were the long-standing cause of my breakdown. These sessions were emotionally draining and I often left exhausted after cleansing myself of all that plagued me. Seeing this therapist meant facing my demons head on. It was the most difficult thing I've ever done and, to be honest, I stopped going after my grandmother died. As my therapist herself warned, my grandma was the glue holding a lot of me together. Without her in my life, I didn't feel strong enough to continue such intensive therapy. That's what's so hard about these disorders: They lie, convincing you that you aren't strong enough. I know I am now.

The third form of therapy was group grief counseling to address my deepest wound-the loss of my biological father to cancer. As I sat, listening to others share their stories of loss, I began to understand that I truly wasn't alone. On some level, we all understand pain.

KatarzynaBialasiewicz/Getty Images

4. Practice continual self-care.

As the mother of two children with multiple jobs and to-do lists, I'm never not busy. That takes a toll. After the incident, I took a hard look at all I'd done to take care of myself despite whatever life demanded of me-a kind of inventory. Turns out, I'm the last person that I care for, often shorting myself in the event that someone else needs something first. I wasn't doing myself or my emotional health any favors by trying to please everyone all the time, holding my frustrations inside, and blaming myself for every upsetting moment in the history of life.

Today, we are highlighting the millions of strong and brave individuals who live with mental illness. Remember, your journey is worth sharing. #MIAW pic.twitter.com/DtIrFfcOME

- NAMI (@NAMICommunicate) October 9, 2018

5. Accept that caring for your mental health is an ongoing, imperfect journey.

Three years ago, I didn't know how to forgive myself for things beyond my control. I didn't know how to move on from my past or how to admit I'm a flawed human who sometimes needs more than she's willing to ask for (if she'll even ask at all). I still suffer from my disorders and I still have to work to manage them. But now, when all starts feeling lost again, I don't ignore the warning signs. I take precautionary measures like seeking support and health care, pouring myself into something that makes me happy, practicing self-care, and most of all, being patient with myself.

Mental health isn't a destination; it's a journey you'll be on for the rest of your life.

One bad day doesn't ruin them all. You will mess up. You will still cry. You will still battle the same emotions that brought you to your knees in the first place. In the three years since I've accepted my reality, I now understand things I couldn't in my “before.” I'm stronger than I give myself credit for, and if you see pieces of yourself in my story, then let me be the first to say that you are, too.

So, hold on, friend. You are seen.

If you are struggling and need help, call the National Alliance on Mental Illness HelpLine at 1-800-950-NAMI (6264), available Monday through Friday, 10 a.m.–6 p.m., ET. If this is an emergency, you can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) or text NAMI's Crisis Line at 741-741.

The post What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown appeared first on HelloGiggles.

[dragons-in-bowties-blog]

What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown

What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown

October 10th is World Mental Health Day.

You can't tell by looking at me, but three years ago, I had a complete breakdown-or an emotional health crisis. A lot has happened in the time since. I've taken a few steps forward, then twice the amount of steps back. I've been split apart and put back together. But most importantly, I'm still here, still navigating who I've become in the aftermath of something so earth-shattering, and still hoping to be seen.

If you've never witnessed, experienced, or heard of a mental health breakdown, it's an acute manifestation of an already lingering anxiety, depression, or bipolar disorder. The result is an inability to function in everyday life, feelings of hopelessness, and/or a feeling that you will never be “normal” again. It's an isolated state because you've either hidden the warning signs from loved ones, or denied them yourself. Even when managed, my anxiety and depression have me white-knuckling a cliff so as not to drop. If you know what panic feels like, then imagine a breakdown as a heightened version of that state-like trying to see through your car windshield while driving in a monsoon. That feeling doesn't let up until you've quite literally cracked up.

My experience, which happened after months of ignoring red flags, was a combination of stress, undiagnosed disorders wreaking havoc on my everyday life (specifically OCD and PTSD), occasional suicidal ideation, and the smallest of triggers (an argument that quickly went awry). In an instant, my panic inflated from 1 to 100. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see past my rapid heartbeat. I not only felt like the room was collapsing in on me, but the whole world. This definitive moment-one so burned into my memory that I can recall an internal sound, like the heated sizzle of my short-circuiting brain wires-became the catalyst for why I split in two.

There was the me before this event, and the me after. The in-between no longer existed.

Immediately after, I was numb. I'd been protected by a shell until the shell splintered and disintegrated to nothing. Left to fend for myself (or so I felt at the time), I became catatonic, fueled only by tears and the belief that I could never be okay again. I still remember lying on the floor with my laptop in front of me, desperate to find the help I knew I so desperately needed. But, as I quickly found, mental health care is complicated.

Here are some things I learned throughout this incredibly raw time. I hope this information can help you if you ever find yourself in a similar situation:

1. You have to reach out, even if you don't feel like it.

At the time, I was blessed with an amazing support system at my job. They weren't only my friends or my coworkers, but my family. Even still, I hesitated telling them what had happened to me, for fear of judgment. I was embarrassed by something that I couldn't control.

When I finally sent the emails and texts explaining what I was recovering from, I felt a sense of relief by getting it off my chest and I was greeted with the exact love, support, and encouragement that I should've come to expect from these people. I will forever consider them my saviors for hearing me, seeing me, and reminding me that I am not alone in this world. If you don't have a support system, it's imperative that you talk to someone. Take advantage of counselors through accessible mental health resources. It could mean the difference between coming back from the brink or dropping from that aforementioned cliff.

Your mental health is important too #WorldMentalHealthDay pic.twitter.com/9Y2znMhm5P

- Action for Happiness (@actionhappiness) October 9, 2018

2. The path to recovery may be tedious.

Shortly after my breakdown, as I lay on the floor with my laptop while my husband desperately tried to understand, I searched for help. And I searched. And I searched. And I searched. Turns out, when you factor in insurance barriers, the fact that you are not feeling suicidal in that exact moment, and a doctor's track record for successful treatment, finding good health care is more difficult than it sounds. Most of the professionals who I wanted to see were completely booked with appointments that had already been set months in advance. and had room for emergencies only. I wasn't a threat to myself-just more dazed and lost than usual-and I told myself that those spots should be reserved for someone in far darker places than I felt at the time. But I still needed help.

Days later, I called a help line and an inpatient facility, and the reality of it all terrified me into hanging up. I believed I could figure it out on my own-however wrong that idea was. But I forced myself to keep searching for treatment because my life and emotional well-being was at stake. I am so glad I did, because I eventually found the right, available doctors for me.

No matter how much work it is, you have to keep searching.

Leanne Surfleet/Getty Images

3. Go to the appointments and do the work, even when it gets exhausting.

At the beginning of my treatment, I went through three forms of therapy. I'm a believer in going big or going home, and this was the most important thing I've ever needed to go big for. One therapist specialized in cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), where I learned tools for grounding myself in the present moment. CBT challenged me to stop grieving my past and to stop looking into the future so I could breathe in the present. I'm not going to lie; it's hard. I failed (still fail) often. It takes practice, and sometimes, I don't feel mentally fit to go through the motions. But when done properly, it works for me.

My second therapist helped me work through childhood traumas that were the long-standing cause of my breakdown. These sessions were emotionally draining and I often left exhausted after cleansing myself of all that plagued me. Seeing this therapist meant facing my demons head on. It was the most difficult thing I've ever done and, to be honest, I stopped going after my grandmother died. As my therapist herself warned, my grandma was the glue holding a lot of me together. Without her in my life, I didn't feel strong enough to continue such intensive therapy. That's what's so hard about these disorders: They lie, convincing you that you aren't strong enough. I know I am now.

The third form of therapy was group grief counseling to address my deepest wound-the loss of my biological father to cancer. As I sat, listening to others share their stories of loss, I began to understand that I truly wasn't alone. On some level, we all understand pain.

KatarzynaBialasiewicz/Getty Images

4. Practice continual self-care.

As the mother of two children with multiple jobs and to-do lists, I'm never not busy. That takes a toll. After the incident, I took a hard look at all I'd done to take care of myself despite whatever life demanded of me-a kind of inventory. Turns out, I'm the last person that I care for, often shorting myself in the event that someone else needs something first. I wasn't doing myself or my emotional health any favors by trying to please everyone all the time, holding my frustrations inside, and blaming myself for every upsetting moment in the history of life.

Today, we are highlighting the millions of strong and brave individuals who live with mental illness. Remember, your journey is worth sharing. #MIAW pic.twitter.com/DtIrFfcOME

- NAMI (@NAMICommunicate) October 9, 2018

5. Accept that caring for your mental health is an ongoing, imperfect journey.

Three years ago, I didn't know how to forgive myself for things beyond my control. I didn't know how to move on from my past or how to admit I'm a flawed human who sometimes needs more than she's willing to ask for (if she'll even ask at all). I still suffer from my disorders and I still have to work to manage them. But now, when all starts feeling lost again, I don't ignore the warning signs. I take precautionary measures like seeking support and health care, pouring myself into something that makes me happy, practicing self-care, and most of all, being patient with myself.

Mental health isn't a destination; it's a journey you'll be on for the rest of your life.

One bad day doesn't ruin them all. You will mess up. You will still cry. You will still battle the same emotions that brought you to your knees in the first place. In the three years since I've accepted my reality, I now understand things I couldn't in my “before.” I'm stronger than I give myself credit for, and if you see pieces of yourself in my story, then let me be the first to say that you are, too.

So, hold on, friend. You are seen.

If you are struggling and need help, call the National Alliance on Mental Illness HelpLine at 1-800-950-NAMI (6264), available Monday through Friday, 10 a.m.–6 p.m., ET. If this is an emergency, you can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) or text NAMI's Crisis Line at 741-741.

The post What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown appeared first on HelloGiggles.

[fuckyeahslightlyamusing-blog]

What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown

What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown

October 10th is World Mental Health Day.

You can't tell by looking at me, but three years ago, I had a complete breakdown-or an emotional health crisis. A lot has happened in the time since. I've taken a few steps forward, then twice the amount of steps back. I've been split apart and put back together. But most importantly, I'm still here, still navigating who I've become in the aftermath of something so earth-shattering, and still hoping to be seen.

If you've never witnessed, experienced, or heard of a mental health breakdown, it's an acute manifestation of an already lingering anxiety, depression, or bipolar disorder. The result is an inability to function in everyday life, feelings of hopelessness, and/or a feeling that you will never be “normal” again. It's an isolated state because you've either hidden the warning signs from loved ones, or denied them yourself. Even when managed, my anxiety and depression have me white-knuckling a cliff so as not to drop. If you know what panic feels like, then imagine a breakdown as a heightened version of that state-like trying to see through your car windshield while driving in a monsoon. That feeling doesn't let up until you've quite literally cracked up.

My experience, which happened after months of ignoring red flags, was a combination of stress, undiagnosed disorders wreaking havoc on my everyday life (specifically OCD and PTSD), occasional suicidal ideation, and the smallest of triggers (an argument that quickly went awry). In an instant, my panic inflated from 1 to 100. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see past my rapid heartbeat. I not only felt like the room was collapsing in on me, but the whole world. This definitive moment-one so burned into my memory that I can recall an internal sound, like the heated sizzle of my short-circuiting brain wires-became the catalyst for why I split in two.

There was the me before this event, and the me after. The in-between no longer existed.

Immediately after, I was numb. I'd been protected by a shell until the shell splintered and disintegrated to nothing. Left to fend for myself (or so I felt at the time), I became catatonic, fueled only by tears and the belief that I could never be okay again. I still remember lying on the floor with my laptop in front of me, desperate to find the help I knew I so desperately needed. But, as I quickly found, mental health care is complicated.

Here are some things I learned throughout this incredibly raw time. I hope this information can help you if you ever find yourself in a similar situation:

1. You have to reach out, even if you don't feel like it.

At the time, I was blessed with an amazing support system at my job. They weren't only my friends or my coworkers, but my family. Even still, I hesitated telling them what had happened to me, for fear of judgment. I was embarrassed by something that I couldn't control.

When I finally sent the emails and texts explaining what I was recovering from, I felt a sense of relief by getting it off my chest and I was greeted with the exact love, support, and encouragement that I should've come to expect from these people. I will forever consider them my saviors for hearing me, seeing me, and reminding me that I am not alone in this world. If you don't have a support system, it's imperative that you talk to someone. Take advantage of counselors through accessible mental health resources. It could mean the difference between coming back from the brink or dropping from that aforementioned cliff.

Your mental health is important too #WorldMentalHealthDay pic.twitter.com/9Y2znMhm5P

- Action for Happiness (@actionhappiness) October 9, 2018

2. The path to recovery may be tedious.

Shortly after my breakdown, as I lay on the floor with my laptop while my husband desperately tried to understand, I searched for help. And I searched. And I searched. And I searched. Turns out, when you factor in insurance barriers, the fact that you are not feeling suicidal in that exact moment, and a doctor's track record for successful treatment, finding good health care is more difficult than it sounds. Most of the professionals who I wanted to see were completely booked with appointments that had already been set months in advance. and had room for emergencies only. I wasn't a threat to myself-just more dazed and lost than usual-and I told myself that those spots should be reserved for someone in far darker places than I felt at the time. But I still needed help.

Days later, I called a help line and an inpatient facility, and the reality of it all terrified me into hanging up. I believed I could figure it out on my own-however wrong that idea was. But I forced myself to keep searching for treatment because my life and emotional well-being was at stake. I am so glad I did, because I eventually found the right, available doctors for me.

No matter how much work it is, you have to keep searching.

Leanne Surfleet/Getty Images

3. Go to the appointments and do the work, even when it gets exhausting.

At the beginning of my treatment, I went through three forms of therapy. I'm a believer in going big or going home, and this was the most important thing I've ever needed to go big for. One therapist specialized in cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), where I learned tools for grounding myself in the present moment. CBT challenged me to stop grieving my past and to stop looking into the future so I could breathe in the present. I'm not going to lie; it's hard. I failed (still fail) often. It takes practice, and sometimes, I don't feel mentally fit to go through the motions. But when done properly, it works for me.

My second therapist helped me work through childhood traumas that were the long-standing cause of my breakdown. These sessions were emotionally draining and I often left exhausted after cleansing myself of all that plagued me. Seeing this therapist meant facing my demons head on. It was the most difficult thing I've ever done and, to be honest, I stopped going after my grandmother died. As my therapist herself warned, my grandma was the glue holding a lot of me together. Without her in my life, I didn't feel strong enough to continue such intensive therapy. That's what's so hard about these disorders: They lie, convincing you that you aren't strong enough. I know I am now.

The third form of therapy was group grief counseling to address my deepest wound-the loss of my biological father to cancer. As I sat, listening to others share their stories of loss, I began to understand that I truly wasn't alone. On some level, we all understand pain.

KatarzynaBialasiewicz/Getty Images

4. Practice continual self-care.

As the mother of two children with multiple jobs and to-do lists, I'm never not busy. That takes a toll. After the incident, I took a hard look at all I'd done to take care of myself despite whatever life demanded of me-a kind of inventory. Turns out, I'm the last person that I care for, often shorting myself in the event that someone else needs something first. I wasn't doing myself or my emotional health any favors by trying to please everyone all the time, holding my frustrations inside, and blaming myself for every upsetting moment in the history of life.

Today, we are highlighting the millions of strong and brave individuals who live with mental illness. Remember, your journey is worth sharing. #MIAW pic.twitter.com/DtIrFfcOME

- NAMI (@NAMICommunicate) October 9, 2018

5. Accept that caring for your mental health is an ongoing, imperfect journey.

Three years ago, I didn't know how to forgive myself for things beyond my control. I didn't know how to move on from my past or how to admit I'm a flawed human who sometimes needs more than she's willing to ask for (if she'll even ask at all). I still suffer from my disorders and I still have to work to manage them. But now, when all starts feeling lost again, I don't ignore the warning signs. I take precautionary measures like seeking support and health care, pouring myself into something that makes me happy, practicing self-care, and most of all, being patient with myself.

Mental health isn't a destination; it's a journey you'll be on for the rest of your life.

One bad day doesn't ruin them all. You will mess up. You will still cry. You will still battle the same emotions that brought you to your knees in the first place. In the three years since I've accepted my reality, I now understand things I couldn't in my “before.” I'm stronger than I give myself credit for, and if you see pieces of yourself in my story, then let me be the first to say that you are, too.

So, hold on, friend. You are seen.

If you are struggling and need help, call the National Alliance on Mental Illness HelpLine at 1-800-950-NAMI (6264), available Monday through Friday, 10 a.m.–6 p.m., ET. If this is an emergency, you can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) or text NAMI's Crisis Line at 741-741.

The post What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown appeared first on HelloGiggles.

[typhoonprecious-blog]

What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown

What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown

October 10th is World Mental Health Day.

You can't tell by looking at me, but three years ago, I had a complete breakdown-or an emotional health crisis. A lot has happened in the time since. I've taken a few steps forward, then twice the amount of steps back. I've been split apart and put back together. But most importantly, I'm still here, still navigating who I've become in the aftermath of something so earth-shattering, and still hoping to be seen.

If you've never witnessed, experienced, or heard of a mental health breakdown, it's an acute manifestation of an already lingering anxiety, depression, or bipolar disorder. The result is an inability to function in everyday life, feelings of hopelessness, and/or a feeling that you will never be “normal” again. It's an isolated state because you've either hidden the warning signs from loved ones, or denied them yourself. Even when managed, my anxiety and depression have me white-knuckling a cliff so as not to drop. If you know what panic feels like, then imagine a breakdown as a heightened version of that state-like trying to see through your car windshield while driving in a monsoon. That feeling doesn't let up until you've quite literally cracked up.

My experience, which happened after months of ignoring red flags, was a combination of stress, undiagnosed disorders wreaking havoc on my everyday life (specifically OCD and PTSD), occasional suicidal ideation, and the smallest of triggers (an argument that quickly went awry). In an instant, my panic inflated from 1 to 100. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see past my rapid heartbeat. I not only felt like the room was collapsing in on me, but the whole world. This definitive moment-one so burned into my memory that I can recall an internal sound, like the heated sizzle of my short-circuiting brain wires-became the catalyst for why I split in two.

There was the me before this event, and the me after. The in-between no longer existed.

Immediately after, I was numb. I'd been protected by a shell until the shell splintered and disintegrated to nothing. Left to fend for myself (or so I felt at the time), I became catatonic, fueled only by tears and the belief that I could never be okay again. I still remember lying on the floor with my laptop in front of me, desperate to find the help I knew I so desperately needed. But, as I quickly found, mental health care is complicated.

Here are some things I learned throughout this incredibly raw time. I hope this information can help you if you ever find yourself in a similar situation:

1. You have to reach out, even if you don't feel like it.

At the time, I was blessed with an amazing support system at my job. They weren't only my friends or my coworkers, but my family. Even still, I hesitated telling them what had happened to me, for fear of judgment. I was embarrassed by something that I couldn't control.

When I finally sent the emails and texts explaining what I was recovering from, I felt a sense of relief by getting it off my chest and I was greeted with the exact love, support, and encouragement that I should've come to expect from these people. I will forever consider them my saviors for hearing me, seeing me, and reminding me that I am not alone in this world. If you don't have a support system, it's imperative that you talk to someone. Take advantage of counselors through accessible mental health resources. It could mean the difference between coming back from the brink or dropping from that aforementioned cliff.

Your mental health is important too #WorldMentalHealthDay pic.twitter.com/9Y2znMhm5P

- Action for Happiness (@actionhappiness) October 9, 2018

2. The path to recovery may be tedious.

Shortly after my breakdown, as I lay on the floor with my laptop while my husband desperately tried to understand, I searched for help. And I searched. And I searched. And I searched. Turns out, when you factor in insurance barriers, the fact that you are not feeling suicidal in that exact moment, and a doctor's track record for successful treatment, finding good health care is more difficult than it sounds. Most of the professionals who I wanted to see were completely booked with appointments that had already been set months in advance. and had room for emergencies only. I wasn't a threat to myself-just more dazed and lost than usual-and I told myself that those spots should be reserved for someone in far darker places than I felt at the time. But I still needed help.

Days later, I called a help line and an inpatient facility, and the reality of it all terrified me into hanging up. I believed I could figure it out on my own-however wrong that idea was. But I forced myself to keep searching for treatment because my life and emotional well-being was at stake. I am so glad I did, because I eventually found the right, available doctors for me.

No matter how much work it is, you have to keep searching.

Leanne Surfleet/Getty Images

3. Go to the appointments and do the work, even when it gets exhausting.

At the beginning of my treatment, I went through three forms of therapy. I'm a believer in going big or going home, and this was the most important thing I've ever needed to go big for. One therapist specialized in cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), where I learned tools for grounding myself in the present moment. CBT challenged me to stop grieving my past and to stop looking into the future so I could breathe in the present. I'm not going to lie; it's hard. I failed (still fail) often. It takes practice, and sometimes, I don't feel mentally fit to go through the motions. But when done properly, it works for me.

My second therapist helped me work through childhood traumas that were the long-standing cause of my breakdown. These sessions were emotionally draining and I often left exhausted after cleansing myself of all that plagued me. Seeing this therapist meant facing my demons head on. It was the most difficult thing I've ever done and, to be honest, I stopped going after my grandmother died. As my therapist herself warned, my grandma was the glue holding a lot of me together. Without her in my life, I didn't feel strong enough to continue such intensive therapy. That's what's so hard about these disorders: They lie, convincing you that you aren't strong enough. I know I am now.

The third form of therapy was group grief counseling to address my deepest wound-the loss of my biological father to cancer. As I sat, listening to others share their stories of loss, I began to understand that I truly wasn't alone. On some level, we all understand pain.

KatarzynaBialasiewicz/Getty Images

4. Practice continual self-care.

As the mother of two children with multiple jobs and to-do lists, I'm never not busy. That takes a toll. After the incident, I took a hard look at all I'd done to take care of myself despite whatever life demanded of me-a kind of inventory. Turns out, I'm the last person that I care for, often shorting myself in the event that someone else needs something first. I wasn't doing myself or my emotional health any favors by trying to please everyone all the time, holding my frustrations inside, and blaming myself for every upsetting moment in the history of life.

Today, we are highlighting the millions of strong and brave individuals who live with mental illness. Remember, your journey is worth sharing. #MIAW pic.twitter.com/DtIrFfcOME

- NAMI (@NAMICommunicate) October 9, 2018

5. Accept that caring for your mental health is an ongoing, imperfect journey.

Three years ago, I didn't know how to forgive myself for things beyond my control. I didn't know how to move on from my past or how to admit I'm a flawed human who sometimes needs more than she's willing to ask for (if she'll even ask at all). I still suffer from my disorders and I still have to work to manage them. But now, when all starts feeling lost again, I don't ignore the warning signs. I take precautionary measures like seeking support and health care, pouring myself into something that makes me happy, practicing self-care, and most of all, being patient with myself.

Mental health isn't a destination; it's a journey you'll be on for the rest of your life.

One bad day doesn't ruin them all. You will mess up. You will still cry. You will still battle the same emotions that brought you to your knees in the first place. In the three years since I've accepted my reality, I now understand things I couldn't in my “before.” I'm stronger than I give myself credit for, and if you see pieces of yourself in my story, then let me be the first to say that you are, too.

So, hold on, friend. You are seen.

If you are struggling and need help, call the National Alliance on Mental Illness HelpLine at 1-800-950-NAMI (6264), available Monday through Friday, 10 a.m.–6 p.m., ET. If this is an emergency, you can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) or text NAMI's Crisis Line at 741-741.

The post What I've learned about caring for my mental health since having a breakdown appeared first on HelloGiggles.