Inspiration Saturday Sunday

Look I know I'm late okay?? But I wanted to do this because it seemed nice and I love pretty pictures. Thank you @lemonlyman-dotcom for the tag 🩷

Top lyrics are from I know it won't work by Gracie Abrams

Open tag because it's pretty late! 🩷

....

Today was... just awful.

I'm going to be complaining. If you don't want to read it, PLEASE STOP NOW AND SCROLL DOWN.

...okay, we good? Last chance.

...

.......

Okay.

I had a great evening with Terry, after a couple of days of minor marriagey mishaps. I fell asleep happy.

But I woke up screaming.

Yep. Once again, I was plagued by sleep-paralysis, which translated to dying in my dream, which resulted in me screaming my lungs out at 0830 on a Friday morning.

I couldn't get back to sleep. I wanted to - I felt like shit - but I couldn't. I had no energy to talk to anyone, even the people I need and want to talk to on a daily basis, all morning.

By the time I was medicated enough to walk around, my phone crashed. I got locked out of every single fucking App except Twitter and YouTube (conspiracy???), all because of an "Hub update". And even when I clicked the stupid fucking bullshit update button, it spent over a fucking hour telling me "Update Pending". FUCKING DO IT NOW!!!

I missed talking to everyone, save @anglejoyce , and even then, my phone crashed again in the middle of our convo.

And I crashed with it. I broke down. I cried and cried over it.

It wasn't the phone. Because the easy solution was always there: use the fucking laptop instead, moron.

But I forgot.

Because the phone was the catalyst to the bullshit fest that rained on me after that. I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't write, I couldn't draw, I couldn't talk.

I just sat there and cried into my knees, the phone at my feet and still glitching the fuck out.

I felt empty. Scared. Lonely and afraid. Like I could hear my body deteriorating, disintegrating... decomposing...

I broke, because I can't control what I want to be able to control.

And that's the problem.

Because it's impossible to control everything, even stuff that I should be able to control. I haven't been in control since 2010.

It broke me.

It hurt.

And I didn't say a word to anyone, because I'd already concluded that I did not deserve to talk to anyone. Simply because I had lost control, and was unable to shut that self-loathing voice up. I deprived myself of people I love to punish myself, because I felt that those people deserve better than my love.

Even now, I'm struggling. Even as I sit on the couch, one bought specifically for my ailing body, in a home specifically purchased and furnished for me (I know this, because Terry admitted it), watching the person I married cuddle our cat to his chest like a baby he loves, a cat he took in before I even moved in, because he was a menace to my mum and had to go.

I'm... very, very lucky. And also unlucky.

And I think...

I hate myself for it.

I hate myself, for getting sick; for needing my appendix out; for the pain I got as a result, one I feel every day; for the gallbladder I never should've removed; for marrying the one person in the world who understands me the most, who is so generous and kind, who makes me want for nothing; for being ugly; for smoking and getting high; for needing countless drugs to make my body function at bare minimum; for not being a good friend; for not being able to fix everyone's problems; for always being the queer one, the weird one, the one everyone gets off beating up...

I could go on forever, fill a book about why I hate myself. I have even been encouraged to do that, but I'm too terrified, because I know how bad that hate is, and how cruel I am to myself.

But it has to stop.

I can't live like this, anymore. I can't. I can't live with looking in the mirror and seeing an enemy. I want to look in the mirror and see someone I love. I want to be confident. I want to stop giving a fuck about body hair, or my teeth, or my big nose, or my myriad skin conditions, or my ability to sweat simply by thinking about moving...

I want to look into people's eyes, and not see them flinch. I never want to see anyone turn their mind off when talking to me. I never want to have to cry and cry and cry when they leave, because they soon agreed with the vitriol I spouted about myself...

I want one day, just one fucking day, that doesn't have me thinking any of the following: I'm stupid, I'm ugly, I'm too fat, I'm too pale, I'm too tall, too weird, too loud, too obsessive, too needy, too hairy, too high...

Or that I don't deserve the following: my pain, my loneliness, my insecurity, my past sexual history, my past romantic history, my past ANYTHING...

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, for burdening everyone like this, like I have been for two years. And I don't mean that I'm the burden, anymore. Rather, my hatred of myself is that burden, one I'm constantly asking everyone to look at it, to feel sorry for it, to help fix it...

But that's my job. Nobody can fix anyone but themselves.

I'm lazy.

I'm so lazy that I don't even make an effort to like myself.

I want to be constantly corrected in my fears, just in case, in the span of mere days, the person I'm being redundant to might change their mind, and not like me anymore - without realising that it's that behaviour that makes minds change.

I need to learn to trust, more.

I need to learn to trust MYSELF.

And I figured all of this out because of a phone glitch.

I'm still hurting. Still embarrassed and ashamed of the violence of my breakdown (luckily, I was alone, but unluckily for the neighbours, I was loud). Still not sure if I deserve to try and talk to those people I need and love (you know who you are; if you think it's you, it is. If you don't think it's you, but want it to be, it is).

But... I'm also still trying.

I'm still trying to coax myself into sending emails, or leaving messages (haha, no go, but I'm fucking trying, okay?!), or initiating sex, or asking for a hug, or advice, or a shoulder to scream into, and knowing it's - I'm - not a bother...

But... I think this is important to add, because I know many of you are worried about it (despite my angry self, one I've named Ma'ra, saying you would prefer it), I'm just gonna add this disclaimer, here.

Sometimes, I may have periods of time in which I am suicidal. They are, unfortunately frequent, and often, sadly, daily. There have been moments that I've made plans, and a few times I've written goodbyes. This is the reality of the disease(s) I have.

But I am never going to kill myself.

Lemme repeat: I AM NEVER GOING TO KILL MYSELF.

Because... I may sometimes want to die, but...

I really, really don't want to hurt anyone that way.

I struggle with trying to accept that such a thing would hurt people, but when I reverse the roles with others that I love, I get scared, so scared, too scared. I can't do that to people I love. And if I love them, it stands to reason that they at least like me, and wouldn't want to see me die, let alone in such a sad way.

It's traumatising. For everyone involved. And... to imagine that... when I imagine doing that...

I can't. I fucking can't! Because I don't want to hurt anyone! But I MUST accept that doing that would hurt EVERYONE. This isn't about ego. This is fact.

I... I'm...

I... I am... fffffuck...

I am... loved.

I AM loved.

And I love in return.

Killing myself would be the most hateful, cruel, and despicable crime that I could ever commit, not just to others, but also to myself. To murder myself...

No.

Fucking NO.

No.

...

......

Shit. This got long...

Tl;dr: I had a breakdown but in the middle of writing this had an epiphany and decided I will never commit suicide because I love you and I want to love me, too.

💚

ENG Media Log Number Four

Instagram, we need to talk: Write a letter to your favourite app. It must be either a thank you letter, or a break-up letter. Provide detailed reasons for your choice. Do research.

 Dear Instagram, thanks for being a source of entertainment, communication, and occasionally news. I do however believe that my time could be better spent than receiving entertainment, communication, and occasionally news from you, as the entertainment is lackluster (I’m just not much of a meme-ishly inclined person honestly), and the news is mostly unreliable or far less coherent than other sources of news. The only real, lastingly relevant positive of your service is the communication, which can be easier than text messaging, especially since I have a Samsung which does not enable me to form/join group messages, a service you provide. That feature is useful for communicating with multiple people at once.

However, the issues don’t end there, and that is what we need to discuss. Many articles and blogs written by respected outlets and experts tell a very negative story about your affects on teenagers, a group I happen to be a member of. Since you are a platform for connection and communication, people tend to share and chat a lot through your service. This can lead to an affect the BBC termed “FOMO” or the fear of missing out. Teenagers challenged to keep away from their social media described feeling isolated and closed off from their social community, and with good reason: a fair portion of their lives are online, on platforms like yours. Another unfortunate affect of your service is a general decrease in self confidence among teens and young adults, who must observe, through their Instagram, a myriad of seemingly happier, prettier, smarter, funnier, stronger, and generally better people online. Whether or not these peculiarly pretty posting people actually are quite so perfect or perhaps pretending is besides the point: the poor teenage persons who absorb such content tend to feel worse about themselves. They develop a belief that these perfect post producers’ lives probably are much more positive than their own, whose poor paltry posts pale in comparison. This is rather problematic, as poor self-confidence can lead to all manner of detrimental affects on a person’s life.

Between FOMO, confidence degradation, and general social anxiety, social media platforms like yourself can cause real harm to a media consumer. I personally don’t pertain to these issues, but they are still pertinent to my continued use of your platform. In fact, even though I don’t suffer from these now, they could very well become problematic in the future. But there is one big issue that affects me heavily, which is causing me to complain here and consider discontinuing my collusion with you and your callous life-controlling digital complex, the content of which I might henceforth prefer not to consume.

As far as FOMO and general social media fed anxiety goes, I’m currently fairly healthy. I don’t post much on your platform, and I don’t worry too much about the numbers of likes/followers/etc. That could all change in the future of course, but right now my worry rests on the concept of time, my use of it, and your involvement in that use. You see despite the previously stated usefulness of your communication service, most of my time spent on your application is simply scrolling through the posts of those I follow, my eyes glazed and my tongue lolling out of my mouth as I remain flat in bed, the only muscles engaged being my neck, staring at the screen of endless memes, ads, and artwork, enjoying none of the experience, yet unable to end it. Well maybe it isn’t as bad as all that, but you do take up an alarmingly high amount of my time. Waking up int the morning, often the first thing I look at is my Instagram. If having a slow moment during the day, I’ll turn to Instagram to pass the time. Overwhelmed with work or other responsibilities, Instagram lets me forget about them for a while. The problem is that this morning check often makes me late for school, the pass-the-time-moments extend into other responsibilities, and the relaxation check stops me from being productive.

Essentially what I am doing, is consistently replacing time that could’ve been better spent with your service, scrolling endlessly as the limited minutes of my life shoot by, forever lost to me. I simply cannot continue this way.

Instagram, I’m breaking up with you. Don’t be sad; I’m sure there are plenty of other users to steal away the time and productivity from.

In Which the Scholar Embarks on a Voyage, pt. 3

(Artwork: Juxtaposition of Black and White (and Green) no. 99, or No Longer Bread. Ink on Paper. © The Scholar, July 2017)

The time is nigh for me to bring this sorry tale to its conclusion. I have steeled myself against the ignominy with an immense helping of marshmallow-laden breakfast cereal and a scented candle, and yet my resolve wavers. Strength, I say unto myself, courage, for the event must be told.

Why must it be told? Why torture myself to inform you of my great misfortune? The answer is simple: it is imperative that the reader understand that I, above all, have suffered. Surely I could simply state the fact and leave it, but to do so would be to leave doubt in your mind. Every person thinks themselves the most unfortunate, but I must prove unto all that I actually am. A lesser person would fold, would crumple beneath the horrors that I have withstood.

Now, we left off just as I had settled into my place at the back of the dank metal tube whose wheels were to convey me in three hours’ time to the front door of my dear, suffering mother. The bus was to depart within minutes. There was a welcome buffer of several seats between me and the nearest other occupants, a mother and child appearing to me to have comparable levels of intelligence (note that this witticism is not intended as a compliment to the child). More passengers boarded by the second, however, and I feared that my buffer would be lost to the spatial insensitivity of some imbecile.

Just then I had a stroke of insight. The reader will, perhaps, recall that I had smuggled on board a specimen from a home biology experiment I had theretofore been conducting: a slice of white sandwich bread sporting an advanced splotch of bread mold. I had brought it along strictly in the interest of scientific inquiry, but it seemed it could serve me in a more pragmatic capacity. I placed it on the seat in front of me and waited.

It wasn’t long before there approached a boor of the sort one would expect to see riding on a bus. I watched him with a devilish countenance, glaring him down with all the fire my eyes could project. I’m sure this in itself was intimidating, for though I am physically slight and slow to violence, the surgical mask I wore combined with my traveling cap must have given me a rather unhinged appearance. The brute, sadly, was undeterred by my threatening visage; I don’t know if he even saw it before arriving at the seat ahead of mine, well within my delicate personal space.

He paused, noting the specimen on the seat. I had assumed that the mold specimen would quietly deter him and all other comers, but he did not shrink even in the face of that discovery. Instead, he reached for it. I sprang to action.

“Unhand the bread!” I cried.

He recoiled, his dark designs frustrated by my valiance. Rather than show any kind of courage and accept my challenge, he instead shrank like a coward, muttering toxic epithets of little effect. In this moment, however, he revealed a grand flaw in my plan. While I had successfully blocked his entrance into the seat before me, I had overestimated the moldy bread’s effect on deterring the occupancy of neighboring seats. My aggressor sat in the seat across the aisle.

Woe, woe I felt as my tormentor stripped from me my buffer of solitude. Not only was I doomed to pass my minutes in a sardine can on wheels, but I had also to sit within potential smelling distance of a man who, though not yet having offended, was sure to emit some foul odor before long. I wondered if my facemask would withstand it.

Rather than give that heathen the satisfaction of seeing my discomfiture at his presence, I faced the window to my right as the great behemoth of a vehicle began its departure from the station. Not knowing whether to breathe a sigh of relief at the expedition’s outset or to gasp at the multitude of frightening prospects that might become of me, I struggled to breathe at all for a moment.

That blasted metallic cavity in which I rode was nightmarishly bumpy. I had hoped against hope to rely on the sleep-inducing symphonies of Ludwig Beethoven to calm my troubled nerves and drop me into slumber for the duration of the trip, but with the continual quaking, the incessant swaying to-and-fro of the vehicle, not a modicum of rest was to be had. I was reminded of tales I had read in the post of torture stratagems designed around the deprivation of a victim’s sleep. Clearly, the transit authority was composed of sadists, intent on finding the acceptable threshold of comfort and always falling short of it. I placed my headphones back in my valise with the utmost dejection.

With the swaying so pernicious, so maddening, I was similarly unable to calm my troubled mind with regards to the enigma of my mother’s missive. It preyed on my mental faculties, threatening me with wild scenarios of domestic unrest and international intrigue. It so occupied my thoughts that I scarcely noticed the approaching tattooed woman until she was nearly upon me.

“Stay thine sullied skin from touching me!” I commanded, recoiling startled from her. The wench, however, seemed not to be intentionally accosting me, but rather accessing a curious little closet in the rear of the vehicle, whose entrance was just to my left.

What could that space be? Was it a pantry, stocked with simulacra of sustenance for the braindead clientele? Was it, improbable as it may be, an open balcony, for the benefit of health-conscious travelers seeking fresh air and elderly travelers seeking a patio on which to ruminate? Could it be some sort of sensory deprivation environment, designed to reduce the severe adverse effects of extended bus travel on the psyche? This last option, though absurd to expect from the likes of the local transit authority, captured my mind. If it were so, then the chamber must be mine and mine alone, for I alone held the mental capacity to appreciate it.

I arose and began to bang on the door. “Relinquish the chamber posthaste!” I cried.

“Keep your top on, I’m almost done,” she replied. I thought to object that I was not, of course, in any mind to doff my shirt and that to suggest as such was patent stupidity, but I sharply realized that the statement was a crude attempt at idiom. I could not return to reasonable civilization soon enough.

The door opened. The ink-stained mongrel of a woman stood squarely blocking my path, emitting an odor most foul.

“Get—out—of—my—way!” I urged as I battled past the woman, catching an elbow to the stomach and a shoulder to the face in my efforts to negotiate the limited space by the door. In the struggle, I lost my balance and fell face first into ever-insuperable embarrassment, the worst I have ever endured.

You see, the chamber was not a balcony, a greenhouse, a conservatory, or a sensory deprivation chamber. It was neither a pantry. When I fell, I toppled onto the grimed floor of a (and my hands shake as I hesitate to write this next phrase), onto the grimed floor of a public restroom.

How could I, most talented and gifted among men, have been brought so low? I pondered my outrageous fortune as I wallowed there amongst filth, even more literal than the human filth I have heretofore described. Why did fate and god and science see fit to abase me so, to drag my good name through the mud and my good person through lavatory grime? And, more pressingly, what was I to do thereafter? Stricken with horror, I lay paralyzed across the threshold of the water closet, willing myself in vain to arise.

“O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,” I soliloquized as I lay prone. The imbeciles with whom I shared my travels took no notice of my suffering, but only to glance stealthily and quickly feign ignorance.

I called them on their misdirection. “You cannot fool me!” I cried. “In the name of all that is good and proper, I demand assistance!” But what kind of adjuration was that, to the proto-hominids around me, who surely held the same respect towards goodness and propriety that they demonstrated towards hygiene and dress? The encroacher who had earlier taken the rear seat opposite my own was the only to respond, and only to ask with characteristic consideration (which is to say none at all) what was my problem.

What response could sufficiently reprimand such an idiotic question? He sat not five feet from where I wallowed, but could not see the nature of my plight. I deemed that further communication with the lout could only damage my mental state, and thus ignored his inquiry.

Where I lay in the restroom there was nothing within reach on which to hoist myself, save for the metallic seat of the toilet itself, which, like any person of class, I dared not touch. I did find, however, that by wriggling myself just so, I could inch out of the stall and into the bus aisle. I admit it must have looked rather silly, me slithering along the floor, but I thought not of appearance. Nor thought I of the myriad pathogens and infective agents that I was allowing to contact my clothing and exposed dermis as I crept. It is truly remarkable what the human body can accomplish in a moment of crisis.

I had thought to hoist myself back into my seat and continue the ride southward in as much cognitive detachment from present circumstances as I could accomplish. However, I had, in my enthusiastic wriggling, proceeded one seat too far forward. As I reached blindly up to the seat, my hand came down not upon seat cushioning, but rather the sickly fuzz of a moldy piece of bread.

My reaction was involuntary. I retracted my hand, feeling ever sicker in my innards, and the bread came with it. It would seem either that the mold had developed adhesive properties, or my hand had become sticky from contact with floor detritus. Either way, in a moment the bread was soaring, thanks to an overzealous response from my hand to fling it.

The remainder of the ride I recall only in snippets: the bread piece colliding with the back of the tattooed lady’s bulbous skull; her angry rush at me; once again lying on the bus floor, this time suffering the pain of repetitive kicks and bruises; and then blackness.

When I regained consciousness, my transport had come to a stop, but not at my destination. I found myself outside of it, being hoisted into an ambulance, head splitting, clothing soiled, and reputation irrevocably marred. I managed a pained whisper to the EMT that I was not normally in such a disgusting, pitiful state, but the slouch didn’t acknowledge me with any more than the minimum required of professional courtesy.

I had every intent to sue the assaulting tattoo woman, but I would discover later that the remainder of the bus passengers had conspired against me. They all colluded in the absurd fiction that my assailant never touched me, that I had simply cringed at her approach and crumpled to the floor. Even as silly as it would be to believe one of them individually, their collective and coordinated testimony created an undeniably strong case for the defendant. As usual, justice was not to be had by the Scholar.

There did come from the event, however, a small karmic consolation: I was free of the cursed bus, as the ambulance carried me the remainder of the voyage. While the EMTs tending to my ailments were poster-children of banality, they were at least not of the awful pedigree that sat inside of that great metal tube. Sadly, my caretakers demonstrated only minimal shades of competence with their profession, for as I requested them to document my state of injury for legal retribution, they failed to find any contusions or lacerations.

Thus concluded my harrowing voyage southward. I arrived via ambulance, in pain both mental and physical, coated in floor grime and bread mold, and preparing against my better reason to return to my mother’s home, the patrimonial shack within two-hundred miles of which I had not set foot in several years.

The tale of my arrival on the doorstep has yet to be told, of course, but I grow weary yet again and require a bath. I shall return in my next installment to apprise you, my dear readership, of what lay beyond.

You can make wise choices and improve yourself—by yourself. Just use these experts’ techniques for self-coaching. Chelsea Greenwood February 5, 2015 Orange is the new black, 40 is the new 30, and life and career coaches are the new personal trainers. From Fortune 500 CEOs to Hollywood starlets to Oprah, people are performing better, making smarter decisions and reaching new heights in areas such as work, finance, relationships and health, all thanks to coaches. Executive coaching is defined by the International Coach Federation as “partnering with clients in a thought-provoking and creative process that inspires them to maximize their personal and professional potential.” But it can be pricey—as much as $3,500 an hour, with a median hourly fee of $500, according to Harvard Business Review’s “What Can Coaches Do for You?” research report. Unfortunately, many people don’t have the money to work with a life coach. A 2013 study by Stanford University and The Miles Group shows that two-thirds of CEOs are not receiving coaching from sources outside their companies, and 100 percent of participants wish they were. What’s the average hardworking American to do? Consider this: Many people want to work with a personal trainer but, unable to afford one, they take matters into their own hands. And if it’s possible to move training out of the gym and under your own roof, does that mean it’s possible to bring other coaching in-house, so to speak, and go it alone? Many experts say yes. Self-coaching, by applying professional coaching techniques to your own goals and experiences, is not only viable but the ultimate goal that coaches help clients achieve. It takes discipline and dedication, but it can be done. “Most people won’t have a professional coach for most of their lives,” says Marshall Goldsmith, Ph.D., globally renowned leadership coach and best-selling author. “I typically work with people for a year to a year and a half. So being your own coach is a great idea.” Adds Martha Beck, who trains life coaches worldwide and has written three New York Times best-sellers: “Self-coaching is what I teach coaches and clients to do. That’s the goal. We each have the ability to learn wisdom, and as we learn wisdom, we become our own counselor, and we start using experience as our teacher. And then we’re home free.” When to Self-Coach First things first: How do you know when it’s the right time to put on your coaching hat? Beck, whom USA Today has called “the best-known life coach in the country,” says the primary reason clients seek coaching is change. “Either they’re in the middle of change and don’t know what to expect, or they need to change and can’t make it happen,” Beck says. Common scenarios of the former include receiving a promotion, taking on a challenging new project or moving cross-country, whereas situations involving the latter include making a career change, losing weight, quitting smoking, etc. If you feel anxious, unsupported or depressed about a particular part of your life, these are signs that coaching could be needed. “There’s no shortage of symptoms, because the way your true self signifies it needs support is to create unhappiness and discontent,” Beck says. Identify Areas for Improvement Once you’ve established that you need to make changes in your life, the next step is identifying which areas to target: career, health, finances, etc. Beck recommends that you first focus on “the area of least satisfaction…. If a person has a good life, but there are some things that aren’t great, work on the stuff that’s not great. If you have a terrible life, work on what’s most terrible. It is in the place of most suffering where there is potential to create the most improvement.” She places great importance on the body compass, which is made up of “physical sensations that happen when you turn toward something that’s good for you or something that’s not good for you. If you do nothing more than follow the sensations of liberation and release versus contracting and tension in the body, you’ll make very good instinctive decisions.” David Rock, Ph.D., director of the NeuroLeadership Institute, suggests looking at your thought patterns: “Anytime you find yourself thinking the same thought over and over—I wish I could (fill in the blank). I wish I could get more organized. I wish I could build a social life—if you don’t change things, you probably will not change the situation.” Even if you identify myriad areas needing improvement, experts caution that you should tackle them one at a time, working on each for three months to a year or until you’re satisfied. Set Manageable Goals Rock, author of the best-seller Your Brain at Work, says research supports goals that are short and to the point: “A goal that is three to seven words is fantastic. If you can’t remember something, it doesn’t live in your world. It’s got to be embedded in your brain.” He says it’s also crucial that the goal is expressed positively: “It’s approach goals versus avoidance goals. You’re moving toward a positive instead of staying away from a negative. The way the brain works, we try to move toward something, and goals are about having more of something.” So if your goal is to be calmer, you’ll notice calm in your life. But if your goal is to be less stressed, you’ll notice stress, because that’s what your brain is focused on. “Research shows that people achieve their goals in half the time and more sustainably if they’re approach goals,” Rock says. Goldsmith practices and swears by “the daily question process” developed by Andrew Thorn, Ph.D. You start by creating a spreadsheet; in the first column, write 20 to 30 questions representing who you want to be and what you want to achieve. “Ask yourself, What is really important in my life, and who is the person I want to become? Most of us don’t need a coach to figure that out,” Goldsmith says. Some of his personal questions include: How much do I weigh? Did I make time for my wife? How many minutes did I write? The next seven columns in your spreadsheet are for days of the week. Fill out the same questionnaire daily—your answers must be yes, no or a number—and, by the end of the week, you will have a scorecard that “will tell you how your behavior lines up with your values,” Goldsmith says. Over time, as you reach your goals, create new goals and new questions. “It’ll help you get better in almost anything. It keeps you focused on what’s important.” When self-coaching, a journal is also a great tool. Beck recommends recording your quality of life daily on a scale of zero to 10: Super-happy is 10, and miserable is zero. Write down a few things you did each day. “The purpose is to look back and see what you were doing on the days you felt bad,” she says. “It’s a way of looking at: Where did my happiness go? Where did I find joy?” She says this method was eye-opening when she was considering starting her own television program. Through her journal, Beck realized that all her happiest moments were outside—so it didn’t make sense to stick herself in a studio. “Because we’re so blind to our own happiness, I didn’t actually know that until I saw it in a journal,” she says. Gather Support Be aware that just because you’re not working with a coach, you don’t have to go through self-coaching without any external support. “Research shows that being in a support network is incredibly empowering and helpful for staying on track with goals,” Rock says. “It’s one of the reasons Alcoholics Anonymous works so well.” He credits that, in part, to positive social pressure: When you state a goal to friends, family and colleagues, you’re more likely to stick to the goal because you don’t want to look bad. So spread the word to your circles and lean on them when times get tough. Goldsmith says his clients learn more from the people around them than they learn from him: “Figure out who the most important people are in your life. Involve them in helping you change.” If you want to become a better listener, ask your spouse to provide ideas for doing so. Practice those and then return to that person in two weeks for feedback and more ideas. Research shows that those who follow up on their goal progress with others enjoy huge improvement, Goldsmith says. 10 Life-Coaching Affirmations In the companion guide to her international best-seller Finding Your Own North Star, Beck offers a list of 10 short-but-sweet affirmations to help encourage you through the sometimes-daunting transformational process that accompanies any type of coaching. She recommends that you post these positive statements on the walls of your home, your office and elsewhere—“including the walls of your mind” if you start to feel anxious, frustrated or hopeless. “Repeat these until you believe them,” Beck writes. 1. There is more than enough wealth, love, and happiness to go around. 2. I am succeeding because of my choices, not blind luck. 3. If something goes wrong, I’ll figure out how to make it right. 4. I created this situation once, and I can create it again—and again, and again … 5. If I lost everything, lots of people would be willing to help me. 6. I can deal with my life at this moment—and that’s all I’ll ever have to do. 7. Nothing can take my destiny away from me. 8. There’s much, much more good stuff where this came from. 9. I will always have plenty. 10. I have free access to infinite richness. Be Prepared for Setbacks Self-coaching isn’t easy, and it’s crucial to acknowledge that from the beginning. Such understanding will help when you hit obstacles along the way—because setbacks are inevitable, and even the most successful people in the world fail. “When you fail, forgive yourself for whatever happened yesterday,” Goldsmith says. “Realize it’s a day-to-day process. If you quit, you won’t get better.” Say you’re a golfer, and you hit a shot into a sand trap. If you get upset, your next shot will probably be worse. Instead tell yourself: What happened, happened. I’m going to start over. I’m going to hit the best shot I can. If you constantly hit hurdles, closely examine your environment. What factors at home, in your career or in your social circle could be working against you? “If you don’t change your environment, it tends to drive you back to the same behavior,” Goldsmith says. Beck points out that everyone reaches a point in coaching where he or she fails. When this happens, Beck recommends asking the following questions, using one’s intuition as a barometer: Is this the thing I really wanted? What have I learned from my failure? Do I want to go again? If it’s the real thing, you will want to go again, and you will persist, and you will fail, and you will fail, and you will succeed. That’s how every success ever achieved always happens.” There are 7 reasons people fail. Learn what they are and how to rebound from those missteps.

Sucker Love - Sylar/Claire [Heroes]

Title: Sucker Love Characters/Pairings: Sylar/Claire, Peter, Noah, Angela Rating: R Recipient/Prompts: dana_serenity; "Claire being pregnant with Sylar's baby, Noah has to be involved somehow & I want Sylar's reaction to Claire's pregnancy." Spoilers/Warnings: AU after season 1 finale; sexual content and mild violence. Word Count: 2969 Summary: Claire is staying with the Petrellis after the explosion nearly kills the Petrelli brothers. While walking through Central Park one day, she is re-introduced to an old enemy... only she doesn't know it. A/N: For the sylar_claire fic exchange. Hope this is okay! This pairing is extremely hard to write for, so I hope I didn't screw it up too much, heh. “Fuck.” The word dropped heavily out of her mouth, falling with a plop onto the tiled floor as she stared at the pregnancy test. Positive. She started to say it again - Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck - but her throat was dry and she could only manage a strange, rasping sound. Her heart hammered in her ears, making her feel weak and light-headed. Positive. She dropped the test onto the floor and felt herself sink down on top of the toilet seat. What am I going to do? *** Two months earlier… Claire was roaming Central Park again. It wasn’t as though there weren’t other things she could be doing - this was New York City, after all - but she had taken an odd sort of liking to the place. Part of her wished she could be cooler and pick a less tourist-y area to hang out all the time, but the rest of her didn’t give a shit about looking cool anymore and wanted to sit on benches and watch people walk by. So, she did. She crossed her legs and leaned back, peering at the passersby through her obnoxiously large sunglasses. She’d seen them when Angela Petrelli had taken her shopping, and had been so amused by the bug-eye lenses that she’d decided to buy it (or rather, let Mrs. Petrelli buy it for her). The shopping excursion had been one of the many attempts by her biological grandmother to get the two of them to “bond” and “get to know each other”. Claire didn’t really want to get to know this woman, the woman who had had no qualms over killing so many people for a so-called “greater good”, but she went along with the bonding activities anyway, since she was living with her and her sons now and didn’t want to cause unnecessary drama or anything like that. Claire looked up at the sky - it was the middle of the afternoon, but she could still see a dark night stretched across the universe, a massive explosion breaking the sky, flashing and enormous. It was all still so vivid in her mind - like it was etched perfectly into her memory, the shock and the despair and the tears spilling over because she had been so certain that they were both dead. But they hadn’t been - Peter had survived completely unscathed, a severely burned Nathan in his arms. She had been at Nathan’s bedside when her father had gently gripped her shoulder and told her that, if she wanted to, she could stay with the Petrellis until things settled down. “You’ll be safe with them,” he’d said, and she’d nodded. She couldn’t think of leaving Nathan now, especially after he’d sacrificed himself in this way. It was a week later when Mrs. Petrelli had approached her in the hallway outside of Nathan’s room. “Claire,” she’d said, an unmistakable air of gravity in her voice, “there’s something you must know.” She’d explained how Claire’s blood had regenerative abilities - that someone who was injured, or even dead, would be able to regenerate their wounds if injected with her blood. “A sort of one-time use thing,” she’d said. Claire didn’t even hesitate for a second to give Nathan her blood. And now, here she was, five weeks later, still living with a family that could possibly rival her own for dysfunctionality. She had no idea what her real family was up to, and just thinking about them made her heart hurt, so she tried to push away her anxious thoughts as much as she could. Which was why she came here, to Central Park - it was so easy to drown herself in the people passing by, to make up stories for them, get lost in the lives that she made up in her head - the normal lives, normal people doing normal things, normal people who weren’t caught up in super-powered soap operas like she was. She had to do this. It was the only way she could possibly keep her sanity. She let out a slow puff of breath and drummed her fingers against the wood. There weren’t too many people in this part of the park today. Maybe she should go somewhere else… “Excuse me.” She looked up, and a tall, attractive man was gazing down at her. His entire persona gave off an aura of dark - his hair was dark and his clothes were black, as were his eyes. “Yeah?” she said, shifting slightly in her seat. “I couldn’t help but notice,” he said slowly, his eyes seeming to drink her in (Claire squirmed uncomfortably at the scrutiny from a stranger), “you seem to have some gum on the bottom of your left shoe.” Claire blinked, then looked at the sole of her sneaker - sure enough, there was a huge wad of gum on the bottom of it. “Yikes,” she said, rubbing her shoe against the ground in an attempt to scrape the gum off. “Thanks for telling me.” “No problem.” He continued to stare at her, an odd, sort of calculating look in his gaze. There was silence for a few moments, when Claire finally said, “Is there something else you wanted?” “Not particularly. Do you mind if I sit down?” He made a sweeping motion with his hand towards the bench. Claire pursed her lips, but nodded. Her feeling of unease didn’t go away when the man sat next to her - quite the contrary, in fact. She felt her muscles stiffen, even though he wasn’t sitting that close to her. “It’s a nice day. Unusually warm for this time of year,” the man commented, and Claire gave a slow nod. “Yep, it is,” she said, and pressed her lips tightly together. She felt tempted to leave, but something was making her stay rooted in place. This guy gave off a really weird vibe, but she couldn’t help but be fascinated by him for some reason. “My name’s Gabriel, by the way,” he said, looking over at her, an eyebrow quirked. “What’s yours?” “Claire.” She swallowed and determinedly didn’t look at him. She could practically feel his questioning stare. “I know it must seem odd to you, a complete stranger just walking up and striking up a conversation,” Gabriel said. “But… well, I’m a writer, you see. I like to meet new people. It’s where I get my ideas from.” This did little to ease Claire’s apprehensions, although she felt her muscles relax slightly. “Have you written anything I’ve heard of?” She chanced a look over at him. A small smirk curled up his cheek. “I doubt it.” “Are you implying that I’m not smart enough to read literature of your caliber?” she asked teasingly. Oh God, why was she flirting with this guy? Did she have a death wish? Not to mention he was probably way too old for her, anyway. He laughed. “No, just that I’ve never been published.” “Ah.” They sat there in silence for a few more minutes, watching the people pass by, when Gabriel said, “So, Claire, are you going to a university here?” “No… I’m staying with some relatives for a while.” “What kind of relatives?” “Just… relatives. My uncle, my grandmother…” My biological father, who happens to be a Congressman… “Why?” “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” Gabriel smiled. “Okay. I’ll stop asking. Anything you want to know about me?” “Do you always go around parks trying to pick up teenage girls?” There was a slight pause, and then Gabriel said, “Not usually.” He grinned, and - well, he was actually quite good-looking when he smiled. Claire couldn’t help but smile back, even though he was really giving her the creeps now. But in a weird sort of way, it all sort of - thrilled her. God, she was such an idiot. “I can leave now, if you want,” he added. Claire hesitated. “No, it’s… okay.” He looked pleased with himself, as though he knew that she would say that. “That’s good.” *** Okay, how the hell did I wind up here? Claire was sitting cautiously on the edge of Gabriel’s bed, clutching her purse as though her life depended on it. Gabriel was in the bathroom, doing… well, she wasn’t entirely sure exactly what he was doing, but she figured it was better for her not to know. Their conversation at the park had continued, and although Claire had still been vaguely creeped out by him, after a while of talking she’d accepted his invitation to go get a slice of pizza. She’d mentally kicked herself all the way over there, sure that this guy was going to try to have sex with her or rape her or put naked pictures of her on the Internet or something - but she was unable to stop her morbid fascination, and also, apparently, unable to get her mouth to stop saying things she didn’t want it to say, like “Pizza sounds good” and “Yeah, everyone tells me I look good in this jacket” and, dear God, “You’re not too bad-looking yourself, you know.” Seriously. What was wrong with her? They had continued talking at the pizza parlor, one thing had led to another, and somehow she had wound up going with him to his apartment in Queens. I should leave, she thought sternly to herself. I should leave before he comes back and I do something I regret… But, unfortunately, her teenage hormones didn’t want her to leave, and her libido was overwhelming her enough to the point of imminent self-destruction. Claire couldn’t deny her bizarre attraction to this man (she couldn’t just call him Gabriel in her head, even at this point), and every inch of her was screaming to have him inside of her, and it was freaking her out. A lot. Suddenly, Gabriel came out of the bathroom, that nice grin back on his face. “Feel settled?” he asked, but didn’t bother to wait for her answer as he started kissing her. A myriad of sensations starting shooting through her - a confused jumble of lust and desire and disgust and God knew what other feelings. He ran his fingers through her hair, and she started kissing him back. He groaned and all of a sudden they were horizontal, Gabriel straddling her hips and leaving kisses down her neck, making her shudder and want. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he muttered. Claire froze. Did she? “Yes,” she said softly. God, she really was an idiot. He started un-buttoning his pants, and Claire almost moaned out loud at the pleasure spreading down there. “I hope you like a little roughhouse,” Gabriel said, smiling wickedly. *** It was dark out by the time they were done - Gabriel lay quietly next to her while she tried desperately not to completely lose it. Well, she had already lost something, at any rate. “So… yeah,” Claire said. “Yes,” Gabriel said, his voice low and somewhat… menacing?  “I’ve almost gotten everything I’ve wanted, Claire…” A chill went through her. “What do you mean?” she asked cautiously. Gabriel turned his head to look at her. He grinned - only it wasn’t quite so nice now. “I finally have you right where I want you.” For the first time all day, Claire looked deeply into his eyes, and they seemed… oddly familiar… like the ones she had seen that one night, that awful, terrifying night… “Oh my God,” she whispered, the chill now becoming a deep freeze that paralyzed her with fear. “Sylar.” “My, you’re quick.” She suddenly felt herself being propelled by an invisible force and slammed up against the wall. Sylar’s arm was extended, psychotic smile still placed on his face. He was leaning up in bed. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he said, and Claire tried to scream but she couldn’t open her mouth - he’d telekinetically forced it closed. Sylar slowly climbed out of bed, arm still extended, holding her in place. She tried to struggle, but all of her attempts to break free of his telekinetic grip were useless. She felt nauseous, fear coursing through her veins, panic seizing hold of her and strangling her. He pointed his index finger at her. That’s when the door flew off its hinges. Startled, Sylar looked toward the door, and all of a sudden he was catapulted to the other side of the room, where he slammed hard against the other wall and sank to the floor, unconscious. Claire slid down to the floor as well, the scream she had been unable to utter now ripping out of her lungs. “Claire? Claire, are you okay?” She looked up; Peter was standing over her, his hair in disarray, breathing heavily. “Did he hurt you?” he asked urgently. “N-no… he was going to…” She made the slicing motion with her finger. “But you got here before he could.” Peter nodded, then all of a sudden his eyes widened and he turned away. Claire was confused for a second, but then realized she was still naked. “Oh - ” She blushed furiously, and quickly scurried over to the bed to gather some blankets around her. “Um - how… how did you know…?” “I painted it,” he said, still not facing her. “Well, sketched it. A few hours ago. I knew it was today because of the calendar on the wall, so I used Molly’s ability to find you…” “Oh. Well… good that you did.” Peter raised an eyebrow. “Okay, yeah, that’s kinda the understatement of the year,” she said, chuckling slightly. “Heh, yeah.” He paused. “I’m glad you’re okay.” “Yeah.” “He didn’t - ?” “No. It was… it wasn’t rape.” “Oh.” “I didn’t know it was him,” she explained quickly. “I never got a good look at his face…before… and he called himself Gabriel, and he said he was a writer, so…” “Okay.” Peter looked marginally uncomfortable. “Just - hurry up and put some clothes on before he regains consciousness.” Claire looked at him quizzically. “Couldn’t you just… like… kill him now?” “I could, but the last time I tried to do that I almost blew up New York City, and the time before that I died,” he said. Claire nodded, bit her lip, then grabbed her clothes and went into the bathroom to change. *** Present day The door to the bathroom swung open, revealing Mrs. Petrelli at the threshold. “Claire, some people really need to use the - ” Her sentence trailed off as she took in the scene before - Claire slumped down on the floor next to the toilet, pale as a ghost, pregnancy test still in her hand. Neither of them said anything for the longest time. A heavy, terrible silence hung in the air between them. “I suppose we should call your adoptive father,” Mrs. Petrelli said. Claire didn’t reply, just continued to stare at the Positive that wasn’t going away. *** “I don’t understand,” her father said in choked breaths, “how this could’ve possibly happened.” “I’m sure you know the mechanics of it, Dad,” Claire said in a hollow, dead voice. “Claire, this is serious,” he said sternly, his eyes livid. “You can’t… you can’t possibly have this baby.” “Mom won’t like that,” Claire said weakly. “You know how she feels about stuff like this…” “This doesn’t concern your mother,” he said. “She is never going to find out about this.” “Another lie. How many lies are you going to tell her, Dad?” “Do you want her to know that the man who tried to kill her, tried to kill you… that you are carrying that despicable excuse for a human being’s child? Do you really want her to know that?” Claire sighed heavily. “No.” “Then it’s settled. We’re taking care of this.” “I want to go alone,” she said quietly. Her father hesitated, but nodded. “If that’s what you want.” *** Her father smiled sadly at her as he parked the car in front of the clinic, and ran a hand over the top of her hair. “Claire-bear,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m… I’m so sorry this happened to you.” Claire smiled sadly back. “It’s not your fault, Dad. I’m just an idiot.” “You’re not an idiot, Claire,” he said. “Many smart people have fallen for Sylar’s tricks. You were one of the lucky ones who escaped. Twice.” “Yeah. Lucky.” She quickly kissed her dad on the cheek and climbed out of the car. She stood in front of the building, gazing up at the large sign at the entrance. Her heart and stomach fluttered. She took a deep breath and headed inside. *** One year later… Sylar wiped his hands clean of his newest prey’s blood. This one’s power was quite extraordinary, and too tempting to resist in indulging in just one more power for his arsenal. A power similar to the Walker girl’s, but not exactly… he could actually enter people’s minds as he searched for them. Influence them to do things. An interesting hybrid of Walker’s and Parkman’s abilities… he supposed he wouldn’t have to kill either one of them after all. Shame. He closed his eyes and searched for her - the one that got away, over and over and over again… A desert… Las Vegas. Driving down a long stretch of highway, blonde hair fanning out the open window, those ridiculous sunglasses perched on her nose, and - Sylar’s eyes shot open, and a faint smile spread across his face. “I have a son,” he said. Helping evolution. Progressing the species. He was doing his part - and Claire was, too. His curiosity was piqued now. He would have to try to find them… acquire his rightful heir, his son. And kill his son’s mother.