#I have so much fucking trauma around affection intimacy and abandonment
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things i learned yesterday
never trust anyone over 25 who refuses to make friends
i am emotionally mature enough to have healthy boundaries
all or nothing thinking is a death spiral, sinking yourself into negativity whenever you feel it is a death spiral, being emo for the rest of your life is unsustainable, and if you don’t allow yourself to feel discomfort in order to improve you are never going to grow up
people who want to use you and the people in your life are attracted to you because of the stability you offer them, but this does not mean they will use it to improve.
it isn’t healthy to have zero boundaries in a romantic relationship yet be completely closed off in all other relationships. there are tiers of intimacy and relationships that consist of more than just two. you cannot always get exactly what you want from a relationship. there has to be room for compromise on both sides that is motivated by more than just fear of abandonment. you have to be willing to be there for someone emotionally before you can develop true intimacy. no serious healthy relationship happens overnight. its better to live for yourself first and foremost and fall in love with yourself in spite of how much you may hate yourself before you enter a relationship because if you base your entire sense of self and validation around a relationship your brain will inevitably betray you and compromise the relationship.
shutting people out is bad and immature. stonewalling is a terrible coping mechanism. i need to get over that, too, and the difference between you and i is i’m actually going to do it. for the longest time i had no one but my therapist. my best friend literally spiraled and died. you don’t know my life or my trauma and it isn’t a competition and you need to acknowledge that im going to talk about my feelings because your behavior affects them and if you want to talk about your feelings you need to address mine as well. get the fuck out of them lol. if you were a mature person instead of reassuring me every time because you couldnt bear to lose me and wanted to cooerce me into the goal that benefitted you the most, then the conversation would have gone very differently, but you are so caught up in your trauma that you actually looped around and instead of people pleasing like you think you are you became selfish, just like me at my worst points. you refuse to step outside of your own reality for even a second. you wear spikes to protect yourself... from genuine human connection. you refuse to work on your trust issues. yeah, bad shit happened to me when i trusted people too. i got over it! it took years of therapy and three hospitalizations. i was alone with people who didnt understand me and who abused me but i still did it. so stop acting like i had it any better than you. i worked so fuckinh hard. maybe i didnt have to work as hard as you but at the end of the day you chose not to utilize the tools that i chose to utilize, and you chose not to get help from others. that’s on you, irregardless of what trauma has taught you. so grow the fuck up and go make some real friends who will talk about your problems together till 2 am. go develop real intimacy instead of your romanticized, all or nothing version where everybody’s attacking you no matter what unless they dedicate their whole self to you. go to the fucking hospital
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madahika for the ship game <3
Thank you sm for asking about madahika! I could talk about them forever!
1. What made you ship it?
I wanted to explore Madara's relationship with the clan and I wanted him to have important and complicated relationships outside of Hashirama or Izuna. Hikaku initially started out as a personification of the clan as a whole, the how and why they came to treat Madara like that leading up to and after Izuna's death. (Also the way Hikaku is written in WASS and Tangle definitely effected how I characterise him and how that would therefore shape his relationship with Madara). Also I love when characters are good but so bad for each and no longer on the same page about anything, and when it's toxic because one character is dismissive and takes the other for granted, and they in turn grow to hate and resent them for it, and their actions as a whole, when they would have once done anything for them. Especially if they have so much shared history and trauma, especially around the same person they both loved more than anything (Izuna in this case, who at times and in a lot of ways was probably even closer or more compatible with Hikaku than with Madara).
Anyway grief and anger and resentment and love that hurts but never goes away. Two people coming together then falling apart and still returning to each other over and over to torture themselves and each other, to feel some of that old intimacy that they can never have again because there's no way to fix it and they feel like they have no one else left anymore. Then the abandonment afterwards and all the complicated feelings Hikaku has about that, especially after Hashirama kills him, and how he has to learn to live with it or to heal and move on. Also hate sex, and the whole leader/ attendant dynamic👀
2. What are your favorite things about the ship?
Aside from everything I mentioned, I really also like how their personalities fit, or rather don't fit, together. Hikaku being the poised and collected one who's far too uptight and needs to chill tf out before he has a stroke over not being able to micro manage everything constantly. Also him being a good leader because he has a good grasp of politics, can delegate, and can better understand the experiences, fears and needs of the clan because he is 'one of the people' in the way Madara has never been or could never understand. (The clan turning to Hikaku as a result and the feeling of betrayal on Madara's end). Also Hikaku having to essentially clean up after Madara because he only ever considers the larger picture and kind of just paternalisticly does what he thinks is right with poor regard for how it might affect 'average' people.
Hikaku trying to metaphorically keep Madara on a leash, but Madara also being the more dominant one in the dynamic because of his personality and the power imbalance. Also passive agressive (and low key high key emotionally abusive) Hikaku who carries grudges to the grave, and emotionally distant, hot and cold Madara who's far too distracted and self centred to notice how he's using and hurting him. They're so fucking toxic and divorced and they don't deserve each other but they so do and its fun to watch them suffer and drag each other back down if the other looks like they might leave or start to heal without them. NO CHILDREN BY THE MOUNTAIN GOATS that sums up a lot of what I love about their dynamic!!
I also love that they were once a team, who yh had their disagreements, but they were healthy and supportive and they made each other better. The same traits that became reasons for frustration were once what made them work well together. And they have a world of tender amd bittersweet memories that they can't let go of even after they all turn sour (especially since a lot of them are perfectly recorded with the sharingan). In a happier (most likely a modern AU) where their circumstances were different and they had healthy support systems outside of each other they would work best as platonic life partners who have sex because intimacy.
3. Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?
I don't think anyone has opinions of them AT ALL, nothing I say would be unpopular lmao. But they only work in a romantic setting if it's unrequited and toxic and they hate each other, or if Hikaku is silently and painfully pushing it down and trying to be content with his companionship (and the sex), because Madara fancies himself in love with Hashirama (or he's at least almost entirely too fixated on him and the dream he represents but feels like he can't have). And Hikaku knows, oh he knows! And he hates Hashirama more than anyone for that and multiple other valid reasons I'm not gonna get into cuz this is already far too long). Which leads me to: its most (or really only) interesting if Hashirama is indirectly involved and has been involved in their relationship since the river. (Bonus if Hashirama has no clue about any of it; Madara possibly being in love with him, his relationship with Hikaku, and Hikaku hating his guts lol).
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Healing or harming - sexual assault, healing, and forgiveness
For a long time I have been aware of cognitive thinking patterns and how trauma affected my brain. I was actively working on believing positive things surrounding relationships, trust, and my fears around intimate partners causing me pain/violations/abandonment. I think it is normal to have anger come up when I experience a situation that is giving me evidence and similarities that I have worked so hard to challenge and hold space for cognitive dissonance and contrary thoughts and beliefs that do not come naturally for me because of my experience. I do not need another experience where I have to undo the damage. I do not need another dude invalidating what I feel. I do not need another dude building up my hope and faith in them and a potential relationship and then breaking my trust. I do not need another dude giving me evidence that short-term intimacy is all you decide I’m worthy of and leads to a longer experience healing from pain.
I do not want to be with someone who isn’t going to be fully committed to being careful, consistently present, and willing to work towards having a different experience of relationship/active practice of love. If you’re not fully aware, capable, and willing, then I do not want you in my life whatsoever. My life is full and I do not want anything short of what I deserve.
I’m in charge of my emotions and my healing and I will take responsibility for them. But relationships are interconnected and reciprocal, and I am allowed to expect others to acknowledge when they impact other people. Our health relies on safe connections as humans and I deserve this too. I am allowed to ask for the empathy I am capable of giving to others.
If you are not willing to simply acknowledge you could not follow through on what you started cultivating, that you may have fallen short on awareness of realizing you weren’t ready, or communication of being straightforward and direct with what you want out of a relationship. When you were aware I did not want a casual relationship because it makes me feel used and was looking for something meaningful and safe as I shared my experience and requirements for trust. If you are not willing to acknowledge, only justify and deflect and say my expectations were different (even though you never tried to communicate yours...) If you are not willing to own your impact on someone, if you think it is okay to discard and ignore, then I’m afraid this relationship has ended in harming rather than healing. I did not need another situation where the pain is only worth it because I work fucking hard to learn from it and make the pain worth it. I did that. I made this experience healing. I get to take the credit. I gave you so much room and space to earn forgiveness and contribute to a healing experience, but I’m afraid I must face your limitations with conflict repair.
You could have simply said “Yes, I see how I did say those things and gave you that idea/hope and showed I did want that and suddenly changed what I wanted. And yes you did say because of your trauma you didn’t want this experience again and want to build trust slowly with someone and I acknowledged that and agreed and I intended to try and then I wasn’t able to follow through and that caused you so much pain and I’m very sorry for that. And yet, here we are and I can’t change because I’ve changed. I understand you may feel angry and hurt for a while and that is valid and take all the time you need. If there is anything I can do to support you or if you’d like me to check in or if there’s anything I can do to make amends, please let me know.”.
I can accept these things. Your narrative that I am unreasonable or immature is not my story. I can accept when there is empathy, acknowledgement, validation, holding space, patience. It is not simply the loss, it is the way in which it is done.
Recently, I found my last conversation with the person that assaulted me. It is a confusing, mind-fuckery of an accident, but I do know one thing. He apologized and committed to getting help and not harming someone in the same way in the future. He expressed remorse for causing me pain. He cared about how it might affect me and my relationships. Although he blacked out, he still validated what had happened to me and its impact. Although this offense is graver and that made the relationship beyond repair, it feels easier to forgive him.
If impacts are cumulative or a part of our lives, then I will try not to blame. I was only asking you to listen to my experience that is more than one relationship, but I was hoping for you to take accountability for your small part of harm caused. I did not do this all to myself, it was a relational dynamic and two parties that caused pain. Please care and hold space. Be patient, and show up again or offer support if that’s what is needed.
I talked with this person again for the first time since the incident. His empathy and remorse were felt. His acknowledgement that I deserve better and hope that I experience better in the future was felt. All I’ve ever wanted was to be heard and seen, acknowledged, understood, and cared about. And then, forgiveness. I’ve learned that repair is possible under these conditions and I am worthy of it. It’s what my soul has been trying to resolve and what my heart has been trying to give. I have experienced that I am capable of forgiveness and acceptance, and I am starting to trust myself in why I couldn’t do what I naturally wanted to do, until the other person showed up and empathy was present and felt. Forgiveness was a gift to both of us.
I deserve to experience softer love that is healing, that I do not have to heal from. And when love falls short as it does sometimes, I deserve repair after conflict or ruptures. I deserve safe connections, because every human being deserves safe connections. This is not asking for too much. Earning and maintaining trust, self-awareness, honest and direct and clear communication, and consideration of the other are foundational/something I deserve to experience. And when all else fails because life is wacky, I deserve apology and I deserve the reciprocal nature of repair and forgiveness. It is not all on me. But you cannot take these things away from me. Although it is meaningful when it is relational, I will try my best to learn to give these things to myself if the people I care about (and trust to maintain a safe space/repair ruptures and honor our relationship as special and healing) disappoint and fall short.
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i'm in the process of finding a competent therapist post-IOP still, so, I apologize for the weird emotional dump I'm about to type out in here but uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I guess maybe I hope some of y'all can relate / understand / offer solidarity or whatever ahaha woof
I need to bark about it somewhere tho for catharsis
I'm adding TW's and spoilering the entire thing bc it's a lot to handle unprompted lol
tw for: general mental illness stuff, love addiction, family dynamics / verbal abuse, cPTSD
so I really don't like talking about my dating endeavors ever (I have a very weird... past... with love addiction and I am 100% aware of how unhealthy I was in my relationships prior to IOP lmfao) but like. I had a massive, weird, existential panic attack last night surrounding my past with serial limerence and doubting myself and being like "am I really feeling these feelings for [person], or am I being blinded by how nice they are to me, regressing into old trauma, and just enjoying the attention too much and re-opening my abandonment issues" sdajhfd
anyways so. I have a really big crush on someone I've hung out with a couple times irl recently. and like we click super well, they're extremely attractive, smart, sweet, etc. they're also trauma informed both verbally and wrt sex stuff, and when we hook up sexually I've never felt so safe in my life lmao like they ask me for consent for more intense kink stuff, they listen to me when I say "no", and I know that sounds like bare minimum but I've NEVER felt 100% in control and safe during rough sex ever so uh. it's a big, big deal for me to actually trust and feel safe around someone in kink settings. especially since they're like, WAY taller and more muscular than me lmfao but I don't feel threatened at all.
I'm bad about being concise WHOOPS but in a nutshell I started feeling really really guilty about having feelings for them because like... I don't know if I want to? I feel like being into them romantically feels like "too much" due to my past with limerence and love addiction. and I've told them like "haha uh oh i think I have a crush on you". and like they aren't non-receptive to it, our dynamic is very like physical-affection, intimacy based and communicative and when we hang out it isn't always explicit lol like I invited them over for dinner a couple nights ago after they got off work and we just cuddled and chilled and talked about how weird the climate surrounding trans issues is rn etc. like we just. enjoyed each other's company.
I GUESS??? what i'm trying to say is like I feel guilty about having feelings for them because it feels ... like I'm going insane and regressing into limerence again? lmao like I hate realizing i'm crushing on them romantically because my brain feels like it's short circuiting and it feels wrong and confusing to me bc I DON'T KNOW IF IM ACTUALLY LIKE... FEELING THESE THINGS OR OF IVE BEEN SO ISOLATED AND TOUCH STARVED THAT I THINK I AM?????? asdfjkhf it's. intense and weird and I hate all of it lol
anyways yeehaw never having affection or attention growing up fucked me up permanently and that's why I struggle with attraction and attachment to this day and it feels terrifying and even like. unethical for me to crush on people because I don't understand what's real and what's my brain malfunctioning :)
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Does Lucifer have ptsd? I remember that a cast member said that S5 Lucifer would have it but I haven’t seen it yet, unless they mean after God shows up. Which I think is possible considering Lucifer’s reactions towards his mother.
Okay so, I am not a psychologist and can only really speak to my own experience with certain aspects of PTSD, so I’m gonna use the symptom criteria given by the mental health charity Mind, which goes thusly:
Reliving aspects of what happened
This can include :
vivid flashbacks - we’ve seen Lucifer have one of these, when he Goddess reveals that Chloe is a miracle.
intrusive thoughts or images - his constant fear that his dad is controlling/targeting/manipulating him probably qualifies
intense distress at real or symbolic reminders of the trauma - Lucifer gets very upset and stressed about how humanity sees him and that his father essentially vilified him for eternity as well as throwing him into hell
Alertness and feeling on edge
This can include:
hypervigilance - there’s a screenshot of Linda’s file for Lucifer that mentions he feels “paralyzed” struggles to relax because he feels like he’s being watched constantly by God.
lack of sleep or disturbed sleep - the same screenshot mentions sleep issues and that he can, presumably, lay awake worrying “for hours before falling asleep” (apparently he’s also iron-deficient, which...probably ties in with the fact that hell doesn’t get a lot of sunlight)
being easily upset or angry - just look at how upset he gets whenever someone says “the devil made me do it”
avoiding feelings or memories
which includes:
avoiding anything that reminds you of the trauma - see: repeated, messy amateur-hour wing amputation because he can’t stand to be reminded of what he was/what he lost or to be linked to his father again
feeling emotionally numb or cut off from your feelings - the man hasn’t emotionally matured in billions of years
self-destructive or reckless tendencies - i mean. lucifer’s self-destructive spirals are legendary. like the time he tried to goad that rookie into shooting him, or the time he stood in front of a sniper and begged him to shoot and nobody ever mentioned it again
inability to express affection - he can’t tell chloe he loves her. if he says it out loud, it makes it real, and she becomes something his father can take away from him and know it will hurt him. as long as he doesn’t say it, he’s got some plausible deniability, he can pretend he doesn’t care. also, while he’s getting a lot better about it, early seasons lucifer clearly doesn’t understand nonsexual physical affection (i.e. being hugged) and his attempts to express affection to chloe are often mistimed, inappropriate or bizarre. this is a man who’s grown up in a completely loveless environment. he didn’t know how to love or be loved. humanity had to teach him.
alcohol and drug use - lmao. “Only if you call ingesting millions of dollars worth of cocaine a problem. I call it a Tuesday.”
difficult beliefs or feelings
which includes:
feeling like you can’t trust anyone - his reaction to chloe’s betrayal in 1x13, when she tries to arrest him. it’s been a while since I watched the ep, but he says something like “The one person I trusted - you - I thought you were different. I was wrong.”
feeling like nowhere is safe - again, that screenshot. he thinks he’s being watched All The Time. his own family has repeatedly tried to kill him. he’s never been allowed to feel safe on earth before because he was always trying to outrun amenadiel showing up to drag him back to hell. him choosing to stay and make los angeles his home - and then fighting for it when lux was at risk of being demolished - was a huge step for him.
feeling like nobody understands - he’s outright said this to chloe and linda a few times. “why bother [talking to chloe about his problems]? you won’t believe me anyway, you think everything i say is a metaphor.” and the “how can you possibly presume to know god’s intentions? stick within the limits of your own intellectual capacity” conversation
there’s also complex ptsd (c-ptsd), wherein sufferers experience ptsd symptoms as well as additional issues such as:
feeling permanently damaged or worthless - clearly. early seasons lucifer can’t conceive of a relationship that doesn’t revolve around a human wanting something from him; sex, or a favour, or a desire fulfilled. it doesn’t even occur to him that he’s loveable in his own right, the only value he assigns himself as a person comes from what he can do for or give to others. lucifer is very vain, but he also uses that vanity to hide his non-existent self-esteem.
feeling like nobody can understand what happened to you - i mean, he’s kind of justified here in that what happened to him was eons of torture and divine retribution, and nobody can understand because a) we don’t live that long and b) the majority of his human friends think he’s harmlessly insane, but he’s said as much to chloe and linda
avoiding friendships and relationships, or finding them difficult - until chloe, lucifer’s relationships with humanity had all been surface-level sexual liaisons with no attachment or commitment. “the best night of my life”, say all those people in their interviews with chloe, but none of them considered it to mean anything, even though it clearly meant something to lucifer. he pushes people away or flees when they get too close, because he’s terrified of emotional intimacy. he’s terrified that they’ll eventually realise that he’s evil and worthless and all the things humanity says he is, and that he doesn’t deserve their love. poor thing has been in therapy for years to try and navigate Baby’s First Friendship. lucifer is naturally sociable, but he’s so traumatized and messed up from the billions of years of solitary confinement that he’s terrified of connecting with people even as he’s desperate for it
suicidal feelings - we’ve had at least two onscreen suicide attempts, even though neither was ever really addressed by his loved ones. both times he tried to goad someone into shooting him, knowing that chloe was nearby and that he was vulnerable; he knew he would be killed if either gunman took the shot. he even tells amenadiel he was trying to achieve a “nice, messy” death.
in conclusion: yeah he’s traumatized as fuck, god barging into his life after several billion years of abuse and abandonment is probably gonna fuck him up hard, and someone should address his suicidal tendencies. like...@chloe wrap your devil in a blanket and cuddle him, maybe? he’s Sad? look after him?
#lucifer on netflix#lucifer on fox#netflix lucifer#lucifer morningstar#lucifer meta#tw suicide mention#tw self harm mention#tw abuse#obligatory disclaimer that i am not a shrink but? he sure fits the symptoms#Anon#fire message
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41821
Hi, hello, its me, again. My beautiful blog, my safe space. I treasure you.
Dear Alex,
First, I want to say that you didn’t deserve the amount of love I forced upon you. I emptied myself over and over again into you, in hopes that one day you would empty some of yourself into me. Instead, you took every drop of me, endlessly, without thought. I suppose I cant say I blame you, you were so so so empty. And here I was, willing to fill you up, without asking for much in return. I envy you for that, the ability to bleed someone dry without truly thinking about them dying from the lack of blood in their body because its now in yours. However, you do deserve love. See? See how I’m still trying to save you even at the end of this. I feel pathetic. I’m empty now, empty not because I’ve lost a great love but because I never had a great love. I gave all of my love and got nothing in return. I tried to mold and shape you into the partner I needed, but you never had the capacity to be that person. For this, I’m sorry. The start of our relationship was such an uphill battle, you were telling me to leave almost daily. Tell me how you didn’t deserve love, and being so confused why I was staying. I lost myself in this battle. I became fixated on “winning” you, of showing you how endless and boundless my love could be, if you would only choose me. Eventually, you did choose me. I think of this often, I wonder if it felt by force or perhaps it was an easy choice since I was validating and loving you daily, something you’d maybe never had. Either way, once we landed in a relationship, I was lost. Here I was, trying to give you feedback when you’d let me down, trying to communicate what I needed, you always promised you’d try. But that’s the problem. I was telling you, you deserved to be loved as you were and then I’d turn around and ask you to show up for me. You see Alex, you cannot show up for me or anyone. It’s so blatant that only through my fixation on you buying my love was I able to ignore it. You can’t show up for me because you don’t even know how to show up for you. You have no clue, and that’s your journey. So I suffered for months, trying to make this into what I knew it would never be. Bleeding myself dry, day after day, in hopes one day you’d choose or learn to love me the way I needed. Our intimacy fell flat because we were both forcing something we knew wasn’t what we really wanted. Yet again, I convinced myself that I was attracted to you and I wasn’t. I feel completely awful admitting that but its true. I never wanted to have sex because you didn’t turn me on. I spent many of our moments waiting for them to end, or figuring out how to end them. I thought this was me, my trauma, my issues but, it was just a lack of attraction in the end. Though, I could be wrong and you will never admit it if I am right, I think you felt similarly about me. I don’t think you were attracted to my body, you were attracted to the way I could make you feel so good about yourself. For the seconds I could give you free from the hate that burdens your soul. But this attraction has no place in sex. In the end, I abandoned myself again. I drowned her out with the promise that you’d love me one day, she would see, you’d care eventually. I let her go, assuring myself that I didn’t need to love her anymore. We had someone else that would, if we could just hold on a little longer. But, this was a lie. I held myself under the water until the screaming stopped. I let my lifeless body sink to the bottom of the pond and continued pursing this relationship. In the last 48 hours, I’ve swam down to the bottom of that pond, I slowly but surely dragged her out. I breathed air into her lungs, I gave energy and warmth to her heart and she came back to me. And when she returned she didn’t ask why I drowned her, she never wondered why I let her sink, she simply held me, and told me she loved me so much and we would rebuild together. My dear Alex, this was doomed from the start, Im sorry I didnt walk away, not for your sake, but for mine. I will miss the laughs, the small moments of affection. But, I wont miss everything I let you take from me. I hope these things carry you on your journey to finding how to take care of yourself. I suffered so I hope you reap the benefits of all that I poured into you. To the parts of you I loved, I’ll always love them. To the rest of you, do they fucking work and rid yourself of these rotted pieces of flesh that keep you buried in your own trauma. And please, don’t look me up when you get to the top of the hole you’ve buried yourself in.
Best,
Victoria
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jurgen leitner rant but it’s me fangirling over martin blackwood (spoilers up to 170)
MARTIN BLACKWOOD?
STUPID OBLIVIOUS PINING MARTIN BLACKWOOD GOD DAMN FOOL TEA MAKING STATEMENT BURNING IDIOT AVATAR OF THE ABANDONMENT ISSUES BIGGEST SUPPORTER OF JON LAUGHED OUT OF POETRY CLUB COTTAGECORE MARTIN BLACKWOOD
PLEASE I WANNA TALK ABOUT MARTIN BLACKWOOD I LOVE HIM SO MUCH WHY DOES HE HAVE SUCH WEIRD TASTE IN MEN WHY DID HE JUST DECIDE TO FUCK AROUND AND PINE FOR FOUR YEARS IS HE SCARED OF INTIMACY IS HE OKAY MAN HAS SUCH A VISCERAL AFFECT ON ME NOT EVEN IN THE ROOM NEVER SEEN THIS MANS FACE AND I KNOW HE HAS THE WORLDS CUTEST FRECKLES I WANNA HOLD THEM TENDERLY
if i wanted to get into heaven and god said martin blackwoods not waiting inside i would piss on gods feet for the sole purpose of getting sent back down
if i hear martin blackwood speaking one word in person on voice in podcast not only will i shriek in delight i will drop my phone on accident and have to rewatch the entire series again for the experience of being able to savor all the times when he is mentioned or alive
i dont even know why i love him so much. he writes mediocre poetry but i am just a simp because i am gay and projecting
he has such a fucked up backstory i swear if i hear one more person ignoring his poverty and loneliness and religious trauma to make him into some uwu baby i’ll go ham
BETTER have a chance to kill a man cuz if he doesnt im going to make him
paypal.com/LetMartinBlackwoodCommitCrimes
episodes not even about him. vaguely mentioned what is supposed to maybe be his poetry and I lost it
how the fuck is martin blackwood doing if hes still sad im going to so deeply wish he wasnt
wonderful kind man
ill hug martin and his sad frail childhood trauma will simply flake apart under my epic huge unconditional love and it will disintegrate until all thats left is one final thought he kept repressed at all times simply titled You Are Worthy Of Love in polish
im not breathing im hyperventilating at this point
i hope theres a date given for when he says he’s in love so i can make it a reminder on my phone
everyday once a year i will see it and do anything i can to pay respects to the man who had so many fucked up if survivable experiences
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Title: He Is The Reason
Author: Kate Huntington (please do not copy my work)
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Summary: After a case almost goes wrong, Y/N reaches her breaking point. She tries to wash the memories away in the shower, but the only one who can really help her, is Dean.
Warnings: NSFW, 18+ only (if you’re under 18, don’t read any further), angst, trauma, panic attack, smut, shower sex, oral sex (female receiving), fingering. Dean being absolutely amazing.
Word Count: 2757 words
Author’s note: Kate writing smut, it’s a pretty rare sighting. But, especially for you: emotional smangst. Thank you, @kittenofdoomage , @theyaremyveryownthoughts and @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish for being awesome betas! You are all a huge support. Hope you all enjoy!
It’s way past midnight when the hunters entered the bunker. Exhausted and worn, Y/N dragged her feet to the showers, muttering to the boys that she needed some time. Clearing her sore throat, she closed the door and turned the faucet, before stripping herself from her dirty clothes.
Now, with the water running and steam spreading in the small space, she is staring at her reflection in the mirror while leaning on the sink. Moist builds up on the glass, but she doesn’t need a clear vision to detect the dark circles under her sunken eyes, the dirt on her dry skin and the blood in her tangled hair. Holy shit, you look like a stack of train wrecks.
Her appearance matches her mental state. In the Impala, between balancing on the edge of unconsciousness and vivid tainted memories mixed together with a nightmare, she gave today’s outcome a lot of thought. God, this case could have gone so terribly wrong. Once again the hunters beat the odds, because honestly, what were the chances of the Winchesters finding her?
Demons took her, waiting for the opportune moment when she headed out by herself, to pick up some pizza. A team of five ambushed her in the little Italian place down Main Street in Lebanon, killing the staff while they were at it. It was a set up and clear as day that they wanted to catch Dean’s precious girlfriend alone. Payback, they called it, as the torture went on for hours on end. She knew she was being used for bait. She also knew the Winchesters would show at some point. The question was, if they were going to be on time. One wrong remark and those black eyed bastards would have killed her, just for sport. Anything to get revenge, for all of their kind that Sam and Dean sent back to Hell over the years.
Those three days that she was chained to an autopsy table in an abandoned morgue left enough marks as it is, though. Handling fear is in the job description, but fuck, she was terrified. They got creative. They undressed her, tied her up completely naked, cutting her delicate skin with dull knives. They pulled nails from her toes and beat her to the edge of unconsciousness, but never over it, because they didn’t want her to have a break from the pain. They used their powers to twist her intestines into bends she didn’t even know were possible and there were many times that she was sure something had burst inside of her. She trembled, cried, silently wished for Dean, the image of him the only thing that kept her hopes up. She prayed to Cas, even though the place was warded. When that didn’t work, she prayed to Chuck, but since when does God ever give a shit, right?
Leaving her blurry reflection for what it is, she turns away and gets in the shower. Water almost hot enough to burn her skin falls down, but she doesn’t flinch. The dirt, the filth, it has to wash off. It feels like acid is pouring into the breaks of her skin, but she bites down the pain. She needs to get clean in order to leave the memories behind. But let’s face facts; not even boiling hot water could wash away this trauma.
As she stands there under the hot rain, her breathing picks up. Tears mix with the water coming from the shower head as she rests her forehead against the cool tiles, trying to find support, might she collapse. With her eyes closed she cries, arms crossed in front of her chest protectively. There’s nothing left for the tough as nails, brave, and independent woman that she thought herself to be. These three days have been too much, forcing her to lose the game she used to play so well. I can’t do this anymore, she thinks to herself.
Her knees are about to give out, but before she sinks down on the tiled floor, she hears the doorknob turn. Startled she pulls in a sharp breath, holds it and exhales slowly, trying to calm herself. Man up, wipe your tears away. Dean can't see you like this. But the sounds of her cries must have carried further than she wanted. That’s why he’s here, isn’t it? Deciding that there's no point in hiding it anymore, she waits, listening to the sound of fabrics wrinkling and rubbing as he strips down. The sound of his footsteps approaching the shower. The sound of the curtain sliding aside, letting a cool draft lick at her ankles.
The moment Dean lays eyes on her broken body, his heart crumbles. The woman for whom he would do anything to make her happy, has gone through hell. She got caught in the crossfire in this war he is fighting. She got hurt, because those sons of bitches knew it would hurt him. Guilt twists in his gut when he notices the cuts and bruising on her naked form. He has to make it right, he has to take the pain away. He owes her that much, after everything she has done for him.
Contradicting thoughts cause her to remain unresponsive, her back turned to Dean while leaning against the tiles, shutting him out. He shouldn't be a witness of the mess that she is, but deep down he is all she wants right now. Without words Dean gives her exactly that, because within moments she feels his warm hands snake around her waist, after which he carefully pulls her back against his chest. His touch does something to her, something she doesn’t expect. One would expect the gesture to give her strength, but instead she falls to pieces in his arms.
“Shhh… I got you. I got you,” he hushes, his chin on her shoulder as he wraps his body around her a little tighter, offering his girl the shelter she desperately needs. “I know. I’m here now... You’re safe.”
Moved by his affection she grabs his forearms and squeezes them, letting her tears run free as she rests the back of her head against his chest. Allowing herself to let out a sob, her walls fall. Physical pain rips through her chest as it tightens, causing it to be impossible to breathe. The breakdown isn’t just led on by this case, the life, the close call with death. It’s because she and Dean almost got separated for good, the one person she cannot imagine being without. They almost lost each other, and she can’t hide the fear that thought alone brings along. Not from him. The most intimate feelings and her scariest thoughts are safe with Dean, because he’s familiar with every single one of them, too.
“Breathe… Just breathe,” he soothes, holding her close as he can.
Fully accepting his support, she turns around in his arms, pressing herself against his strong frame. Still unable to stop herself from crying, she opens her hand and spreads her fingers over his chest, her cheek against his heart as she listens to his rhythm of life. She senses the kiss he leaves on her hair, but she doesn't see that Dean closes his eyes, moved as he does so. Her breathing evens out to meet the same pace as his soft caress on her back, soft whimpering fading into the sound of the water raining down on them.
Without breaking the intimacy, Dean takes the shower gel from the small shelf in the corner of the shower and squeezes the lotion out of the bottle into his hand. Hoping it will relieve some of the stress, he spreads it out over her shoulders and back, running his fingers over tense muscles as the soap starts to foam. Eventually she stops hitching, quieted by his touch as she leans against him, feeling his hands on tight knots between her shoulder blades. It hurts slightly as he rolls his fingers over the sore spots, but with every movement the tension in her back is relieved a little bit more, until the pain is as good as gone. Dean continues washing the dirt away, soaking the blood from her hair and letting the water take it into the drain. The way he takes care of her is so gentle and soothing, that she feels much better by the time she’s washed clean.
Y/N lifts her head and looks up into the sea of emerald green in his eyes, taking him in. Water droplets chase each other down from his shoulders, beads hanging from his hair. He probably didn't shave for days, since a week old scruff frames his strong features. Dark circles tell the story of long, worried days, but right below them playful freckles are sprinkled on his cheeks and nose. A small smile forms on her lips as she counts a couple, triggering Dean’s eyes to become a little brighter. For a few more seconds they dwell in that moment where they just look at each other, surrounded by mist and comfortably warm water, but then she closes the distance and tiptoes to kiss him. As their lips meet, both push everything that has happened to the back of their minds. It's still there, though, allowing the unconditional love they feel for each other to magnify. It could have been over. She could have died today. Yet here they are.
He kisses her back with such passion that nothing else matters anymore. With her eyes closed she lets her hands explore his wet skin, moving up his toned chest, running up his neck to cup his face. Drops bounce off her shoulders and run down the lines of her bruised form, which Dean handles very gently, aware of how fragile she is right now. Arms crossed behind his neck she pulls him closer, pressing her body against his. She wants him, she needs him, because who knows when it all might end? It’s the positive side of surviving such a traumatic event; one only then understands what’s truly important in life. It teaches a person to live in the moment, to treasure all that's beautiful and appreciate the time that is offered.
Willingly, Dean follows her cue and pushes his hips against her, his fingers raking through her hair. The water washes away the worry that weighed heavy on him and he closes his eyes, water drops dripping down his face and clinging to his eyelashes. He listens to the sound of the shower and Y/N’s respiration between kisses, rhythmic and intriguing. After slowly turning her around he pulls his girl closer, her back now against his chest, nuzzling his nose against her skin as he kisses her shoulder tenderly. God, it feels good to have her in his arms, to be intimate with her again. I found her. She’s still here. It’s the only thing he can think of as his hands trail over her breasts, then continue to follow the fine edges down her body.
Captivated by his touch that feels similar to the water seeking its way down her skin, so light, she lays her head back against his chest. Baring her neck for him to kiss, she moves her hands over his, fingers interlocking as she follows his movements.
Every touch says ‘I missed you.’ Every breath whispers ‘I’m so glad you’re alive’.
Shivers run down her spine when his fingers slip down to the most intimate part of the female body, parting her folds. Closing her eyes she whimpers, letting him build her up as she holds still. While his lips gingerly brush her ear, his index finger swirls over her sensitive nub. The slow-building high that starts to cloud her mind pushes the nightmares away, bathing her in a peaceful bliss. For a little while her train of thought stops completely and all she feels are the sparks that are triggered by his fingertips.
She lets him treat her, not fighting him for dominance like she usually does. Tonight he takes care of her, glueing the broken pieces back together. Curses won’t be falling from their lips, the sex will not be rough and fast paced. After the horror she endured, he wants to be tender. She needs to be reminded that it’s not just darkness and misery. She needs to be reminded that she can always come home to him.
Dean slowly turns her around, facing her now, the water coming down gathering in a puddle when he presses his lower body against her. His lips don’t linger on hers long and he begins his descent, leaving a trail of goosebumps on her collarbone, then her breasts.
He gets on his knees, the pads of his fingers pressing into her hips. For a second he looks up to make sure she’s okay, and when he finds her looking down on him in anticipation, want swimming in her dark pupils, he presses a kiss below her belly button. Without rushing, he traces her inner thighs with his thumbs, holding her still as he laps at her vulva breezily, but then goes deeper, delving in his tongue.
She steadies herself with one hand against the slippery wall and the other on his strong shoulder, her jaw lowered and eyes shut. A pleading sigh escapes her when he parts from her heat for a second, but then he lifts her leg over his shoulder, granting him a better angle. Droplets pour down on them, rolling down her stomach, adding to her juices on Dean’s lips. He now attends her sweet spot, flicking, drawing figures, drinking her in. She grips him tighter, her soft moans filling the moist air. Her legs begin to give out and she buckles forward, her abdomen spasming now that he’s picking up the pace. Dean holds her up, though, giving her the support she needs.
In no rush, Dean slows down, parting her lips and giving her a minute to recover, before he intensifies the motions again. This time he brings her closer to the edge, knowing her body well enough to recognize the signs. Her calling his name, first a whisper, but a little louder with each time. Her pulling him even closer with the leg hanging over his shoulder, her heel digging in his back as she tenses up. Her breath hitching, not from crying, but from the sheer pleasure he’s offering her.
She begins to tremble, her grip on his shoulder so tight that he can feel her fingernails leaving crescent shapes in his skin. Then she comes, a last grunt pushed from her throat. He listens to her respiration, how she struggles to control it while he works her through her orgasm, but then he lets her leg slide off his shoulder. He gazes up at the woman who has his heart, making sure she has found her footing before he rises up. Dizzy, she opens her hazy eyes, dwelling in ecstacy. The drizzle leaves tiny drops on her face, spread across her flushed cheeks.
“You alright?” he checks, his voice soft.
She nods and buries her face in the nape of his neck, still catching her breath. He sighs and folds his arms around her, letting her lean against him as he presses a kiss on her soaked hair. Being able to hold her after everything that happened is a blessing, one that Dean is grateful for. He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, the warm rain still coming down on them. This is it, this moment, right here. This is the moment neither of them thought they were ever going to experience again. Emotion hits him suddenly and he hugs her a little tighter.
“I wanna stay here forever,” she whispers.
Dean swallows thickly. “Me too.”
As she stands there, sheltered by his body, she realises something: He isn’t just the reason she’s still alive, he is the reason she wants to be alive. Maybe that's why he was the only one on her mind when her life was on the line. Maybe that’s why she feels healed, like she was touched by an angel, even though her injuries are still evident.
She lifts her chin, taking in the handsome man that is her partner. He tucks his head down, a small smile forming before he kisses her softly. Maybe that’s why, when his lips leave hers for a short moment, she whispers ‘I love you’, out loud, for the very first time.
Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page).
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Villains That Live in My Head (1/4)
Notes: I made a promise back in June to @effulgentcolors a story about dealing with intimacy and PTSD and I’m like two months late. Lyubi, I’m truthfully sorry for how late this is but admittedly, I’ve been struggling with this subject material because it’s not just PTSD, it’s violent PTSD episodes so we’re straddling a very thin line which could constitute as domestic violence, which naturally makes me uneasy. However, I think it’s important to stress that the violence depicted in this story is not due to any sort of maliciousness but due to a violent PTSD episode and this story is about exploring how to deal with trauma and intimacy issues and get past such issues as a couple. This is some hard, heavy and upsetting stuff, but I’m trying to be as sensitive and tentative to the material as I can. I can’t stress enough that this isn’t going to be for everyone and to approach with caution because this is a story about violent PTSD and accidentally hurting your partner, and please read at your own risk. A special thank you to @initiala and @shireness-says for helping me struggle bus through this story.
Summary: The wounds made when we're young tend to linger. It’s something Killian and Emma learn a little too well when a well meaning surprise goes terribly wrong.
Word Count: 3,300+
Rating: M
--
The truth is that Emma Swan has never had a real boyfriend, so to speak.
Sure, she was with Neal during her teenage years, but their relationship wasn’t necessarily conventional. Born out of loneliness and camaraderie, theirs was based mainly on survival, and survival doesn’t mean dinner dates in fancy restaurants or going to the movies. The most romantic thing he ever did for her was steal a family pack of pop tarts and some boxed wine when she turned sixteen and she thought it was the sweetest thing to ever happen. That had been the pinnacle of romance for her until “pick a partner who knows what he’s doing” and “ you traded your ship for me?”
She’s so out of her depth when it comes to being in a real relationship, but so far, it seems to be going great. Killian is attentive and generous with affection, which comes in a variety of forms from bringing her coffee every morning to playing with her hair. He listens to her when she de-stresses after work, plying her with alcohol and... not sympathy, necessarily, but empathy and an understanding that everyone else seems to lack. Everyone views her as the Savior, including her parents, but it’s nice to have someone who just sees her as Emma.
And then there’s the sex. Which is another story altogether.
It’s good, don’t get her wrong. He’s surprisingly sweet and very generous, with soft eyes and even softer touches. However, it’s also intimidating, because while Emma is the one-night-stand wonder, she wouldn’t call herself particularly knowledgable when it comes to sex. It’s mainly been insert Tab A into Slot B, repeat until satisfaction (and more often than not, no satisfaction - but that’s another story altogether). Such relationships didn’t necessarily lead to a lot of exploration or discovery. Quite simply, you don’t ask a complete stranger to help you discover your kinks unless you’re a serial killer or preternaturally uncomfortable in your own skin. Emma was neither of those things. So, her experience, while lengthy partner-wise, didn’t necessarily extend beyond what was considered relatively standard.
Killian, on the other hand seemed to have a fountain of knowledge and experience.
He didn’t necessarily brag about it to her per say -- aside from his rather outrageous innuendos -- but there was a certain sureness and innate knowledge that wasn’t something you could necessarily fake, and could only come from wealth of experience. While there had been some fumbling in the beginning (usually on her end), he was nowhere near as clueless as others had been on how to touch her. It had been more like watching someone relearn a path rather than discovering it for the first time. And while it’s been great to be with someone who didn’t need a road map to her clitoris, it was also a bit disconcerting to be someone who was, quite frankly, a lot more experienced than you.
And even more mortifyingly, teaching you things about sex despite getting your v-card swiped more than a decade ago.
It makes her feel like she’s being trained a bit. And honestly, she kinda hates that.
She doesn’t like the fact that he seems to be leading her around a training ring like she’s some skittish horse and he’s some absurdly patient seasoned equestrian. It makes her feel foolish and, even worse, she can’t help but feel like she’s boring him. And the last thing she wants to bore him.
(Boring means getting left behind.)
She knows it’s irrational to think so, but there’s nothing Emma is more terrified of than being left alone again. Sure, she has her family, and her boyfriend literally gave up his home and his entire way of life to be with her, but that fear runs deep. No matter how many justifications her parents, Neal, or anyone else give her, that pain doesn’t just disappear.
(In the spirit of Jake Peralta: cool motive, still abandonment.)
She isn’t sure that she’s in love with him. Considering the fact that her parents are the Olympic gold medalists of True Love, she’s more than a little gun shy when it comes to even broaching that subject. However, she knows she doesn’t want him to leave. She wants more than anything for him to stay.
And that’s how she reaches the decision to “spice” things up.
(And naturally, as it is with all situations where someone tries to perfect an already good thing, it blows up in her face. Spectacularly.)
She doesn’t remember how she settled on the idea of bondage, but it’s something she’s the most familiar with, and all kinky things considered, it seems pretty low level; exciting, but not as far out there as some of the other things she’s come across when perusing for ideas. She’s not looking to do anything Fifty Shades, but she thinks it might be fun to tie him up and make him the focal point for once. Killian always focuses on her, and it might benefit their relationship for things to be a little less one-sided when it comes to the bedroom.
Besides, Killian is a pretty adventurous guy, and a pirate to boot. She’s pretty certain he’s had more than a few nights of debauchery, featuring far more lewd acts than a little light bondage play. Hell, she wouldn’t be remotely surprised if he’s been involved in an orgy or two. He’ll probably find her plans as vanilla as everything else they’ve been doing.
(You know what they say when you assume. It makes an ass of you and me.)
She doesn’t tell him her plans, mainly because she can’t imagine he would object and also because she wants to surprise him. After letting him take the lead in this aspect of their relationship, she wants to show him that what she lacks in experience, she can make up for with a willingness to explore new things. She wants to be on his level, not someone he needs to teach.
So, she doesn’t tell him. She just brings a box of condoms, a pair of cuffs and a smile.
It starts the way it always does - with a kiss that has them both swaying side-to-side until they teeter awkwardly backwards into his room. She chucks her bag on the nightstand, only to have it smack the table lamp and send both items to the floor. She can’t bring herself to care when she has Killian splayed out on the bed below her, pupils blown wide, lips bruised and noticeable tenting in his incredibly tight pants.
(Seriously, is he capable of wearing anything else? She might have to buy him a more relaxed fit, if only to help her sanity. While he doesn’t have much of an ass, they highlight the muscles in his thighs and make her eyes jump to places that aren’t necessarily appropriate for the public.)
And then there’s the hair.
She loves his hair and the way it’s starting to get a little longer and curl over his ears. She loves tugging on it and the noises he makes when she does. She leans forward, unable to resist threading her fingers through the dark strands as she tilts his head up for another kiss. He accepts it enthusiastically, a low pleased grumble emitting from the back of his throat as she gives his hair a playful tug. He pulls her into his lap, hips rolling upwards with impatience.
Clothes are shed gracelessly. It takes more than a few tries for her to unbutton his vest, cursing him for choosing such finicky clothing. It’s just so typical for him to pick style over functionality. He laughs at her impatience, eyes twinkling with amusement. She wants to rip the bloody thing off.
(Holy fuck, she’s starting to sound like him.)
“Why so impatient, love? We have all night,” he asks, chuckling as she finally manages to undo his buttons.
She doesn’t respond immediately, more focused removing his hook from its brace and placing it on the nightstand. More articles of clothing have fallen victim to that hook than she cares to count, and she has such a limited wardrobe as is.
“Maybe I have plans,” she responds with what she hopes is a coy smile.
Both of his eyebrows rise at this, a smirk spreading across his lips as he settles back on his elbows.
“Plans?”
“Yes,” she says, running her fingers along the length of his collarbone. “Plans. Fun plans. And if you’re good, you might even find out what they are.”
“I’m not sure I’m capable of being good,” he responds, leaning up and placing all too brief kisses along her jaw and neck. “But I promise you, you’ll certainly like it when I’m bad.”
“We’ll have to see about that.”
She pulls him into another fierce kiss, using it to distract him as she reaches back to riffle through her bag for her cuffs. It gets a bit awkward, the angle not quite right, but Killian does his best to make it work. When she finally gets her prize, she makes a noise of triumph against his lips before pushing him back against the bed and reaching for his wrists.
“Swan!”
Killian’s eyes go wide with shock, growing even larger as he catches sight of the handcuffs. Emma expects it, but it doesn’t last long. His face contorts into a new expression, one that’s far from the enthusiasm.
She doesn’t get much time to process it, however because the world turns suddenly on its axis.
One minute she’s straddling his thighs, trying to handcuff him, and the next thing she knows, she’s on her back with Killian looming above her with his only hand pressed to her throat, and not in a way that’s remotely friendly. His fingers dig painfully as they press into her windpipe, cutting off her oxygen. Every muscle in his body is tensed and his chest keeps heaving as if he’s struggling to breathe. His eyes aren’t shocked; they’re panicked.
They stare at each other for a few seconds, Emma still stunned by the turn of events while Killian looks more like a frightened animal than a person. Her lungs burn painfully and she chokes a bit as she tries to breathe. He jumps at the sound, his face changing from frightened to horrified. He pushes himself away from her forcefully, propelling his body until he’s precariously close to falling off the bed. He pulls himself into a sitting position and turns his back to her, fingers gripping the side of the bed as if holding on for dear life. Emma lays there, mind reeling, still stunned by the sudden turn of events. Her fingers move to touch where she can still feel the hard press of his palm.
A million questions buzz in her head, each too fleeting for her to truly grasp but each more panicked and disturbed than the next. She doesn’t know what the hell just happened, but her pulse is thundering loudly in her ears and she has the same feeling of ice water in her veins that she did in the Clocktower when Gold was about to crush his heart.
Killian still has his back to her and while she can’t see his face, his shoulders are shaking, and she can still hear the harshness of his breath even over the chaotic orchestra her insides are playing.
“I…” The vowel sounds hoarse leaving his mouth. “I…I’m sorry…I…”
He reaches for his clothes, pulling Emma away from the hornet’s nest in her head. She sits up, on instinct reaching out to him. He flinches and inches further away from her hand, which somehow hurts more than when he tried to choke her. A wounded noise emits from the back of her throat. He doesn’t acknowledge it. He picks up his shirt and pulls it over his head one-handed. It’s on backwards but he doesn’t seem to care.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I need to go,” he says shortly, not looking at her.
She opens her mouth to speak, but her words fall short. Emma doesn’t know what she wants to say. She knows she should say something, but what exactly, she doesn’t know. She still hasn’t processed what exactly happened.
Emma can still feel his hand on her throat.
(What the hell just happened?)
She’s still trying to answer that question, while Killian’s haphazardly pulling on his boots. She raises her hand again, but pulls it back. She wants to touch him, to do something, but she doesn’t know what to do and she can’t bear the sight of him pulling away from her again, like she’s something vile.
Before she can even come to a course of action, the door slams shut. And she’s alone.
(Again.
She’s alone again.)
The thought leaves her feeling frozen, like she’s back in the ice prison again except this time she’s not surrounded by ice. It’s inside of her spreading over each and every one of her organs. She wraps her arms around herself in attempt at...warmth? Comfort? She isn’t sure anymore.
She isn’t sure of anything.
(What the hell just happened?)
One minute they were fine and about to have a good time, and the next thing he’s attacking her and then suddenly he can’t even look at her. All of it happened so fast that she’s still not quite sure what caused all of it. What the hell did she do?
She gets up, pins and needles shooting through her legs. They’re completely unhappy with her after sitting on the bed for so long. She doesn’t know how much time has passed, but she knows she needs to do something. Walking into the ensuite and turns on the light, she winces at the harsh intensity of the fluorescent bulb; sucking in a breath when she catches sight of herself in the mirror.
There’s an angry red ring around her throat.
She touches it again, this time more tentatively. The flesh is tender and a small hiss leaves her without her permission. Killian is long gone, but the phantom pain of his hand is still there. It had only been a few seconds but the feeling and the fear refuses to leave.
Fear.
The realization hits her like whiplash. She had been afraid of him. He could have hurt her.
He did hurt her.
(Why?)
She doesn’t have any answers. She doesn’t know what she did for Killian to act like this, but he’s left her and she’s pretty certain he isn’t coming back.
She hates the fact that hurts her more than the potential bruises.
Angry tears form at the corner of her eyes and she splashes water on her face to keep herself from seeing them. She glances at the clock, not necessarily because she’s interested in the time so much as she doesn’t want to see herself reflected in the mirror.
2:00.
Fuck.
She should leave. She hadn’t been planning on going back to the loft, but she knows she can’t stay here even if Killian doesn’t plan on coming back. She needs to get out of here and sleep somewhere else, where the imprint of his hand can’t follow her.
She pulls her hair into a messy, half-assed ponytail, not bothering it to smooth out the awkward bumps. Her limbs feel as heavy as lead as she puts on her clothes. She wants nothing more than to sleep, but she can’t. Not here.
The streets of Storybrooke are deathly silent as she walks back to the loft. It’s a cool night and the chill highlights the unnatural warmth pulsating from her neck. She pulls her jacket tighter around her. It has always been her shield from the world, but it’s protection was futile. What she needed protecting from had already gotten past her walls.
She can’t stop thinking about it, her brain like an old scratched DVD, playing the same scene over and over again in her mind. She can’t help but relive that moment when he was above her and she couldn’t breathe. She still remembers the look on his face; eyes wide, nostrils flaring and cheeks white. It hadn’t been anger on his face.
It had been fear.
What the hell did he have to be afraid of? He wasn’t the one with the hand on his throat.
Why did he do that?
Why did he leave?
The questions swirl around in her mind as she attempts to unlock the front door of their building. It takes her an embarrassing three tries to open it, but when she finally did, a sense of relief came over her. She’s home and she can sleep.
She’s so tired.
The door to the loft groans as she opens it, sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness of the night. The noise wakes the baby, his wails as ear-piercing as thunder. She can hear her parents waking up behind their curtain.
She can’t face them.
Not right now.
Not after everything that happened with Killian.
She races across the room instead, making her way up the stairs. Her hands tremble as she clings to the bannister like it’s a life line, each ascending step feeling heavier and more precarious than the last.
It’s a relief when she finally reaches her bed and crawls underneath her covers, pulling them over her head in an attempt to cocoon herself away from the world. She wants to escape, to find some peace and quiet. Unfortunately, Little Neal doesn’t seem to want adhere that desire. His screams keep getting louder and louder.
“That’s a mood if I ever heard one,” she mumbles, burying her face in her pillow.
Her mother’s soothing voice sounds throughout the apartment as she attempts to lull Neal back to sleep. Slowly, the cries quiet down and the growing silence echoes inside of her. It’s then that the anger gives away to immeasurable sadness, tears dribbling at the corners of her eyes and leaking down her cheeks.
Once again, she’s alone and no one wants her. Not her parents. Not her brother. And especially not her pirate boyfriend, if he’s even her boyfriend anymore. She’s not so sure.
(What the hell happened?)
It’s frustrating to be in this position again, hurt and confused as to why. She should have known it wasn’t going to work. She’s never been in a healthy and real relationship before and it was silly of her to think otherwise. She should have known it would blow up in her face.
(But why?)
(Why?)
(Why?)
It’s the question on her mind keeps playing over and over in her mind as she falls into a fitful slumber, hoping against hope that sleep will bring some clarity.
It doesn’t.
#captain swan#cs ff#cs fanfic#cs fanfiction#cs fic#tw: ptsd#tw: violence#tw: violent ptsd#tw: choking#the villains that live in my head#my fic#my shit#please read at own risk
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My problems with S3
Salty rant in no particular order below the cut
What the HELL happened to the Byers? They went from being the emotional heart of the show to literally having one brief scene together in ep1 and then Will and Joyce had a hug by the end of ep8, which btw Jonathan DIDN’T EVEN JOIN IN ON??? He was literally in the background in that scene, are you trying to tell me my boy Jonathan Byers would not come out to hug his family after all that shit they just went through???? Jonathan and Will spent like what, four episodes standing next to each other and they barely even exchanged a single line?? Not a comforting touch, a hug, anything??
The Byers’ financial situation and how that could’ve given them some interaction, weight to Joyce’s desire to move and also the Byers talking about that AT ALL was lying right there for the taking. Joyce and Jonathan both had obvious concerns about losing their jobs
Joyce got to spend time doing something else than worrying about Will this season which was nice (instead running after manchild Hopper, great), but where are the repercussions of that? With the growing up theme I was hoping for Joyce to start to look into herself, about letting go and who she is when she’s not a mom
Jonathan was once again reduced to being Nancy’s sidekick, spending most of his time following her around and standing next to her while she drove the plot forward with a vengeance. He spent most of his time in the beginning being an abrasive grump and his pov was barely there with the lack of Byers fam content, which made his argument seem as weak as it did in s2. His scenes with Nancy hit the ground running, were rushed and few and far between. As soon as Jonathan was not by Nancy’s side he disappeared entirely from the plot until she called on him again. He didn’t have one single scene without her
Nancy Wheeler would never, ever stoop so low as to mock Jonathan for a) his socioeconomic position and b) his trauma with his dad. A super ooc low blow. Nancy can obviously be ignorant about how economical strife affects others, but actively mocking him??? This is not the Nancy that approached Jonathan “the freak” in s1 and expressed her concerns despite the entire school side-eyeing her. At least Jonathan got to sass back at her later
Where was Nancy’s backstory that was hinted at before the season? Was hoping for her to get some development OUTSIDE of her rallying to save the world 24/7
Will starts out the season having a semblance of an interesting, very relatable arc (abandonment issues, afraid of growing up, done with The Straights) that then goes nowhere in lieu of The Plot and Will just... doesn’t have a lot of beef with the MF. This thing and the other monsters of the UD fucked him for life, let him have something badass to do like I dunno, give him powers you cowards, let him fight the MF you cowards
Also let Will talk to his family about his issues, or have it be a point that Jonathan is now busy with Nancy and how he misses him. Jonathan being somewhat conflicted about spending all this time outside his family and the potential guilt and effect that has on him. Will destroyed Castle Byers that he and Jonathan built together, where the hell were my brotherly feels???
There was a lot of talk about “new pairings” with the characters, but everything felt very same-y. Jopper goes off on their own, jancy does the same thing, El and Mike have a ton of screentime devoted to just them, Steve and Dustin amped up their bromance to eleven, etc. Even when characters that usually aren’t grouped together were in the same scenes, they barely got anything to say or do (Lucas being said to “become closer with Jancy” was a flat out lie or referred to literally physically standing next to them). Where was Nancy and Joyce solidarity, El and Will siblings, Mike and Nancy bonding over their family falling apart, Jonathan and literally anyone but Nancy?
Villain focus completely shifted from the US government to the spoopy, evil Russians with their spoopy language. Stereotypical, tacky and bland af. Being American is Great and in no way problematic! Go patriotism/capitalism!
The abundance of action and cgi. Omg all of the action sequences. It felt like 70% of the season was spent on El throwing shit around with her powers and Hopper fighting Russian dudes. I remember being halfway through the season and thinking they really should’ve slowed down the plot. But that’s an issue with too little time for too many characters. I had no time to bond with any of the characters I liked since the plots were So Big and So Many that they ate up every opportunity for emotional intimacy and reflection. We had time for a goddamn ad for coke but not for the Byers to interact like once???
Also the whole infection/MF working in the shadows thing? Completely wasted potential. It was set up to induce paranoia in the characters and the MF tricking, playing with and torturing them, people not knowing who to trust which could’ve lead to some really compelling scenes. Nope, it’s just a big meaty version of the MF and now it’s running around town trying to fuck El up while nobody conveniently notices and tons of people died but who cares
Robin was shoehorned into the plot and magically had all the skills it took to figure out the code, could decipher Russian with no previous knowledge (the languages she listed as knowing are not at all related to Russian and why tf does she know so many languages??). At least she slapped Stobin in the face and gave us some actual LGBT rep since the doofuses are hellbent on beating around the bush with Will infinitely
Erica was 100% SASS and nothing else. It got old really quick
The entire plotline with Steve/Dustin/Erica/Robin took up about 60% of screentime with memes and sassy jokes and provided about 5% of relevance in the grand scheme of the plot. Everything they found out in the Russian facility could’ve been relayed by the Russian guy Jopper kidnapped
Which btw, why did a random Russian dude take up that much screentime? He had way more emotional development than 80% of the core cast. Also did we need that much Murray?
Speaking of, I did not need Murray doing his creepy, invasive psycho analysis thing on Jopper like he did Jancy last season. It was terrible and lazy writing then and it’s terrible and lazy now
Steve complaining about popularity “not being that great really” made me want to punch him in the face even more than usual. Nobody gives two shits about a rich white boy who got everything he pointed at, all the popularity and more girls than he could count at school while stomping on the outcasts
Also didn’t need that jab at Nancy in his heartfelt scene with Robin (which was funny bc Robin has a lot of similar traits to Nancy)
Karen and Billy was gross, but at least Karen stopped herself to go back to her unfulfilling but legally sound marriage. No need to rock that boat unnecessarily! A completely mediocre man is just fine for her I guess. At least she got a kickass scene with Nancy
Why in the fucking world did Billy get as much screentime as he did. Why on earth did this asshat, racist abuser get some bs sob story about his awful childhood when we have 47 other, way more sympathetic and interesting characters that could’ve been explored instead. And then he did some stupid “grand heroic sacrifice”. I cried more when the Russian dude died
Max was a victim of Billy’s abuse for years which was completely undermined by her ooc constant concern for him and overblown grief at his death
El being oh so concerned about Billy when she knew he was the asshole who had abused his friends Max and Lucas (and beat up Steve) before felt really insincere
Hopper was a huge, loud, violent jerk this season and I’m not having it. I felt sorry for Joyce having to put up with him and then he presumably died heroically (??? he’s obviously still alive guys) and I...didn’t really care? Was kind of on the Jopper train but have no hopes for it now. Where was their supposed “history” together that was hinted at before the season? It just felt like Hopper constantly acting like a huge, controlling manchild and Joyce having to pep/comfort/discipline him. No sense of back and forth support
What the fuck was that music number with Dustin and Suzie?? Omg cringe. I could feel how the characters all died inside
On the subject of music, they stole Jancy’s theme song and gave it to Steve and Robin and then Mileven. Mileven also stole Jancy’s “I love you”, which was clearly hinted from the name of the song on the soundtrack titled “The first I love you”, which is literally a rehash of their theme “The first lie” in s2. A huge slap in the face to end the season with
#st3 spoilers#stranger things#stranger things 3#I am a salty bitch rn :))))))#this is only my initial problems#I'm sure I'll think of more
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You Asked, I Told - Part 1 of 2
Hello everyone! It’s been a while since I’ve addressed anything BW-related, since I got sucked into post-Endgame Saltfest 2019. Even though I really wanted to write more about the movie, especially trying to justify Steve’s actions (which was becoming harder to do the more I thought about it), I started to think it was a big fucking waste of time. Thank you to everyone who commented and contributed to the discussion, BTW. It was very fulfilling to commiserate. So I went back to finishing the latest chapter of BW, because these are characters I actually do have control over, and the final 19.7k word version of Chapter 34 is with the beta now. Once she’s done looking at it, I’ll have it posted for you.
On to the Asks, which contain spoilers for Endgame and Baghdad Waltz
First is a two-part question:
Question 1: Is this a biography? I think if a writer is going to bring characters to life, they need to tap into parts of themselves that show up in their characters, like emotions, thoughts, behaviors, etc. and be able to skillfully convey those in writing. Otherwise, if they can’t viscerally capture and portray that, their characters are going to be flat. But very little of BW is biographical, though there are certainly small pieces of myself and my experiences I put into the characters here and there. If it reads biographical, I hope it’s because of the (way, way too much) time I spend fleshing out the characters’ psyches and quirks and plotting their back stories and their trajectories and researching as many details as I can.
Question 2: Bucky has had a lot of sexual partners, and there are many possible explanations as to why this may be. He certainly does seem to have a “type,” right? We know that he’s been with Thor, we have hints that he’s been with an “Alex” (though the circumstances aren’t clear with this one - more to come a few chapters down the road). You really hit very astutely on Bucky’s insecurity around Steve’s bisexuality, which is a reflection of his own internalized homophobia, which tells him that Steve could never really be happy with him because gay relationships are inferior to straight ones and he’ll just leave for a woman in the end so he can have a “real” life. This really came out in Iraq when they had their big throw down fight before Trip died.
But there’s also something deeper here, which is that Bucky is also very, very scared of being close to anybody. He’s terrified of intimacy, true emotional intimacy, which is what Steve was offering to him — and demanding from him. After 9/11, when Steve was terrified that Bucky was dead and asked to move in together, Bucky’s response was to sign up for active duty and ensure that never happened. Bucky has a deep core of mistrust and fear around interpersonal relationships, and Steve wanted something more than he was capable of giving. And it’s possible that the whole bisexuality thing is a thing, for sure, but not the deepest thing. Steve wanted all of Bucky — body, mind, heart, soul. And that scared the fuck out of Bucky. Not because he’s an asshole, as you say, but because he has a lot of trauma that hasn’t been addressed in the narrative or in his relationship with Steve. So it’s easier for him to just engage in superficial sexual encounters that will go nowhere, and it’s also a way for him to regulate his emotions, in addition to drinking. He gets to feel good and competent, because he’s good at sex, and that’s what he’s good for, and he also hates himself for it because it reinforces his gayness and something that causes and has historically caused him a lot of hurt.
So, yeah. It’s complicated. And neither of them really know that these processes are taking place, so for Bucky, it just feels chaotic and scary, and for Steve, it feels like Bucky is just abandoning him over and over again.
Thank you for the questions!!
You are not annoying! I love these questions! I had to get out the internet for this one.
So, as to the Sam and Natasha part, you must be psychic, because this is actually going to be addressed in the next chapter. You’ll also get some backstory on Bucky and Natasha’s relationship. So I’ll let the chapter speak to that. As for the money part, yeah, this apartment is not cheap - probably $2000 a month in 2010 money. It’s Windsor Terrace, so not QUITE as high profile as Park Slope, but this is not a cheap place to live. I calculated that Bucky is probably getting about $1900 a month from combined VA and Army retirement pay, which would offset a chunk of the rent. Bucky also actually has a lot of money in savings, but yeah he’d be burning through it pretty fast, which may be another reason why he’s trying to get a job.
Throughout his career, Bucky got extra pay for re-enlistments, hostile fire/imminent danger pay, hardship duty pay, and non-taxable regular pay on deployments. People in the military also get their housing paid for through something called Basic Allowance for Housing, which you can really pocket if you play your cards right. So if he was a Sergeant First Class living with another Sergeant First Class like Sam or Natasha, they would each get about $900 a month tax free to pay for an apartment or house in Fayetteville, NC — where you could rent an entire new house for less than that. He’d also get about $325 a month for food. So he was probably able to bank a lot of money during his career. At the same time, he wasn’t a guy who spent money on much except booze and going out to get laid while he was Stateside. And then there’s the matter of George’s $100,000 life insurance payout, which Winnie made sure went to her kids for school or, in Rikki’s case, to also help fund her business. This is why Winnie worked so much when they came to New York, so that she didn’t have to dip into that fund. She also receives a small surviving spouse’s pension each month for the rest of her life. (BTW, the life insurance payout is now $400,000.) Because Bucky went to a CUNY, he would have had his school completely paid for through the MERIT scholarship program, so he wouldn’t have had to dip into that money at all. He worked to pay his rent while attending college and drilling with the National Guard, which would have paid him less than $200 a month.
So, yeah, something is going to have to give soon, meaning either Quill has to pony up or Bucky has to get a job — preferably both! — because Bucky would hate to have to spend any of his father’s life insurance money on something like rent.
Great question! Rikki and Daisy have a very open relationship, so I’d imagine there isn’t a lot Daisy doesn’t know about Rikki’s experience of her childhood. However, Rikki doesn’t have the same experience of childhood that Bucky has, clearly. There will be a scene between Rikki and Bucky in Chapter 34, so I’m curious to know what you think after that. As far as Daisy knowing that something is up with Bucky’s childhood beyond what Rikki has disclosed to her, I agree with you that she is very intuitive and psychologically minded and has enough distance to probably hypothesize that something big happened during that time. I imagine she also wonders if Rikki isn’t more affected than she seems to be, given what we know about George’s behavior. Given the scene at George’s grave last year, Rikki appears well-adjusted around his death and around him as a father in general, even in spite of his abusive behavior. Daisy may wonder if this is actually adjustment or if it’s denial. I have no doubt that Daisy sees all sorts of shadows in the Barnes/Buchanan history, but she also probably struggles to find her place in terms of what her role is in helping Rikki explore these possibilities. And as for Bucky, I think Daisy tries to stay well boundaried around him, so even if she saw something, I’m not sure what — if anything — she would say to him or to Rikki.
Thank you so much for the kind words <3 I am so glad you liked this moment, because this was a monumental act for Bucky. They didn’t even do this when they were together as a couple, and here they are, possibly not even friends, Steve reaching out, and Bucky actually responding with a “yes.” We will see what comes from it, but yeah, this was so big for them. I really loved writing this scene so much.
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Okay, on to Part Two!
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Here’s the rest of the Deputy Ask Outline
The Basics
1. Give their full name, and describe them or post a picture! (Height, build, hair, eye, and skin color, etc.) Layla Rook
2. How old are they? 27
3. Sexuality and gender? Bisexual. Cis female. She/her.
Inside Hope County
1. What was going through their head when the helicopter went down and during the subsequent chase? Nothing really; pure adrenaline and fear had already kicked in as soon as she entered the helicopter and the Peggies kept coming, so she was just screaming in her mind. During the chase, she had more clear thoughts, but her objective was to fucking run.
2. Were they afraid of Joseph and Eden’s Gate? Angry? Despite being new to the area, she was suspicious of them from the start after learning about them. She knew they weren’t people to be taken lightly, but unlike others who wanted to stay out of there business, she really wanted to get involved with them. While relieved she can openly fight them after the botched arrest, she is scared of their power over the county, and is in constant fear for her and her family’s lives. She feels disgust and anger towards the members for turning on people they knew and cared about, all because of one (1) charismatic man and his siblings.
3. Did they trust Dutch? Not really. She heard rumors about him (due to his run-ins with the law) and then waking up bond in his bunker didn’t leave a good first impression. It improved once he began working with her as reconnaissance.
4. How did they feel about their team being taken by the cult, did they count them as lost, did they want them back, did they not care? She counted them lost until she saw Hudson on the TV. She cared more about Hudson out of the team, and she mostly prioritized her sister and nieces above them, but she does care for their safety and wants them safe from the cult just like other innocent people.
5. How did they take to the idea of being part of, if not leading, the resistance? At first she was terrified of the circumstances, but it got easier and her ego was fed at being seen as a hero to the people. It’s what keeps her going, really (that and her family being kept safe and proving the Seed’s wrong).
6. Which companions did they recruit, and who did they travel with the most? While all the GFH were helped/”recruited,” she worked with the Fangs for Hire the most, followed by Grace and Adelaide.
7. Did they have time to find romance amidst the chaos? How did they do it? Her two main romantic ties were Eli and Hudson. Neither ended well for her unfortunately. In “Layla joins the cult” AU, she begins a romance with John that goes surprisingly well for her and helps her confront her intimacy problems.
8. Feelings about Joseph? She went on first impressions with how cult leaders usually worked: power-hungry, superficially charming, manipulative and sociopathic. After getting to know him throughout the war, she admitted she was wrong about him in some ways: he was still manipulative and ruthless with a messiah complex, but she saw that he cared for his family/flock and that he felt he was doing the right thing for his family and the people of the county. He’s just sick and needs help. She also had a very uneasy feeling around him, which only increased when she picked up on his intense fixation on her. She lost most of her sympathy after he told her about his daughter, but she hates to admit that he’s right about many things. She is determined to bring him and his family to justice, to prove to him that even though the world situation looks bleak, there is no “Collapse” happening and that he was wrong all along.
9. Feelings about the other Seeds?
-John: It’s a love-hate. They met a few times before the arrest and drove each other nuts with passive-aggressive flirting and attraction (if one could call it that). On one hand, he reminds her of her past lover that ended up really fucking her over and she frequently calls him out on his hypocrisy of judging people for their sins but then acting on his own (which she says are Vanity, Pride and Wrath). On the other, he’s her type and it’s not like she wants to kill him; just bring him to justice. Layla enjoys goading him on, but she knows he can be dangerous when pushed into a corner and she does her best not to underestimate him. She tends to get annoyed when people tease her for John’s “crush” on her, unaware that he’s kind of fallen in love with her (in his own way).
-Jacob: She is the most frightened of him due to his conditioning and torment of her. Her biggest fear is lack of control and he represents that for her. She also hates him for what he did to her sister (unaware/in denial that there are mutual feelings between the two and her own nephew is his spawn). After she picked up on how he wanted to use her to kill Eli, she was extremely wary of him and tried her best to resist his efforts. He was the only one out of the Seed’s she truly wanted dead.
-Faith: When she first met Faith, the younger woman planted some seeds of doubt and pity in Layla. She assumed Faith was merely another victim of a cult like many young women tend to be. However, when Tracey told her the truth about Faith and she saw everything Faith did, Layla was just as disgusted by the Herald as she was of her brothers, even more so since she used the victim act to gain followers and then betray their trust by turning them into Angels or forcing them on the brutal Pilgrimage. Because of this, she wasn’t as affected by the Bliss as the Herald would have liked and the two women came to be fierce enemies when Faith targeted her loved ones as a way to control/hurt Layla.
10. How did they handle having to kill animals and other humans? Had they done it before? She has hunted a few times, though she is an animal lover and won’t kill cruelly (only for food or to protect from dangerous wildlife). As for people...she has a harder time accepting it due to trauma after killing someone from a previous job. She’s not a soldier or a serial killer, so each death does take a toll on her and it’s only the Resistance re-affirming her as a hero that keeps her going. If you’ve played Far Cry 3, she pretty much does a Jason Brody until the very end.
11. Which canon ending did they choose in-game, and would you have changed the ending at all? Resist, though it goes about as well as you would expect. Canon game-wise, she ends up so broken that she becomes the Judge and under Joseph’s thumb. It’s really depressing.
I have a few AUs in mind for Layla. If she joins the cult, ironically, it ends the best for her since she just winds up in John’s bunker and they kinda have a happy ever after in the apocalypse (it still has dark implications/themes and angst, so it’s not all sunshine and roses). There is one where she abandons her nieces to Joseph after the car crash and she becomes the grizzled Captain of Rush Security in New Dawn where she’s a mix of Carol Peletier, a Fallout protagonist and Mad Max. Also one where she gets the Resist Ending, but the other Heralds are alive and held in Dutch’s bunker, and then she winds up in a bunker with all three, which is yikes. Not to mention the potential for the Walk Away ending/s...
Just too many endings for this sad Deputy, haha.
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Neon Genesis Evangelion: The End of Analysis
Is this a ridiculously naval-gazing post about Evangelion? Yes. Is it an accurate assessment of the franchise as a whole? I have no idea. I tackled this as an unknown initially, starting the series with zero contexts beyond the usual recommendation of “you should watch this.” Which is part of the reason why I’ve been a little hesitant about even broaching this subject to begin with. I’m so removed from the zeitgeist, both in terms of not being a regular anime viewer, as well as it being long past Evangelion’s relevance as a franchise, that it seems everybody already has their opinion on Evangelion all figured out. So at least indulge me, as I scramble around for something.
‘The End of Evangelion’ is a certainly a gratifying conclusion, as we finally get to see much of what was being concealed behind the veil (well, as much as one could reasonably hope for). It also reminds us of some long-standing questions. Why do the Evangelion possess such a bizarre tendency to be ill suited for battle? How do NERV’s continue to run unabated from governing bodies? What exactly is the mystery surrounding the origin of the ‘Geofront’? These were all broad strokes of why I felt unsatisfied by the original conclusion (the hastily arranged make good of the final few episodes of the series), and though I don’t expect every minor detail to be answered about such a multi-faceted world, I still feel these were questions pertinent enough to have been resolved in some fashion. Now I’m a little more aware of the troubled events leading up to that ending and it’s quite admirable that they managed to deliver something, despite the haphazard nature of those final two episodes.
It’s clear that End of Evangelion intends to underline the original series from the start, dropping us back at the critical juncture where episode 24 had left us. Even if one could feasibly state that we reach the same point after the events of EOE, I’d argue that we inhabit a vastly different headspace by the time we reach it here. It’s not difficult to surmise what happens between the gaps left between the final two episodes, though everything is lent much more credence here, now that we are left to witness the macabre reality of what the entire series has been building towards. NERV headquarters is finally attacked by SEELE, and with this, we finally see the bloody climax. Now free to depict the attack in full detail, the opening half is certainly full of action and excess, though far from mindless, with only the most unflinching of viewers (or those divorced from its context) likely to derive any sort of baseless enjoyment from these scenes. The various lingering shots of deaths sit uncomfortably here, but nonetheless punctuate the finality of it all. If anyone could have accused the series of taking a wholly unexpected (and saccharine) turn towards it’s finale, then EOE is it’s biting rebuttal. As cold as the NERV headquarters is, with almost everything bad that has occurred almost exclusively originating from within it’s walls, it’s still disconcerting to see such a familiar setting being callously destroyed in a matter of minutes, along with it’s inhabitants. The conflict has essentially existed as a faceless one; both the audience and Evangelion’s protagonists seldom knew what they’re truly been up against. It’s a war being played out by the pawns, and here we see the severity first-hand.
As their headquarters are crumbling, so are the pilots. Shinji is in no fit state, evidenced by his own bemusement over his actions towards a comatose Asuka. It may be shocking, and his actions are far from admirable, but given the context, it’s hardly surprising. After all, his confidence had been built up; only to be meticulously broken the instant Kaworu reared his head. This compounded with his earlier apprehensions after Toji’s departure, his various disingenuous, failed, and otherwise doomed relationships leaves his mental state in tatters. I personally don’t like Shinji, but then again, it’s quite clear to see that you’re not really supposed to. Even without Hideki Anno’s spiteful intent of wanting to deconstruct the typical shonen hero propelling Shinji’s arc, it’s quite safe to assume that anyone who had any lingering empathy for Shinji will almost certainly have abandoned such notions at this point. The Shinji we were first introduced to, awkward, unlikeable, with an overriding sense of hate and self-loathing, has now given way to complete apathy. “I’m so fucked up” seems to ring more an acknowledgement, than it does a realization.
Like Shinji, Asuka too has succumbed to her trauma, but on a much more literal scale, being broken in both mind and body. They are two characters that are seemingly analogous to one another. But again, first appearances can be deceiving, as by the point of Asuka’s introduction, we are already keenly aware of Shinji’s nature. He openly laments his position; Meanwhile, Asuka is brash and outspoken, embracing her identity as a designated hero, rather than cowering behind it. How they choose to define themselves is different, but the underlying reasons are gradually revealed to quite similar. Both driven by an inherent self-loathing, we witness the pair at varying levels of despondency, though rarely at the same time. In fact, for as consistent as emotional turmoil is through NGE, it is rarely overt, leaving most characters to wallow in their own abject misery. Almost everything operates on a certain level on duplicity, some of which, admittedly, isn’t apparent upon first viewing.
Rei is ostensibly disconnected from the very beginning, though that makes the act of attempting to interpret the character, quite difficult. Very little is revealed about her, and most of the development is concerned with what she is, rather than what she does. Her role is pivotal to the overall narrative, and the themes being explored, as she is, by design, a doll that emotes. Which I guess is where her appeal lies. The mystery intrinsic to the character is never completely done away with, even at the very end. And the case could be made if the third incarnation of ‘Rei’ is even the same character that we’d become accustomed to, as her eventual rejection of instrumentality is a stark contrast to the cold pragmatist that bookended the TV series.
The (quite literal) congratulatory nature of the series conclusion was always conspicuous in its inclusion. Evangelion had never been a work that had an interest in servicing its audience, at least in terms of a ‘happy’ ending. Which isn’t to say that wasn’t a possibility, but the tonal dissonance in which it was delivered never quite rang true. As an audience, we were conditioned to cautiously enjoy any brief respites afforded to our characters, as more often than not, it was simply a prelude to the turmoil that was soon to be heaped upon them. All of which (keeping with tradition), means the course correcting of EOE ups the stakes by an order of magnitude. The imminent attack is at the worst possible time, with each pilot being indisposed. The first big sequence, the assault on NERV, is a veritable massacre. Everyone’s fates are conclusively played out, whilst the Evangelion units become the focal point. 01 is promptly captured, whilst 02 (along with Asuka) is sunk to the bottom of the lake. This leaves Misato to attempt to galvanize an unstable Shinji. It’s kind of galling to see Shinji act so despondently in the face of her imminent death, though his selfishness probably obscures that fact until it’s too late. For me, Katsuragi is probably the most well meaning of the entire cast, but tragically, is someone woefully inept of providing the emotional support that others around her need. Her own weaknesses are clear to see, and although many of her problems are often emphasized for comic affect, she is still one of the few who straddles the line between her duties and profession life, perhaps the most convincingly. Like most other characters, she serves as juxtaposition to Shinji’s own conflict, and highlights how everyone is dealing with their own issues, just with varying levels of inadequacy. Her final actions echo her previous (failed) attempt at comforting Shinji, with her own loneliness giving way to fleeting intimacy.
Everything hits a crescendo once the Evangelion finally make their appearance, quite literally. Asuka awakens, and with it, her centrepiece battle takes place. I’m sure that it isn’t really something that I need to go into exacting detail about, because the following scene is enduring all by itself. Though it is notable as a culmination of the various elements all coming together; music, animation, along with the story. This is where EOE leverage’s its theatrical status for all its worth, eschewing the patchwork TV production in favour of something grander.
The actions scenes are often impressive and horrifying in equal measure, and there is probably no greater proof than here. Asuka’s death is certainly disturbing, and much of that is down to how they chose to portray that violence. For me, it recalled earlier moments, where the eldritch abomination like nature of the Evangelion had been evoked. These moments give the audience a brief pause for thought, where much is suggested of how horrifying their (The Evangelion) unshackled nature truly is. The unease, which these moments produce, suggests that something is terribly untoward. Most of which is conveyed in how we (the audience) see others react, gleaning what we can from cutaway shots of onlookers recoiling in horror. If recollections of Unit O1’s previous ‘feast’ already served to perturb, then this surely toys with our imagination yet further. We only see Unit 02 itself being devoured, and now knowing what we do about the distinctly human aspect of the Evangelion, the horror of Asuka’s fate here, trapped inside, now inhabits an altogether more unsettling space.
The series ending, try as I might to appreciate it, was never going to suffice. It was nice to see Shinji’s own paradigm being settled, but I felt like it would have been more effective with a little more of that ambiguity stripped away. For as much as Neon Genesis Evangelion likes to steep itself in duplicity, this is where it’s felt like it was something of a compromise.
The inner turmoil was my key takeaway from the work as a whole; it forms the crux of every relationship, and dictates the course of every action. It’s a lonely show, something that if not apparent from the get-go, slowly permeates throughout the narrative. Shinji is an initially an awkward character to relate to, bumbling his way through his scenes, though much of this weak nature is revealed to be a product of his environment. The world in which this all takes place is irreparably damaged, and even if the true extent of the second impact isn’t made expressly clear, it becomes quite apparent that humanity lives on in its own self-inflicted dystopia.
It is this inherent contradiction that defines nearly every relationship, as each is unwilling (or unable) to acknowledge their true feelings. It is ultimately a self-destructive existence for the likes of Shinji, who permeates multiple meanings to his interactions with people, the paradoxical nature of which is explored in the conflict that defines the multiple endings and interpretations.
Shinji is our proxy, but even so, it can be difficult to empathize with him. A hero he may be, but it’s more by designation than by design. It’s a role, which he consistently questions, as he exhibits almost none of the values we typically associate with someone tasked with such a mammoth task. He ostensibly comes of age throughout the series, gradually gaining some semblance of self-worth, though it a precarious act as he constantly seeks assurance from his father, and later anyone (which becomes something that Asuka resents him for). No character is treated like a proverbial puppet more than Shinji. In fact, it is SEELE themselves, who objective turns out to ultimately “break” Shinji, rendering his ego to naught. For all intents and purposes, it could be argued that the whole world is literally against him, at least by his own perceptions. His relationship is Asuka is extremely strained, initially showing hints of affection, with their hilariously depressing kiss encapsulates this dichotomy; Neither the circumstances (nor the characters) allowing for anything to take place. Even the slight reprieve offered in the finale (Asuka’s acknowledgement amidst the fallout) is obfuscated by the context in which it’s delivered.
Shinji’s journey dictates the ending, first, in the original series, where his perspective colours the ambiguity from which we see the fallout. Thematically this works (and I can see why some may prefer the agency it gives the audience), though I feel that the abstract nature of this ending, robs it of some emotional resonance. This conclusion is also hampered (at least for me) in how abrupt it is, with certain story threads left dangling. In my opinion, ‘End of Evangelion’ lives up to it’s billing as it gives a much more balanced and subjective conclusion, where we see first-hand “The Human Instrumentality Project” in effect. I was suitably invested to the point where I wished to see how the end was reached, and of course, see something that wasn’t cobbled together with recycled animation or slight of hand. I can certainly appreciate the original ending as a companion piece, which serves as a more personal and intimate resolution. But the fact remains, a lot of the fascination surely lays with how incomplete this all feels, with each finale, seemingly answering as many questions as they create.
That said, I find that both endings offer up a surprisingly optimistic message. The original may be more overtly upbeat, but I think that EOE’s is lent more credence by virtue of the horror that precedes it. The life affirming message is delivered in the most tragic of circumstances, and I perhaps find that most heartening of all. By no means does ‘End of Evangelion’ end on a positive note, but I think it’s enough that it carries the promise of one. The somber sentiment may be more prevalent for some, though my rebuttal would point to the fact that, for as depraved and unethical the means may be, everyone ultimately wants to be happy.
There is something to be said about the apparent theology that makes up a large part of Evangelion, and even if it has no real implication beyond the aesthetic (those initial warnings from long-time fans that, yes, a lot of the pseudo Christian imagery is window dressing at best. ), I still feel that its prominence casts a large shadow over proceedings. If nothing else, it certainly lends a morbid atmosphere to the show. When one starts to take this aspect into closer consideration, it’s easy to see why theory regarding Evangelion has become so prevalent.
One of the constants throughout is the titular Evangelion. Though they remain a focal part, their function, both narratively and thematically, are constantly shifting. Initially agents of change, they are presented as a mysterious, if helpful force. Gradually this is peeled back, as various allusions are made to what they actually are. Throughout, we see how their pilots are affected by their experiences in their cockpits. Shinji is continually drawn and repulsed by the idea of piloting his Evangelion, seeing it as a means to forge something meaningful, whilst at the time, also aware of how dependant he becomes of his new role. Rei is driven by a sense of twisted duty, one that routinely sees her sacrificing herself (needlessly) for the cause. And Asuka perceives her role as raison d'être to obfuscate her own past, this being both a strength and a weakness. For better or worse, the Evangelion define them, and as the story progresses, we see that this takes on altogether more sinister connotations.
When viewed as an allegory, I think Evangelion holds multiple meanings, depending on what part is being referred to, or indeed who is viewing it. My initial impressions were pretty much taking it at face value, though I think the misdirection of the opening is a deliberate ploy for the most part. I’ve read that some take it as a deconstruction of the very genre it inhabits, though not having much experience with that myself, I choose to focus solely on the emotional aspects. Indeed, the psychological (and philosophical) strands become much more prominent as the series progresses, as it steadily veers into becoming a wholly oblique affair. Humanity may live on, but in spite of itself; something which is made abundantly clear, throughout.
Though its message initially seems quite muddled, I still feel it one that still manages to remain pertinent. I certainly can’t fault it for ambition. And there is something to be said about a piece of work that I simultaneously feel, is one of the most bleak and uplifting things I have witnessed, flawed or otherwise.
I appreciate the themes that it chooses to explore. I like the characters, even in spite of everyone being contemptible in some glaring way. And in that respect, this series is nothing, if not a parade of characters struggling to deal with their emotions. But maybe that’s why I like it amidst all the abstract craziness; it retains a very human message.
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lol this just sums up the guts-griffith-casca love triangle so perfectly.
Like... it sets up both the way Guts and Griffith use Casca as an intermediary for physical (and emotional) intimacy with each other, making her life a living hell, and the way Casca’s whole existence revolves around her gender in contrast to the men surrounding her, and ties those two things together.
Plus, with Guts’ nightmare and subsequent relief that it’s a woman rather than a man with him, it adds trauma to the mix. It ties everything together.
And man it is thematically neat as fuck.
Like what I’m saying is that if you choose to believe this is purposeful, then what the Golden Age is about is two dudes who are both attracted to each other and can’t act on it thanks to internalized (trauma)*** and externalized (heteronormativity) homophobia, and this fucks up both the dudes in question, and the woman/en (? Charlotte isn’t shown to suffer from this, but I imagine being in a one-sided relationship will eventually take its toll on her) they end up turning to instead out of that internalized and externalized obligation.
Casca’s story is almost entirely about dealing with misogyny, and this makes heteronormativity a part of that. It’s not just a woman’s duty to warm a man - another man can’t. Men can’t be physically intimate with each other, only with women, and more, they have to be physically intimate with women to attain like, an artificial sense of self-actualization - in Berserk, their dreams. And this harms both the men in their enforced isolation from each other and the women in their enforced intimacy with men.
Like, Guts even references Casca warming him here after they have sex, again, tying physical intimacy with her to his trauma.
And while Charlotte is Griffith’s means to achieving his dream, Casca is Guts’ - because attaining Casca’s affection, being “good” for her, means he’s more like Griffith, and closer to his goal of being Griffith’s equal.
I mean Guts leaving Griffith because they couldn’t share their feelings with each other, and Griffith sleeping with Charlotte as a means of denial (“take all those sad and frightening things and cast them into the fire”) and then Guts sleeping with Casca as a means of denial (”don’t think about those things. Right now all you need is to feel alive”) both lead directly to Griffith choosing to destroy his feelings so he can live solely for his dream. Draw your own conclusions about how this culminates in the most destructive display of heterosexuality in the story.
Once the nature of Guts’ dream switches from abandoning Griffith to pursuing him in rage things get murkier on Guts’ side, but this reading still works if you consider that Guts’ problem isn’t exactly his lingering, twisted feelings for Griffith, but his refusal to actually examine and untangle them, with revenge as just another distraction.
And to be perfectly crystal clear I’m not saying this is purposeful, or that even if it somehow is purposeful Miura doesn’t still go about it as offensively as possible. Like, by this reading internalized homophobia is essentially positioned as a result of evil gay pedophiles, to a much greater extent than any vague reference to societal norms. Both these dudes succumb to inner darknesses and assault a woman explicitly because of their feelings for the other dude. I’m not giving him a round of applause here lmao. It’s probably actually less offensive if it’s all accidental.
And lbr it’s probably a side-effect of writing a) a female character whose life revolves around misogyny, b) a homoerotic relationship between 2 dudes and c) a half-assed het subplot between one of those dudes and the aforementioned woman
But like still, it just fits together so freaking well. It’s ridiculous how neat this reading is during the Golden Age.
***to be clear i’m not saying internalized homophobia is always a result of trauma lol, I’m saying that’s how the story does it.
#a#b#i'm going thru my drafts and i'm feelin this again#fuckin judeau just summed up berserk right there#character: guts#character: griffith#character: casca#theme: heteronormativity#theme: misogyny#arc: ga#theme: trauma#theme: repression#ship: griffguts
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Matt Murdock & Borderline Personality Disorder
It seems to be pretty universally believed among the Daredevil/Marvel fandom that Matt has some very serious neuroatypical tendencies. I’ve been told that he has depression in the comic book canon and, at first, that seemed pretty reasonable, all in all. He does really self-destructive crap, has a pretty low sense of self-worth, some pretty serious guilt, and pessimistic thoughts, all of which are Major Depressive Disorder territory. That being said, a lot of the other symptoms: loss of interest in life and reduced energy/decreased activity don’t seem to turn up at all.
What makes more sense, to me at least, is Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). It is, of course, necessary to acknowledge that we cannot diagnose characters since they exist in a very specific unreal spectre of our world. We have no way to reference their actions or choices and no clear insight into their thoughts and thought patterns. On top of that, I was somewhat recently diagnosed with BPD and it seemed like the things in me that are Matt Murdock are some of the stuff that started to make sense in light of the BPD diagnosis.
The DSM-V has five general criteria for personality disorders:
Significant impairments in self (identity or self-direction) and interpersonal (empathy or intimacy) functioning.
One or more pathological personality trait domains or trait facets.
The impairments are relatively stable across time and consistent across situations.
The impairments are not better understood as normative for the individual’s developmental stage or sociocultural environment.
The impairments are not solely due to the direct physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug of abuse, medication) or a general medical condition (e.g., severe head trauma).
For BPD the first two these break down like this:
Impairments in Personality Functioning:
Impairments in identity or self-direction: Markedly impoverished, poorly developed, or unstable self-image, often associated with excessive self criticism; chronic feelings of emptiness; dissociative states under stress.
This one is really the crux of BPD and one that I think is frequently misunderstood. “Unstable self-image” is something that is hard to wrap one’s head around, especially considering that “instability in goals, aspirations, values, or career plans” are considered separately in the ‘self-direction’ category. Matt certainly has stable goals, values, etc. but despite that, he exists as many different personalities. He tends to morph to what the people around want him to be; he does his best to inhabit the space that he imagines is meant for him. With Foggy he’s gentle and kind, a fake softness to cover his sharp edges, with Elektra he becomes the sharp edges and nothing in between, for Karen he becomes the perfect gentleman and protector he sees her as needing, etc. I would argue that he leans into the traits that he thinks his partners see as desirable or good or ~Matt~ in order to become what they want. Karen and Foggy have mostly overlapping images, making it possible for them to coexist with Matt, but Elektra is totally other. By this token, Matt with Elektra cannot overlap with Foggy because the essential Matt-ness changes depending on who he’s with. On top of all of this, Matt literally exists as the two incongruous halves of himself. The show tracks the ways that Matt Murdock, attorney-at-law and Daredevil cannot inhabit Matt at the same time. But I honestly think this is less crucial to Matt’s BPD than his amorphous personality.
Impairments in empathy or intimacy: Intense, unstable, and conflicted close relationships, marked by mistrust, neediness, and anxious preoccupation with real or imagined abandonment; close relationships often viewed in extremes of idealization and devaluation and alternating between over involvement and withdrawal.
Do I even need to go into this one? Matt, in his entire life, manages one long-term close relationship, which is certainly intense and unstable. He is incredibly attached to Foggy, willing to strike out and start a law firm with him, but too scared to tell him about his senses. Despite evidence to the contrary, Matt doesn’t trust Foggy enough to tell him something essential, presumably for fear of abandonment. Extremes of idealization and devaluation absolutely come to play with Foggy, Karen, and Elektra. Matt seems to idolize Foggy, considers him the heart of Nelson & Murdock, but then proceeds to detach and condemn Foggy for not accepting him as Daredevil. Elektra is perfect and the center of Matt’s world and ~knows Matt better than anyone else~ and then she’s terrible and destroys everything. There’s a definite reason for this snap change, but it’s still very extreme, changing polarity quickly.
Pathological Personality Traits:
Negative Affectivity characterized by
emotional lability - Unstable emotional experiences and frequent mood changes; emotions that are easily aroused, intense, and/or out of proportion to events and circumstances.
I mean. Matt does not have normal emotional responses as an adult. He flares with anger easily, which would explain his sense that the devil is in him. Outbursts of anger with following intense remorse, shame and guilt are also considered common in people with BPD.
anxiousness - Intense feelings of nervousness, tenseness, or panic, often in reaction to interpersonal stresses; worry about the negative effects of past unpleasant experiences and future negative possibilities; feeling fearful, apprehensive, or threatened by uncertainty; fears of falling apart or losing control.
This is another one that I have trouble even digging into because it feels so obvious. We’ve all seen Matt’s ability to handle interpersonal stress. He basically backs out awkwardly while mumbling about random things. Or he yells or punches things. That’s basically the only ways he handles things.
In addition, Matt clearly clings to ‘killing his father’ and then, of course, Stick leaving him. He says he ‘has an incredible ability to bring disaster into his life’. I have to think both of those are attached to this sentiment. And of course, nearly driving Foggy out with Daredevil and keeping his senses to himself.
He’s terrified of losing control and crossing the line and killing someone. Despite a strong, intense moral compass, he seems to exist in a state of fear that he might murder someone in an outburst of anger (see emotional lability).
separation insecurity - Fears of rejection by – and/or separation from – significant others, associated with fears of excessive dependency and complete loss of autonomy.
Jack, Stick, Elektra, Foggy - people leave him. And since his dad died he’s fucking terrified of it. His resistance to loss of autonomy is demonstrated most clearly with Elektra and Stick. It’s easy to justify with them because they’re ~bad influences~ and morally ambiguous, but Matt is scared of becoming their puppets despite being, you know, an autonomous human being.
depressivity - Frequent feelings of being down, miserable, and/or hopeless; difficulty recovering from such moods; pessimism about the future; pervasive shame; feeling of inferior self-worth; thoughts of suicide and suicidal behavior.
Matt never feels good enough, has terrible sense of self-worth to the point where he LITERALLY BELIEVES HE’S THE DEVIL SOMETIMES. Shame surrounds his existence as Daredevil and lying to the people around him and also not doing enough as DD. I don’t think it’s that much of a reach to say what he does as DD is suicidal behavior. He knows this can’t be sustained. But he keeps going with no sense of self preservation.
Disinhibition, characterized by
impulsivity - Acting on the spur of the moment in response to immediate stimuli; acting on a momentary basis without a plan or consideration of outcomes; difficulty establishing or following plans; a sense of urgency and self-harming behavior under emotional distress.
... Nothing says acting on the spur of the moment or without plan quite like when he gets hacked to pieces by Nobu or goes on a rescue mission for Stick. Or for Karen et al. to be entirely honest. Urgency and no regard for his safety are basically the backbone of Matt Murdock’s Daredevil.
risk taking - Engagement in dangerous, risky, and potentially self-damaging activities, unnecessarily and without regard to consequences; lack of concern for one’s limitations and denial of the reality of personal danger.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA NEXT
Antagonism characterized by:
hostility - Persistent or frequent angry feelings; anger or irritability in response to minor slights and insults.
Is he ever not angry? Like really. Pretty small things (Stick’s commenting on Jack) set Matt off and get him swinging. Repeat on the devil in him - small things spark anger in him.
Stable across time check
Not explained by age or socio-cultural environment check
Not due to substances (drugs or meds) or a medical condition (head trauma) check (even if Matt has serious head trauma, I don’t think that’s what shapes his personality functioning)
Being raised in an abusive environment is common among people with BPD. Correlation, of course, does not imply causation, but Matt’s early and intense relationship with Stick was abusive and could have shaped BPD tendencies.
When it comes down to it, a personality disorder makes a lot more sense for Matt’s unstable and non-normative functioning than depression.
“I’m so good at beginnings, but in the end I always seem to destroy everything, including myself.” - Kiera Van Gelder, The Buddha and the Borderline
#mine#Daredevil#meta#bpd#god help me#matt murdock#my baby#lol what school work?#WHAT SCHOOL WORK?#come at me
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The Silence: The Legacy of Childhood Trauma
By Junot Díaz
I found a story amidst my delving into the depth of childhood trauma, I suppose I just wanted to know what someone else had been through and if they managed to somehow over come it. It’s unusually comforting to read the feelings he had, the same “cut-off” of disassociated presence he felt with not only himself but with everyone else around him. To shed light on the sexual trauma he experienced and how it mirrored my own sexual intimacy blocks. Among all the amazing things he created from this experience it was really hard to hear the profound affect it was still having on him decades on. Perhaps this is just me now, forever?
I suppose it was all well and easy to say I wouldn’t change it for the world because it has made me who I am today, beautiful, kind, gentle, and above all, a dedicated and passionate lover, but to think I will live with this for the rest of my life, that Perhaps i may never be able to break down these barriers even with professional help, thats not something I would want of anyone, not of myself. Perhaps if i could rewind it all I would change everything, I may not be who I am today but perhaps I’d be able to give and receive love openly from others and to myself, even if I was a complete asshole, a close minded, non-empathic person, to be happy and free from all of this pain i carry, is all I ask from the world. I wan’t to be able to love myself so damn badly, but I can only keep on trying until one day I do finally make it because I will, it’s not living otherwise.
Last week I returned to Amherst. It’s been years since I was there, the time we met. I was hoping that you’d show up again; I even looked for you, but you didn’t appear. I remember you proudly repped N.Y.C. during the few minutes we spoke, so I suspect you’d moved back or maybe you were busy or you didn’t know I was in town. I have a distinct memory of you in the signing line, saying nothing to anyone, intense. I assumed you were going to ask me to read a manuscript or help you find an agent, but instead you asked me about the sexual abuse alluded to in my books. You asked, quietly, if it had happened to me.
You caught me completely by surprise.
I wish I had told you the truth then, but I was too scared in those days to say anything. Too scared, too committed to my mask. I responded with some evasive bullshit. And that was it. I signed your books. You thought I was going to say something, and when I didn’t you looked disappointed. But more than that you looked abandoned. I could have said anything but instead I turned to the next person in line and smiled. Out of the corner of my eye I watched you pick up your backpack, slowly put away your books, and leave. When the signing was over I couldn’t get the fuck away from Amherst, from you and your question, fast enough. I ran the way I’ve always run. Like death itself was chasing me. For a couple of days afterward I fretted; I worried that I’d given myself away. But then the old oblivion reflex took over. I pushed it all down. Buried it all. Like always.
But I never really did forget. Not our exchange or your disappointment. How you walked out of the auditorium with your shoulders hunched.
I know this is years too late, but I’m sorry I didn’t answer you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for me. We both could have used that truth, I’m thinking. It could have saved me (and maybe you) from so much. But I was afraid. I’m still afraid—my fear like continents and the ocean between—but I’m going to speak anyway, because, as Audre Lorde has taught us, my silence will not protect me.
X—
Yes, it happened to me.
I was raped when I was eight years old. By a grownup that I truly trusted.
After he raped me, he told me I had to return the next day or I would be “in trouble.”
And because I was terrified, and confused, I went back the next day and was raped again.
I never told anyone what happened, but today I’m telling you.
And anyone else who cares to listen.
That violación. Not enough pages in the world to describe what it did to me. The whole planet could be my inkstand and it still wouldn’t be enough. That shit cracked the planet of me in half, threw me completely out of orbit, into the lightless regions of space where life is not possible. I can say, truly, que casi me destruyó. Not only the rapes but all the sequelae: the agony, the bitterness, the self-recrimination, the asco, the desperate need to keep it hidden and silent. It fucked up my childhood. It fucked up my adolescence. It fucked up my whole life. More than being Dominican, more than being an immigrant, more, even, than being of African descent, my rape defined me. I spent more energy running from it than I did living. I was confused about why I didn’t fight, why I had an erection while I was being raped, what I did to deserve it. And always I was afraid—afraid that the rape had “ruined” me; afraid that I would be “found out”; afraid afraid afraid. “Real” Dominican men, after all, aren’t raped. And if I wasn’t a “real” Dominican man I wasn’t anything. The rape excluded me from manhood, from love, from everything.
The kid before—hard to remember. Trauma is a time traveller, an ouroboros that reaches back and devours everything that came before. Only fragments remain. I remember loving codes and Encyclopedia Brown and pastelones and walking long distances in an effort to learn what lay beyond my N.J. neighborhood. At night I had the most vivid dreams, often about “Star Wars” and about my life back in the Dominican Republic, in Azua, my very own Tatooine. Was just getting to know this new English-speaking me, was just becoming his friend—and then he was gone.
No more spaceship dreams, no more Azua, no more me. Only an abiding sense of wrongness and the unbearable recollection of being violently penetrated.
By the time I was eleven, I was suffering from both depression and uncontrollable rage. By thirteen, I stopped being able to look at myself in the mirror—and the few times I accidentally glimpsed my reflection I’d recoil like I’d got hit in the face by a jellyfish stinger. (What did I see? I saw the crime, my grisly debasement, and if anyone looked at me too long I would run or I would fight.)
By fourteen, I was holding one of my father’s pistols to my head. (He’d been gone a few years, but he’d generously left some of his firearms behind.) I had trouble at home. I had trouble at school. I had mood swings like you wouldn’t believe. Since I’d never told anyone what had happened my family assumed that was just who I was—un maldito loco. And while other kids were exploring crushes and first love I was dealing with intrusive memories of my rape that were so excruciating I had to slam my head against a wall.
Of course, I never got any kind of help, any kind of therapy. Like I said, I never told anyone. In a family as big as mine—five kids—it was easy to get lost, even when you were going under. I remember my mother telling me, after one of my depressions, that I should pray. I didn’t even bother to laugh.
When I wasn’t completely out of it I read everything I could lay my hands on, played Dungeons & Dragons for days on end. I tried to forget, but you never forget. Night was the worst—that’s when the dreams would come. Nightmares where I got raped by my siblings, by my father, by my teachers, by strangers, by kids who I wanted to be friends with. Often the dreams were so upsetting that I would bite my tongue, and the next morning I’d spit out blood into the bathroom sink.
And in no time at all I was failing everything. Quizzes, quarters, and then entire classes. First I got booted out of my high school’s gifted-and-talented program, then out of the honors track. I sat in class and either dozed or read Stephen King books. Eventually I stopped showing up altogether. School friends drifted away; home friends couldn’t wrap their heads around it.
Senior year, while everyone was getting their college acceptances, I went another way: I tried to kill myself. What happened was that in the middle of a deep depression I suddenly became infatuated with this cute-ass girl I knew at school. For a few weeks my gloom lifted, and I became utterly convinced that if this girl went out with me, if she fucked me, I’d be cured of all that ailed me. No more bad memories. I’d been watching “Excalibur” on heavy rotation, so I was all about miraculous regeneration. When I finally got up the nerve to ask her out and she said nope, it felt as though the world had finally closed the door on me.
The next day I swallowed all these leftover drugs from my brother’s cancer treatment, three bottles’ worth.
Didn’t work.
You know why I didn’t try again the next day?
Because my one and only college acceptance arrived in the mail. I had assumed I wasn’t going anywhere, had completely forgotten that I had any schools left to hear from. But as I read that letter it felt as if the door of the world had cracked open again, ever so slightly.
I didn’t tell anyone I tried to kill myself. Something else I buried deep.
I often tell people that college saved me. Which in part is true. Rutgers, only an hour from my home by bus, was so far from my old life and so alive with possibility that for the first time in the longest I felt something approaching safety, something approximating hope. And, whether it was that distance or my bottomless self-loathing or some desperate post-suicide urge to live, that first year I remade myself completely. By junior year, I doubt anyone from my high school would have recognized me. I became a runner, a weight lifter, an activist, had girlfriends, was “popular.” At Rutgers I buried not only the rape but the boy who had been raped—and threw into the pit my family, my suffering, my depression, my suicide attempt for good measure. Everything I’d been before Rutgers I locked behind an adamantine mask of normalcy.
And, let me tell you, once that mask was on no power on earth could have torn it off me.
The mask was strong.
But as any Freudian will tell you trauma is stronger than any mask; it can’t be buried and it can’t be killed. It’s the revenant that won’t stop, the ghost that’s always coming for you. The nightmares, the intrusions, the hiding, the doubts, the confusion, the self-blame, the suicidal ideation—they didn’t go away just because I buried my neighborhood, my family, my face. The nightmares, the intrusions, the hiding, the doubts, the confusion, the self-blame, the suicidal ideation—they followed. All through college. All through graduate school. All through my professional life. All through my intimate life. (Leaked into my writing, too, but you’d be amazed how easy it is to rewrite the truth away.)
Didn’t matter how far I ran or what I achieved or who I was with—they followed.
Do you remember how during our chat at Amherst I talked about intimacy? I think I said that intimacy is our only home. Super ironic that I write and talk about intimacy all day long; it’s something I’ve always dreamed of and never had much luck achieving. After all, it’s hard to have love when you absolutely refuse to show yourself, when you’re locked behind a mask.
I remember when I got my first girlfriend, in college. I thought that was it—I was saved. Everything I’d been would officially be erased, all my awful dreams would disappear. But that’s not the way the world works. Me and this girl were into each other something serious, were in our narrow college beds all the time—but you know what? We never had sex. Not once. I couldn’t. Every time we would get close to fucking the intrusions would cut right through me, stomach-turning memories of my violation. Of course, I didn’t tell her. I just said that I wanted to wait. She didn’t believe my excuses, asked me what was wrong, but I never said anything. I kept the Silence. After a year, we broke up.
I thought maybe with another girl it would be easier, but it wasn’t. I tried and I tried and I tried. Took me until I was a junior before I finally lost my virginity. I saw her first in a creative-writing class. She was an ex-hippie ex-hardcore sweetie who wrote beautifully and had a tattoo on her head and the first time we got in bed she didn’t even ask if I was a virgin; she just pulled off her dress and it happened. I almost threw a party.
But I should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy. Me and J— dated for two years, but I was always acting, always hiding. The mask was strong.
I’m sure she sensed I was all sorts of messed up, but I’m guessing she chalked it up to typical ghetto craziness. She loved the shit out of me. Brought me home to her family, and they loved me, too. It was the first truly healthy family I’d been exposed to. Which you would think would have been a good thing.
Wrong. The longer we were together, the more her family loved me, the more unbearable it all got. There was only so much closeness a person like me could endure before I needed to fly the fuck away. I had long bouts of depression, drank more than I’d ever drunk, especially during the holidays, when they were all at their happiest. One day, for no reason at all, I found myself saying, We have to break up. There was absolutely no precipitating anything. I had just reached my limit. I remember crying my eyes out the night before (in those days I never cried). I didn’t want to break up with her. I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t stand to be loved. To be seen.
Why? she asked. Why?
And I really had no answer.
After that it was C—, who did a ton of community work in the D.R. And then B—, the Seventh-Day Adventist from St. Thomas. Neither relationship worked. But I kept going.
And that’s how it went for a while, from college to grad school to Brooklyn. I would meet intimidatingly smart sisters, would date them in the hope that they could heal me, and then the fear would start to climb in me, the fear of discovery, and the mask would feel as if it were cracking and the impulse to escape, to hide, would grow until finally I’d hit a Rubicon—I’d either drive the novia away or I would run. I started sleeping around, too. The regular relationship drug wasn’t enough. I needed stronger hits to keep the wound inside from rising up and devouring me. The Negro who couldn’t sleep with anyone became the Negro who would sleep with everyone.
I was hiding, I was drinking, I was at the gym; I was running around with other women. I was creating model homes, and then, just as soon as they were up, abandoning them. Classic trauma psychology: approach and retreat, approach and retreat. And hurting other people in the process. My depressions would settle over me for months, and in that darkness the suicidal impulse would sprout pale and deadly. I had friends with guns; I asked them never to bring them over for any reason. Sometimes they listened, sometimes they didn’t.
Somehow I was still writing—about a young Dominican man who, unlike me, had been only a little molested. Someone who couldn’t stay in any relationship because he was too much of a player. Crafting my perfect cover story, in effect. And since us Afro-Latinx brothers are viewed by society as always already sexual perils, very few people ever noticed what was written between the lines in my fiction—that Afro-Latinx brothers are often sexually imperilled.
Right before I left graduate school and moved to Brooklyn I published my first story, about a Dominican boy who goes to see another boy, whose face has been eaten off, and on the way he gets sexually assaulted. (Seriously.) And then in one of those insane twists of fortune I hit the literary lottery. From that one story I got an agent, I got a book deal, I appeared in The New Yorker, I published my first book, “Drown,” which sold nothing but got me more press than any young writer should ever have. Anyone else would have ridden that good-luck wave straight into the sunset, but that wasn’t how it played out. I clearly wanted to be known, on some level, had been dying for a chance at a real face, but when that moment finally arrived I couldn’t do it; I clamped the mask down hard. After “Drown,” I could have stayed in N.Y.C., but I fled to Syracuse instead, where the snow never stops and the isolation was a maw. I stopped writing altogether.
Entire literary careers could have fit into the years I didn’t write. In the meantime I met S—. If Black Is Beautiful had a spokesperson it would have been her; S—, who would have thrown away a thousand years of family to make it work. Didn’t matter; we never were able to have sex. The intrusions always hit where it would hurt the worst. Never knew who I could have sex with and who I couldn’t until I tried. S— found someone else, ended up marrying him. I moved on to other women. The years passed. I never took off the mask; I never got help.
And for a while the center held. For a while.
No one can hide forever. Eventually what used to hold back the truth doesn’t work anymore. You run out of escapes, you run out of exits, you run out of gambits, you run out of luck. Eventually the past finds you.
What happened was that I met someone: Y—. In the novel I published eleven years after “Drown,” I gave my narrator, Yunior, a love supreme named Lola, because in real life I had a love supreme named Y—. She was the femme-matador of my dreams. A state-school girl raised in Washington Heights who worked her ass off, who never ran from a fight, and who could have danced Ochún out the fucking room.
We clicked like crazy. Like our ancestors were rooting for us. I was the Dominican nerdo she’d always dreamed about. She actually said this. She didn’t have a clue. I fell into her family, and she fell into mine. And her mother—Dios mío, how the señora loved me. I was the son she never had. And before you could say “Run” I had created another one of my romance stories, but this one was more elaborate and more insane than any I’d ever spun. We bought an apartment together in Harlem. We got engaged in Tokyo. We talked about having children together. Even the writing started coming again. Negroes I’d never met before were proud of our relationship and told us so. Two “successful” Dominicans from the hood who loved each other? As rare and as precious as ciguapas.
Of course, there were signs of trouble. I spent at least six months out of the year depressed and/or high or drunk. We could have sex but not often—the intrusions often jumped in, a hellish cock-blocking ménage à trois.
Sex or no sex, I “loved” her more than I had ever loved anyone. I even told her, in an unguarded moment, that something had happened in my past.
Something bad.
And because I “loved” her more than I had ever loved anyone, and because I had revealed to her what I revealed about my past, I cheated on her more than I had ever cheated on anyone.
I cheated on her como un maldito perro.
I knew plenty of men who lived double lives. Shit, my father had lived one, to my family’s everlasting regret. And here I was playing out the patrimonial destiny. I had a double life like I was in a comic book.
Y— got as much of the real me as I was capable of showing. She lived with my depression and my no-writing fury and with the rare moments of levity, of clarity. The other women saw primarily my mask, right before I ghosted them.
The mask was strong.
But no mask is that strong. No one’s G that perfect. No one’s love that dumb. One day Y— didn’t like an answer I’d given her about where I’d been. I’m sure she’d been having doubts for a while—especially after one woman showed up at a reading of mine and burst into tears when I said hi. Y— decided to go snooping through my e-mails, and since I wasn’t big on passwords or putting old e-mails in the trash it took her less than five minutes to find what she was looking for.
A heartbreak can take out a world. I know hers did. Took out her world and mine.
Another woman might have shot me dead on principle, but Y— simply printed out all the e-mails between me and all my other girls, all my bullshit seduction attempts, all the photos, had the evidence of my betrayals bound, and when I came home from one of my trips handed them to me.
When I realized what she’d given me I blacked out.
Which is what tends to happen when the world ends.
A few months later, I won the Pulitzer Prize for a novel narrated by a Dominican brother who loses the Dominican woman of his dreams because he can’t stop cheating on her. When I found out I’d won the prize my first thought wasn’t “I’m made” but “Maybe now she’ll stay with me.”
She didn’t. A few months later Y— got her head together and kicked me out of her life completely. She kept the apartment, the ring, her family, our friends. I got Boston. We never saw each other again.
When I was a kid, I heard that dinosaurs were so big that even if they received a killing blow it would take a while for their nervous systems to figure it out. That was me. After I lost Y— I moved to Cambridge full time, and for the next year or so I tried to “walk it off.” For a little while I seriously thought I was going to be fine. The mask had exploded into fragments, but I kept trying to wear the pieces as if nothing had happened. It would have been comedic if it hadn’t been so tragic. I tried to use sex to fill the hole I’d just blown through my heart, but it didn’t work. Didn’t stop me from trying.
I lost weeks, I lost months, I lost years (two). And then one day I woke up and literally couldn’t move from bed. An archipelago of grief was on me, a wine-dark sea of pain. In a drunken fit I tried to jump from my friend’s rooftop apartment in the D.R. He grabbed me before I could get my foot on a nearby stool and didn’t let go until I stopped shaking.
In the treatment world, they say that often you have to hit rock bottom before you finally seek help. It doesn’t always work that way, but that sure is how it was for me. I had to lose almost everything and then some. And then some. Before I finally put out my hand.
I was fortunate. I had friends around me ready to step in. I had good university insurance. I stumbled upon a great therapist. She had dealt with people like me before, and she dedicated herself to my healing. It took years—hard, backbreaking years—but she picked up what there was of me. I don’t think she’d ever met anyone more disinclined to therapy. I fought it every step of the way. But I kept coming, and she never gave up. After long struggle and many setbacks, my therapist slowly got me to put aside my mask. Not forever, but long enough for me to breathe, to live. And when I was finally ready to return to that place where I was unmade she stood by my side, she held my hand, and never let go.
I’d always assumed that if I ever returned to that place, that island where I’d been shipwrecked, I would never escape; I’d be dragged down and destroyed. And yet, irony of ironies, what awaited me on that island was not my destruction but nearly the opposite: my salvation.
During that time I wrote very little. Mostly I underlined passages in my favorite books. This line in particular I circled at least a dozen times: “Then darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time, and I wandered far on roads that I will not tell.”
And then there was this section from my own novel:
Before all hope died I used to have this stupid dream that shit could be saved, that we would be in bed together like the old times, with the fan on, the smoke from our weed drifting above us, and I’d finally try to say words that could have saved us.
But before I can shape the vowels I wake up. My face is wet, and that’s how you know it’s never going to come true.
Never, ever.
It’s been almost a decade since the Fall. I am not who I once was. I’m neither the brother who can’t touch a girl nor the asshole who sleeps around. I’m in therapy twice a week. I don’t drink (except in Japan, where I let myself have a beer). I don’t hurt people with my lies or my choices, and wherever I can I make amends; I take responsibility. I’ve come to learn that repair is never-ceasing.
I’m even in a relationship, and she knows everything about my past. I told her about what happened to me.
I’ve told her, and I’ve told my friends. Even the toughest of my boys. I told them all, fuck the consequences.
Something I never thought possible.
So much has changed. But some things haven’t. There are still times when the depression hammers down and months vanish out from under me, when the suicidal ideation returns. The writing hasn’t come back, not really. But there are good stretches, and they are starting to outnumber the bad. Every year, I feel less like the dead, more a part of the living. The intrusions are fewer now, and when they come they don’t throw me completely. I still have those horrible dreams every now and then, and they are still foul as fuck, but at least I have resources to deal with them.
And yet—
And yet despite all my healing I still feel that something important, something vital, has eluded me. The impulse to hide, to hold myself apart from my colleagues, from my fellow-writers, from my students, from the circle of life has remained uncannily strong. During the public talks I’ve given at universities and conferences, I’ve sometimes commented on the intergenerational harm that systemic sexual violence has inflicted on African diasporic communities, on my community. But have I ever actually come out and said that I was the victim of sexual violence? I’ve said elusive things here and there but nothing actionable, no definitive statements.
Over the last weeks, that gnawing sense of something undone has only grown, along with the old fear—the fear that someone might find out I’d been raped as a child. It’s no coincidence that I recently began a tour for a children’s book I’ve published and suddenly I’m surrounded by kids all the time and I’ve had to discuss my childhood more than I ever have in my life. I’ve found myself telling lies, talking about a kid that never was. He never checks the locks on the bedroom doors four times a night, doesn’t bite clean through his tongue. The cover stories are returning. There are even mornings when my face feels stiff.
And then at one of my events, another signing line—this one at the Brattle Theatre, in Cambridge—a young woman walked up and started to thank me for my novel, for one of its protagonists, Beli. Beli, the tough-love Dominican mother who suffered catastrophic sexual abuse throughout her life.
I had a life a lot like Beli’s, the young woman said, and then, without warning, she choked into tears. She wanted to say more to me, but before she could she was overwhelmed and fled. I could have tried to stop her. I could have called after her me too me too. I could have said the words: I was also raped.
But I didn’t have the courage. I turned to the next person in line and smiled.
And you know what? It felt good to be behind the mask. It felt like home.
I think about you, X—. I think about that woman from the Brattle. I think about silence; I think about shame, I think about loneliness. I think about the hurt I caused. I think of all the years and all the life I lost to the hiding and to the fear and to the pain. The mask got more of me than I ever did. But mostly I think about what it felt like to say the words—to my therapist, all those years ago; to tell my partner, my friends, that I’d been raped. And what it feels like to say the words here, where the whole world—and maybe you—might hear.
Toni Morrison wrote, “Anything dead coming back to life hurts.” In Spanish we say that when a child is born it is given the light. And that’s what it feels like to say the words, X—. Like I’m being given a second chance at the light.
Last night I had another dream. It wasn’t a bad one. I was young. Just a boy. No one had hurt me yet. A plane was dropping flyers announcing an upcoming Jack Veneno match, and all of us kids in Villa Juana were racing about in great excitement, gathering the flyers in our arms.
I barely remember that boy anymore, but for a brief moment I am him again, and he is me. ♦
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