#and if someone suggests therapy im shooting you. i dont want to listen to one more person pretend to care about me and tell me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tauremornalome · 4 years

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jc/lwj? this had not occurred to me but i'm thinking about it now and i am Intrigued. it seems extremely sad, which i like about it.

disclaimer, i am Really Bad at talking about things i like in fiction because dhdgsjdhdj Words Difficult (and also its almost 2 am rn)

BUT aaaaa yes!! extremely sad and angry, both of them. excellent mixture. let them argue and also kiss about it.

imagine you are jiang cheng and you lost Everything and you have like 3 relatively calm years to get your shit together. your sect, kinda isolated from others by the fact that you are not sworn bros with 3zun. your nephew, who is a baby and then a toddler and whose existence reminds you about everything you've lost. your own emotions - haha, good luck getting that in order lmao. for the expected period of time (or maybe a lil longer) you wear mourning robes, ONLY for your SISTER of-FUCKING-course (and you will whip anyone who suggests that you might be also maybe grieving wei wuxian).

also you saved that spooky flute and you rlly don't know what to do with it so you Repress Emotions Even Harder. and maybe hope someones gonna come and collect it (someone whos NOT jin guangyao, that lil snake. fuck off jin guangyao you are NOT getting yiling patriarch's flute. Stop Breaking Into My Chambers And Trying To Steal It)

and then. and then lan FUCKING wangji leaves his seclusion in Dramatic and also Very Fashionable Mourning Robes and you are like, ohhh master lan did someone die at the cloud recesses?? but wangji shoots you The Glare and of course you know who he is mourning. and you try very hard not to lose ur patience, right, and you wait for him to like maybe Stop and Get Over It, come on. but he doesn't, and also looks at you like you should be ashamed for not doing the same as him.

(also wangjis got a kid now and you perhaps remember a toddler running around the burial mounds, and you listen to the lan clan go "oh yes its hanguang juns illegitimate son, mhm. his name is Lan Imissweiying" and you are like. HOW is anyone buying this dumb story)

Yeah now imagine you are lan zhan and There Is No More Joy In Your Life, Birth Is A Curse And Existence Is A Prison, and you leave your seclusion being still depressed as fuck, and theres that guy who basically kind of killed wei ying. and even if he didnt kill him he still, you know, attempted. so. and that guy is apparently now famous for hunting demonic cultivators for sport??? for who knows what purposes but rlly probably nothing good considering he's whipping them with sexy lightning whip. and you are like, hey, i am ALSO gonna hunt demonic cultivators. No I Dont Know What Imma Do With Them. maybe ill find wei ying, u kno, since i lost my purpose in life anyway.

for the record, jiang cheng is probably also not sure what for hes hunting demonic cultivators. he has NO idea what hes gonna do if he actually finds wei wuxian.

So they probably keep running into each other??? And being VERY pissed off about it. knowing jiang cheng hes gonna yell at lwj for everything Except nightless city, and knowing lan zhan hes gonna reply "mn. btw u killed wei ying" to every single sentence jc says to him.

Yeah look I AM WEAK and also i read way too much foe yay not to want this to turn into Angry Depressed Desperate Making Out, u kno.

so they are both angry, repressed and depressed and well dressed so they have sex about it instead of going to therapy and Somehow it helps. Not because of the Depression-Curing Dick trope which i hate but because they look at each other afterwards and go "uh, fuck, things have gotten REALLY bad if im sleeping with HIM to forget about it"

and then they probably have sex again and again because they are still fucking stupid

other thots i have about jc/lwj include:

- them begrudgingly working together to bring down some wwx impersonator while still hating each others guts

- jc confronting lwj about sizhui and the Dumbest Cover Story Ever

- idk yet im thinking bout this but i Really need a situation where its CRUCIAL that wangji uses musical cultivation but doesnt have his guqin bc some dumb reasons and jc is like, here, catch this and gives him freakin Chenqing and wangji wants to Murder him but plays the damn flute bc otherwise they are gonna die and as jc pointed out sizhui will be left alone in the world

- lwj IS DEFINITELY GONNA FIGURE OUT THE GOLDEN CORE THING come on. wangji is hurt or sth and jc uses spiritual energy to heal him and suddenly wangjiis like WAIT A MINUTE I KNOW THIS SPIRITUAL PATTERN WHATS GOING ON bonus points if hes like. Delirious and starts calling for wei ying and jiang cheng invents 23 new swearwords to let him know what he thinks about him

- jc at some point awkwardly tries to give chenqing to lan wajgji but lwj gives it back to him

yeah and at some point they Stop having sex about it, and they both kind of.... Calm Down, and wangji is still wearing the mourning robes but hes less obnoxious about it, and jiang cheng still whips ppl but now he has a better idea of what hes gonna do if he finds wei wuxian.

and they are... friends.... now? neither of them will say it out loud but like. They Are Friends Now.

and then when they are basically almost done with Unhealthy Grieving Mechanisms wei wuxian actually comes back to life and ????¿??¿??¿¿¿?? Fuck, thinks lan zhan. Fuck, thinks jiang cheng.

......ahem. SORRY, this has gotten slightly out of hand. Im Emotional about it.

theres one fic on ao3 that i really love and which expresses a lot of the things about this that i couldnt express; i will link it in the replies when i find it

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TL;DR they are both too angry and have their brains Fucked Up by wwx's death, they are not willing to go to therapy so they should at least kiss about it; also go read the fic i linked in the replies because its excellent

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lavieenor-blog · 6 years

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I wrote this and someone suggested I post it here so BOOM into the pits of tumblr.

ninety six corolla

i dont hit snooze anymore.

i am awake at least an hour before the alarm goes off. i have never had a quiet mind. it races with want and worry all night until dawn when i am inevitably give up and decide to officially be awake. stretch, move hair out of my face, listen to my hearbeat. i take a deep breath, check the time, and then begin to concentrate on the steps.

step 1 is getting out of bed. put your feet on the ground, stand up. go. make yourself move. Â you have to get out of bed. you do not have a choice. well, you do have a choice but you have to make the right choice.

getting out of bed was never hard until one day it was hard. jobless, hungover, no appetite, sick of it all. why face the day. or the next. or any day. getting out of bed became a herculean task. so this step is important, it is the first goal that puts you on the path to other goals. touch the day.

Â i get up.

step 2 is hygiene. take a shower, brush your teeth, comb your hair. this also, as hard as it is to understand, is something that can be incredibly overwhelming when the night before you stared at bottle of luksosawa and some vicodin a lover brought over because he naively thought he was helping you calm down, and you thought to yourself â€œno one is going to care.â€ and then you did it, you tried anyway and still woke up and you suck at that too so why bother combing your hair? step two has become my favorite. 45 minute showers, shelves and shelves of scented soap shaped like seashells and imprinted was sexy names -lavender, amber mist, green valley, crabtree and evelyn.

Â i am going to always smell fucking good.

eating breakfast is the next step. i grab an orange and a cigarette. the irony is not lost on me. today, i am josephine baker.

the memories seep back during traffic. red lights, stop and go, mind-numbing talk radio. too easy. too much time to think.

i did not know i was depressed in the clinical way. i just thought my time was done. it was a good life. i had been fearless all through-out my 20â€™s and whatever had suddenly attacked my brain also came with a steady whisper in my head, day in and day out. it was over. my depression was not a fade to black, with slow dances towards cut wrists and sad songs playlists. i did not write letters. i did not plan my funeral, i did not reveal my state of mind. my depression was giving up and wasting away and disappearing. my depression was changing my number for no real reason. my depression was a $100 sweater with the tags still on it, that i was once coveted, suddenly becoming my dogs blanket, with the tags still on it. my depression was will & grace marathons with white wine out of a box on tuesday mornings. my depression was not eating until i almost passed out then ordering $200 dollars of chinese delivery to hold me over until next time. my depression was, come over, leave by 2 a.m.. i was reckless with money and men, i wanted it all gone. the plan was when the money ran out, so would i. the men would disappear on their own.

step 3 is call your family and let them know you are still alive. make sure you eat your lunch.

step 4, when the day gets long and you start to question everything, step 4 reminds you to dream. think about what makes you happy. create a goal.

i picture a roast chicken with lemon, rice pilaf, a salad, a mexican serving dish, green red white ceramic dishwasher friendly, antique silverware, guests at a table, candle light. a game of cards. josephine baker. if i allow myself to be generous with dreams it might stretch to a daughter in ballet class, a son in soccer. or vice versa. continuing. a night with my handsome, who’s face is always clouded (i do not know how to fill this part in), at the opera in an evening gown. we go to dinner afterwards and waltz in the street in the rain. im just following the steps.

time to go home.

here is where it gets the hardest.

steps 5 and 6 are more guidance to make sure you stay on track. make sure to eat again. do something to occupy your time. read a good book. get a hobby. please do this.

but those hours when you are supposed to stay awake, when you are supposed to watch sitcoms and laugh and unwind, those are the hardest hours. when you are counting down minutes until sleep just so tomorrow you can do it again, the steps again (what is life without the steps?) that is when you ask yourself what is the fucking point?

i read chapter 3 of Beloved. Anything dead coming back to life hurts.

i never did get the chance to run out. at my lowest point i wouldn’t even drive a my car. anxiety played a part but dealing with that involves different steps. (hint: breathe). Â my old faithful toyota corolla. it represented freedom, it was memory wrapped in metal, wanderlust on wheels. sorry for being wordsmith indulgent. i could no longer get behind the wheel, i no longer saw possibility on the road, in big cities, in small towns, in life in general.

most people do not know that a corolla by definition is the petals of a flower.

i no longer had the will to give the car the life it gave to me. i let it wilt in the driveway and by neglect i let it die.

the fantasy involved a long drive into the woods and a hose extended from the exhaust to the window, safe inside of the petals, curled up like a sick, twisted adult ann geddes photo shoot. i’ve always been a dramatic romantic. my depression would not let me move, make this lovely quiet end happen. even deathÂ was a burden. i was too depressed to try. had someone handed me a gun though, i know for a fact i would not still be here, doing the steps.

i cannot say when the turning point came but it was slow to come. my brain got tired and my body started to rebel. my hair was falling out. my belts, barely a size 26, no longer fit. mostly, defiantly, i was tired of the hospitals i ended up in whenever someone came to check on me. contrary to popular belief, doctors are not nice to people with issues. i did not want another moment of having to drink a sprite out of a plastic cup because staff was concerned about the rough edges of a can. i hated being told what to do, and worse i hated being punished for refusing to do what i was told to do. the independence was starting to overcome the demon. it was time to try. i gave in i took the help. i took the therapy, i took the pills, i took 30 days in the mountains.

step 7 asks you to look back at your day and what you accomplished.

Â i used to journal the highs and lows of everyday but as i got better, i started to forget that task. it has become an anything book. 30 pages of self-congratulatory statements turned into random phone numbers, drawings of floorplans, a shrimp recipe â€œ3 tablespoons curry, 1 stick butter, hdfl grn beans, a moth wing delicately saved in a small plastic bag and stapled to the back cover. these are highs and lows of a different sort. a patchwork of scribbles so i dont ask what is the fucking point?

the point is josephine baker singing REVES.

when it is time for the evening to be done, when i have successfully kept myself busy, when i can get into the bed and say goodnight to the moon knowing that in the morning i can feel the sun, when i survived another day, i did it, take that depression!, this is when, and only when i can forget about the steps.

step 8: sleep.

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