#anyways after that dream i went to therapy and then after therapy i disassociated for 2 days and im just barely kinda coming out of it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vtforpedro · 3 years

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long, long health update - tw in tags please read them

I am going to speak very frankly about suicidal ideation; please don't read further if this is triggering for you ;3; but please know that I love you I had my follow-up appt with my neuropsych on monday to go over my results and whatnot. it was virtual, and I was in the middle of a head episode and I told her I wasn't doing well, but within about 5-10 minutes, she was saying I should probably go to the ER lkajflaj I guess it looked pretty bad lmao anyway I told her all the reasons I couldn't. medical trauma, being dismissed b/c I have doctors who manage my headaches, and I know it's not life-threatening even if it is 10/10 agonizing, so why are you here. they're so dismissive. she said that they have medication to possibly help break the cycle of constant migraines but I've been treated with those before and they didn't do shit migraines are secondary to iih. it's the iih that needs to be fixed ._. she said I still deserved to not suffer and that the ER is very strict about keeping covid patients away from other patients and I didn't have the heart to tell her they intubated a covid patient 10-15 feet away from me last time I was in an ER 😭 anyway so the results. she said she wasn't worried about anything going on that was concerning or indicating something wrong in my brain. I DID score quite a bit lower for someone my age on information processing (which is exactly what I said I was struggling with to my two neuros who were both like ehhh) and some issues with memory but they weren't super specific and so it could be something neurological, could be my migraines and constant agony lmao, could be my Emotional State. could be all of them at once, I suppose ;) she went into more detail about some of these things but it was the two questionnaires I filled out that were HNNN. so once all the data is entered from like 300 questions it shows a good look into my personality and perceptions and all that and it makes a cool little graph (OR SO I THOUGHT). the kind that looks like mountain peaks. so she points at the one that is waaay higher than the rest and nearly touching the top of the box and she's like 'do you see this one' me: yeah 😬 her: this is your feelings and ideations about suicide me: 😬 😩 😬 her: when I see a score this high, I stop what I'm doing and I call the police to have them escort you to a hospital me: 😬😬😬😬😬 her: but I didn't do that. because when we spoke in office you told me you felt this way and why you don't do it. you told me it's something you've lived with for a long time and the pain you are suffering is what makes it so bad. and I trust you me: 😭😭😭 okay her: do you see this line down here? this is people who have suicidal ideation recorded on this test. you scored 98% higher on suicidal ideation compared to people reporting suicidal ideation HNNNNNN. she said it probably wasn't surprising to me and asked me if I was safe again and all that. I assured her I was and said in my previous appointment; I've had suicidal thoughts since I was like 12? maybe earlier. there have been very few times in my life not surrounded by abuse and trauma so I'm never really free of it. I've had four traumatic incidents causing increasingly horrible episodes of ptsd in nine years. all through my 20s. still here woo, lol and she said she knew that and had a patient not long after my first appointment who had similar circumstances in their life. and they told her it's almost a comfort having it. cause I was saying it's in the back of my mind at all times and I won't do it, but yeah, it's always there. anyway she said they said the same thing; it's always there, always in the background as 'hey I'm an option!' even though we aren't going to harm ourselves. it's a comfort knowing there is an option even if we plan on never using it? idk it just spoke to me and I felt it in my soul we talked about some emotional stuff after and I cried and it was a thing. it felt really good to speak to a psychologist who, just as she was in the first appointment, seemed genuinely concerned and wanted to help

me. I told her I was ready for therapy and she said she'd already looked for therapists for me lkasjdlkja and gave me a group that I emailed yesterday. I don't think they'll take my insurance but she said to message her through the portal if they don't and she'll try to find someone who does I don't remember if I mentioned it, but since she knew about the head shit before I met her, she dimmed her office lights without asking if I needed it and like as soon as we started the virtual visit, she leaped up and dimmed them and said she should've thought about it before the appt 😭 (I keep my brightness really low on my computer and use the warming feature 24/7 on comp and phone and my apt is really dimmed but it still helped a lot when she did it) she kept saying 'you did nothing wrong. it was the choice of others to do what they did. you don't deserve to carry their choices. you deserve to be able to hand it back to them. you don't deserve to be in pain. you did nothing wrong. you deserve to be free of what they did and you deserve to not suffer in such physical pain' I'm so wary of doctors but I really like her and I feel fortunate to have been referred to her ;3; speaking for a long time and especially emotionally is hard for me, so I might try to do two sessions a month once I find a therapist and see if I'm ok with that. trying to keep everything virtual while delta is out there I read her report and her official diagnosis is uhh really strong for major depressive disorder, severe. and severe ptsd with disassociative symptoms so!!! I claimed both of those on my disability application and the person handling my claim told me when I had this appt to call and let her know because she wanted the info. I signed a release the day I was there when I told my neuropsych that cause MH stuff is different than other medical records. she said she faxed it to the woman handling my disability application but I was gonna call her and ask if she received it and also tell her I have a new neuro so she will probably request his stuff too I called today and her voicemail box is full so lol try again later today's been awful. last night was horrible. got a bill for over $800 from my colonoscopy/endoscopy even though I asked numerous times if insurance was covering it and was told yep, every penny. so I was on the phone with insurance and the surgery center for 45 minutes. insurance seemed confused af but the agent I spoke with got some help from people who handle this stuff I guess finally she told me not to pay it, they're going to send them a letter to get it sorted (idk if this means I won't have to pay it at all or if they're going to try to make it that way. but I think govt insurance, which is what I have, works differently. like doctors kinda have to follow what they say vs. the other way around) and not worry about it for the next 30 days. I'm still gonna worry about it lmao they used a nice scare tactic on the bill that this was the 'LAST AND FINAL NOTICE' despite the fact they've never sent me anything else. my mom and the insurance agent said nah that's just what they do to scare people into paying fuckin love america <3 land of the free. the american dream! greatest country on earth 💜🖕💜 I just don't want it to go to collections and have to fight credit bureaus to get it off my credit so it's not destroyed |: anyway my head hit like 10/10 bad while I was on the phone cause of the talking a lot and trying to PROCESS INFORMATION and stress and also the fucking hold music, which I have to hear in some way b/c I gotta know when they're back on the line hnnnnn bad day. it's 1pm and bad, bad, bad day. bad month all around. I want this shit to stop anyway. I'm sorry about the suicidal ideation talk, but it's important to talk about that stuff. it can get severe but it can also get better. it does, eventually, even if it comes and goes. it always does get better I'm sorry, I also really needed to get this down somewhere. feel like I'm going to explode emotionally AND physically and I need to talk about it. hopefully

soon I'll have a therapist to talk to so I can get a lot of this stuff worked on. got my whole life to chat about so it'll probably take a long time but I'm willing to let it lmao therapy doesn't usually work for me anymore but idk I've had a lot of shit happen in less than two years so maybe it will this time I'm trying! I really am trying if you read this rambling monster, thank you. love you all and please stay safe

#vtforpedro personal #tw suicidal thoughts #tw suicidal ideation #tw suicide #tw mental health #tw depression #tw anxiety #tw mental illness #personal #medical #also she is obligated by law to report suicide risks and right now that's to the police so I can't blame her for that #we desperately need crisis intervention rather than fucking asshole cops but that's just what it is right now

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energyanon · 3 years

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Surprise reading as I can’t seem to shake off the curiosity. Ok, I’m gonna set them up in relation to this drama. Personally, I don’t believe it. NV would have to have various personality disorders in order for this to be true, among 5000 other reasons why that is not normal, sane human behaviour. But the Instagram.. so many things don’t match up. However, both me and another anon felt fuzzy headed when we were representing her.. maybe it’s not just her overthinking, maybe it’s something more relating to some kind of disorder, but that’s not my place to say. Let’s check it out. Once again I’m gonna type as I go.

I’ve decided for three set ups here: 1. NV, 2. The group chat as a whole as cited on said Instagram, and 3. Henry.

Set up 2. (The GC) first. I picked up NV and got a headache.

First flag: Natalie wanted to be on top of the GC… that’s weird..

Henry is at a distance but he is staring at them both. Starting to feel like I may have been wrong in my judgment here ha.. 😬 I’m really hoping it’s not true cause otherwise that’s fucking sad and NV has genuine issues. But, I’m ok with being wrong.

Alright, let’s start as NV (cause GC, I feel I already know their feelings regardless of if it’s true or not) FYI, I have moved NV to being close but not on top, as one energy on top of - group of energies would be much too hard to decipher.

NV:

Immediate dizziness. I feel very hot and my air con is currently blasting down upon me so it’s not me. The group chat feels very little to NV. like tiny, as in I could step on them. (1. This can mean they’re not even being seen, she barely cares about them, or 2. Can feel more powerful than) as we know in the screenshots the latter was supposedly the case, so I’m not going to cross that out just yet, but it feels more like I’m just not even seeing them. they’re dirt under my feet. They don’t really have her attention and she’s not super bothered by them, but once I brought her attention to it She does want to stamp it out, it’s a complete nuisance. She wants to cover them up. I gave them a little tap, which ended turning into many taps which turned into actually wanting to destroy their rep all together. so she’s angry about it. (At this point I don’t know if she’s angry about This situation being a lie, as in she’s sick of these people doing this to her, or if she’s genuinely angry at the group for exposing her) the tiny dirt now feels a bit bigger but more like a basketball sized nuisance. She still feels bigger than them, it’s just that this is so ANNOYING. Still wants to rip them up into little pieces, she’s annoyed, she’s moving me around a whole bunch, she’s angry, she’s frustrated, she’s tying her hair up, she’s not having it. like it’s fucking annoying. this is all so ANNOYING. She’s stressed, she’s annoyed, she wants this over and done with.

No more energy shifts. Incoming questions.

Q: do you know them?

No I don’t fucking know them

Ok do you think that was a friend who exposed you?

I don’t know I can’t think I- (just a bunch of profanities) [note: it’s like she’s keyboard smashing in my brain right now it’s REALLY annoyed]

Jaw clenched, I’m swaying from side to side my hands are on my hips, hair away from my face I want to move somewhere else but I need to deal with THIS FUCKING THING FIRST ISHDJFKSJXJDSNX.

god it is SO ANNOYING like if you guys were all in front of me right now you’d be heading me yelling and screaming and So irritated I’m so I’m SO Annoyed. I can’t even think of any other questions to ask cause I’m too busy getting keyboard smashed atm.

I’m gonna move to the group to just see if the intentions there are legit. I need a break from NV.

Ok the group:

the group have some anxiety, stomach dropped. They’re not angry they’re just looking at NV. None of them can be sure if It was NV - I think some of them doubt but it was a “get it out just in case” situation. At least one of them feel bad. Nervous jitters from my right leg. You know how you fidget when you’re waiting to get in trouble?

Q: do you believe it was NV?

There are many of them so I’ll just say it as it came up. No (1) I don’t know (majority) one of them is a yeah, feels like the leader of the group but even then the yeah isn’t a solid resounding yeah. But it’s also not like a “yeaahhh?” It’s like I’m just gonna make a decision and it’s yeah.

Q: are you mad that nv is with Henry

I’m not mad (1)

We’re not mad, we just think he could do better. (Majority)

Q: why did you do this

To expose her

Q: why to expose her if you didn’t truly believe it was her

There is a very weak “it was the right thing to do” like.. when I say weak it feels like they don’t even believe that, but they’ve convinced themselves it is..?

Q: at any point did you lie or fabricate the screenshots?

Resounding no, but one solid yes from someone.

Q: Yes?

One of them.

Q: which one

(I was shown one of them, it was one of the purple and black ones, one where there isn’t much purple - I’ll have to check it after)

Ok, my leg isn’t going crazy anymore - there is just an expectant waiting. They’re looking at NV, she’s taller than them but not much taller (not like they’re a basketball being looked down upon, just normal human heights) the feeling is just waiting. Waiting to see if there is a response. That’s it, that’s all I’ve been given I can’t even conjure Up another question. (Sometimes when the energy is done sharing its just done, I can’t force it past that and I’m not in my right to)

Checking Henry:

Henry is tired, he’s disillusioned, he’s just staring into space. The other two are in front of him (facing one another) but he doesn’t see them. Genuinely no thoughts from him it’s complete disassociation. But I did ask if he knew about this situation, he doesn’t seem to know yet.

And yet he’s still disassociating.. the thought “I don’t know what to do” came up, but it was so slow and fractured it was like… you know that video of that kid who’s trying to say have you ever had a dream that you could do anything but he muddles it up for 20 seconds before getting to it? It’s like that (I’ll link it when I’m done)

“I don’t kn- I just I - what do I ev- wh-“ and it keeps going but imagine it taking FOREVER for him to say it.

He’s stuck in the disassociation. Weird choice, but I need to do it. I’m gonna slap him. (Which yes, means slapping myself)

Ok, that didn’t make much difference, he’s still super tired, he still didn’t see the other two but I tried to bring his attention to NV and he was already turning around to leave “I don’t care, I don’t care I’m too tired” and then he turned back and said to NV to clarify “I do care, but I don’t, I’m tired” and I took him out cause he was walking out of there anyway.

Back to NV one last time, and then I’m doing other stuff with my day and then I’ll do CE tonight.

It’s always dizziness with this chick, I swear. Everytime im with her I’m dizzy, I’m losing blood pressure. She’s calmed down at least but fuck I’m dizzy more dizzy than I usually am (can be her, could also be me continuously going into different energies, I don’t tend to feel like this though but don’t rule it out)

Dizzy, Im not tired, but fatigued like I don’t need to sleep, I need to just lay down. I see the GC but they can fuck off I don’t care. She wants to kick them out of the way. As soon as she does she wants to leap out at them and tear them to shreds. She goes from 1- 100 real quick. I don’t want her to destroy my representative for the group, cause I don’t want anything to accidentally manifest in real time for the actual group, so im going to create a little thing that she can destroy instead - just in case there are any energetic consequences of her destroying the representation of the GC. Found a little piece of paper I called it placebo GC and we’re tearing it up.

Ok so, I got her to tear up Placebo GC. She got raveonous with it. I am now coming to believe that NV has some major anger issues. To be fair, im feeling how annoyed she is and I get it honestly it’s the only way to get out this level of emotion. It’s not healthy, therapy is needed for sure, but I’m not gonna sit here like this and say that she’s overreacting cause when you’re feeling like she is, there’s no where else for this to go

She ripped them up, crushed them, tore at them with her teeth, crushed them into a little ball again and chucked them away and then we just screamed “FUCK!” For literally about 3 minutes and she was LIVID. I’ve sat her down now while I write this, she’s still annoyed, she’s not livid.

Interesting to note though, all throughout the screaming there was never a single thought that came up that was like “why can’t they just let US live, why can’t we just BE together” she really doesn’t seem to care about the affect it has on her and Henry’s relationship, she’s just annoyed people are talking shit. Like she just doesn’t care that people won’t accept them.

Oh! I haven’t checked on her vs. HC so lemme do that. I wanna see if she checks up on him too, cause from a normal relationship perspective, this would affect him too. But let’s see.

Yup, ok, nothing from her end, if anything she’s giving him the silent treatment. Like she’s looking at him in the way you do when your partner has said something stupid and you’re too angry to answer. But she doesn’t care that he’s there. I went to him also to see if he would comfort her and he was just a brick wall, kind of more like “here I am I’m showing up but idc. I really idc. Sorry that you’re going through it I guess.” Both of them had the ~aura~ (I don’t know how to explain it on text) of “this did not go as planned” however, they didn’t SAY that, just as an FYI, it was just a bit of a shared feeling translated into words.

That’s it. I’m ending it there. I’ve got life admin to do, be back later for a CE reading as promised. :)

#ooo I should also check on the “quote NV unquote in the Instagram #fuck that would have been a good idea to see if it was legit her or not.#I’ll leave the set up as it is #do my stuff #do CE as promised and then try that out #reading #nv #hc

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love-dreams · 4 years

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dreamcatcher

pairing: wonwoo/reader

genre: angst, fluff (bittersweet)

content: therapy/doctors, dream weaving, 3rd person

wc: 1.3k

note: i wrote this for school lmao so that’s why it’s in third person. also dr. aleia is a personal creation of @woozisnoots and @leftandright ily both so much enjoy this one :)) next on my to-do list would be karol’s requests and the joshua fic!

“So,” she started, looking down at him over thinly rimmed glasses. “What was it about this time?”

Wonwoo stared up at the chalky, white ceiling, laying on the cot motionless. His face was blank, lacking any hint of emotion; his eyes were cold and dead, void of the fiery flames that had danced in them a few months ago. He had purple eye bags hanging under his eyes and chapped, pastel lips, signs that he clearly wasn’t taking care of himself. His face also looked hollow, evidence that he had been skipping meals.

He willed his mouth to open, only to close it without any idea of what to say.

His therapist, Dr. Aleia, scratched something onto her clipboard, sighing, “Let’s start at the beginning, okay? Who and when?”

“It was the day we went stargazing,” Wonwoo hoarsely replied immediately, his deep voice vibrating in his chest. “I think it was around a year ago, I’m not really sure.”

Dr. Aleia nodded, hopping off of her chair and dragging it with her so that it was next to Wonwoo’s body. “I want you to close your eyes,” she murmured in a low voice. “Go back into your dream and tell me what happened? Where did it go wrong?”

Before the doctor could even finish, Wonwoo’s eyes were already falling shut, his conscience disassociating from his body. He started losing feeling of his body, allowing himself to relax and dream once again. The feeling had started to become second nature to him after all the sessions he had.

Just this time, he thought, This’ll be the last time.

“Wonwoo?” a mellifluous voice trickled into Wonwoo’s eardrums.

When Wonwoo opened his eyes, he wasn’t in the doctor’s office anymore. Instead of the dimmed lights and standard hospital chemical smell, a warm, bright light flooded his vision paired with the delicate sweet smell of flowers. He groaned and sat upright, blinking furiously at the bright light. Wonwoo stared at the scenery before him; he was sitting in a field of life, one full of wildflowers and tall grass. His mouth fell open in astonishment and wonder, the colors were so bright, it almost felt… real.

Wonwoo felt a tapping sensation on his arm, causing him to turn towards another person. He gulped and swallowed anxiously.

“Woo? You fell asleep, haha, I went to get us some lunch.”

Wonwoo dazedly nodded, eyes following her as she bent over to set down a bag of food. Even after the countless sessions he had, Wonwoo couldn’t get over the authenticity of his dreams. He could smell the tartness of sweets and the freshness of vegetables wafting out of the small paper bag’s opening. The warmth of the sun’s rays enveloped him in a pleasant aura and suddenly, Wonwoo couldn’t help the deep yearning aching in his chest.

Wonwoo hesitantly tried shifting his weight to one arm, finding out, pleasantly, that he had full control over his limbs, from the sinews in his forearms to the small nerves in his fingers.

“Are you going to eat anything?” she asked, blinking innocently in the afternoon sunshine.

Wonwoo couldn’t help but let his gaze linger on her, his brain kept telling him that it was only a dream, a figment of his imagination, but Wonwoo couldn’t help his dancing heart.

It had been so long.

He nodded, a smile gracing his features. His mouth moved on its own accord, “Sure, what’re we doing after this again?”

She giggled and Wonwoo felt his heart pirouette. “Silly you, we’re going stargazing, remember? Isn’t that the whole reason we drove all the way to the countryside?”

He nodded along, unable to hold back the huge grin tugging at his lips. Her smile was like a happy virus, infecting everyone around her. Wonwoo never told her, but the reason he drove them all the way out to the countryside was really that he was just sick of the city, of all the hustle and bustle and the noise. He just wanted to escape.

But she knew that, of course. She knew everything about him.

Wonwoo sighed, leaning back on his palms to let his face soak in more of the warmth of the sun. “It’s beautiful here.”

“That’s why I chose this spot,” she mumbled through a mouthful of food. “It’ll be even prettier when the sun sets.”

Wonwoo turned his head along with his body so he could see you with his own eyes, a flutter of adoration bubbled in his gut. He leaned forward, bringing his thumb up to gently rub away some of the sauce from the sandwich she was eating, grabbing a pristine white napkin to wipe it off. She blinked, startled by the sudden show of affection. The initial shock quickly morphed into delight though, as her cheeks became colored with blooms of pastel pink.

“That’s better,” he hummed, drawing back, his signature sleepy smile present on his face.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears shyly, feeling her heart pulsate erratically in her chest. “Thank you,” she murmured softly, taking another hesitant bite. Wonwoo grinned, leaning back on his forearms to observe her, wishing to prolong this moment in his memories as long as he could. “Oh, you haven’t eaten anything yet! Here try this one.”

Suddenly a small package was shoved toward Wonwoo, her dainty fingers wrapped loosely around it. She looked at him expectantly with her lips pouting cutely, “C’mon, if you don’t eat anything you’ll get hungry when the shops all close!”

Wonwoo reluctantly took it from her, sitting up to unwrap the strings and wax covering. Inside was a delicate strawberry pastry, topped with white, fluffy whipped cream. It glistened with crystalized golden sugar, almost too pretty to eat. Wonwoo hesitantly let his long fingers wrap around the dessert, bringing it up to his mouth. He looked up to see her staring at him with wide eyes. Chuckling, Wonwoo extended his arm towards her, “Here, I can’t eat with you drooling over my food like that.”

She pouted, accepting his offering anyway. “Hey, I can’t help that it looked so good. And it’s not your food, I bought it, anyway.”

“Do you want me to pay for it? I can if you want me to.”

She huffed, crossing her arms and scrunching her eyebrows, “So not the point.”

Wonwoo’s heart filled with jubilance, he had missed these conversations with her. They seemed mundane and basic at the time, until they didn’t exist anymore. “Come here,” he whispered forlornly.

She nodded and set down her food, dusting her hands lightly on her skirt. Wonwoo let out a small exhale, the dream just felt too real, he was almost impressed with Dr. Aleia’s talents. He could see the speckles of gold in her eyes and the rose-colored pigment in her lips, he could see the fine hairs of her eyelashes and the small freckles dotting her skin.

“You’re beautiful,” he said breathlessly.

She looked surprised. “You don’t say that very often,” she mused.

“I should say it more,” he replied.

She tilted her head, asking matter-of-factly, “And why’s that? I already know you. And I know that you love me.”

Wonwoo sighed, wrapping his long arms around her delicate frame, resting his head on her shoulder. He felt a strong rush of courage along with impulsive adrenaline encouraging him to continue on speaking, “You know me so well but… what do I know about you? I’m so selfish, I didn’t even notice how much you were hurting too.”

She opened her mouth with a confused lilt, but Wonwoo didn’t hear a word. He kept his arms around her in the same position, but the dream was already swimming past his vision, blurring the colors together.

“Come on, Wonwoo. You know the drill.”

Wonwoo didn’t need to open his eyes to know that he was back in the doctor’s office. The chilliness of reality burned into his bones, scarring his flesh with goosebumps. He felt himself being pulled upright by strong arms along with issued, sharply-voiced directions.

“Wonwoo, you need to open your eyes.” He didn’t want to. He wanted to go back into the dream where everything was normal, happy. “Wonwoo, you must open your eyes. She’s not here anymore, she’s gone.”

At that moment, Wonwoo’s eyes snapped open, tears swimming in his vision.

“I know,” he rasped, “I know.”

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kattipatang · 5 years

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Idk what I’m doing lol... but life’s a mess

Back in the day I wrote out my entire life story and it gave me a lot of clarity and resolve. Nearly a decade later, I am going to do the same in hopes that I find some self-healing. Perhaps I can also validate my feelings so I don’t feel like I am entirely crazy for feeling the way I feel. FYI for those who know me, please note that (to my knowledge) I have removed my pictures and mentions of my name from this blog and do not wish to be identified at this moment. I would appreciate it if you could respect that.

I’m going to start all the way back in 2010. I came out as gay while I was in high school. I was met with a wave of support and love from students and faculty, except for a select few homophobes. However, if I thought they were bad, things were about to get much worse.

In early July 2010, I was awakened by my mother at 3am in the morning. This was very unusual, and the look on her face was one of pain and grief. She led me into a secluded room of the house where my uncle (her brother) sat waiting, my phone placed on the counter in front of him. My mom and father and gotten divorced after an abusive marriage, and we had moved in with my uncle and his family when I was 11 years old. Therefore, my uncle was a father figure for me.

I was made to sit down in between them, and the interrogation began. They had gone through my phone and found texts I sent to my friends, talking about my sexuality, and they claimed that they had also found out through the grapevine. I was yelled at by my uncle. He asked perverse and inappropriate questions about my sexuality, with dramatic monologues about how I am bringing shame to our immaculate family name that would put some of Bollywood’s most melodramatic moments to shame. All this occurred while my mother sat and silently weeped. Two hours of emotional and verbal abuse later I was sent back to bed.

The next morning, my uncle took my mom and disappeared for hours. Turns out they had gone to the doctor to discuss my situation, and a wave of relief washed over me. “Thank God,” I thought, “at least this person will see reason.”

I was wrong.

My uncle and mother came back hours later and took me with them to the car. My uncle leading, me behind him, and my mother closing in on me behind me. This would be the formation that would take place if we ever stepped out from here on out. For the next week, I had no cell phone, no access to the landline, no computer, no internet, all my friends were gone away for the summer - I was completely isolated.

Anyway, they drove me to the doctor’s office in the late afternoon, which I found odd because the office would have been closed by now. Sure enough, when we arrived at the clinic, there was a “Closed” sign on the door. However, my uncle opened it and lead me inside, with my mother following after me.

I was taken straight through the empty clinic - even the receptionist had gone home, so there was no record of my visit - and I was led into the doctor’s office, where he sat waiting for me. I walked in alone and the door was shut behind me.

What followed was a series of pseudo-scientific explanations as to how I’m mentally ill, disturbed and perverted. “This is a sickness,” he said. “God didn’t intend you to be this way.”

He added that this was probably because I don’t maintain a relationship with my father and was raised by a single mother, and I just need to “learn to be a man.” “And if you like anal sex, you know you can do that with a woman too you know?”

I was dejected. Destraught. Absolutely destroyed on the inside. A person I thought to be a voice of reason, was spewing the same judgemental ignorant rhetoric my uncle was. The irony makes me laugh though nine years later, because this year his wife discovered that he had been sleeping with a patient for the past several years. What a morally strong man…

The rest of the week is a bit of a blur. I disassociated myself for most of it. However the gist of it was my uncle interrogated me to see who I had sex with, my mother became suicidal, and my uncle became homicidal.

At one point he made explicit threats to my life, and I had to do an internal inventory. I can’t afford to run away and live on my own, I don’t want my mom to die, and I don’t want to get killed. So, I bit the bullet and basically faked a “recovery” to keep the peace. I had had enough of the emotional and mental abuse and manipulation from my uncle and just wanted some reprise.

I have a cousin I am extremely close with who I am out to. He lives out of province, and he was and is the biggest ally I have in my life. When he found out what was happening to me, he called my uncle. My uncle said something that concerned him, so he told me to fly out and stay with him for the duration of the summer until it was time for me to go back to school.

I did so and it was an amazing time. However, during that trip I also learned of how twisted my uncle’s brain truly was. He had told my cousin multiple ways in which he wanted to “deal with the mess” including murder, forced re-allocation and isolation, and he even wanted to hire a female sex worker to come rape me.

That stunned me, and I have never had a proper relationship with my uncle since.

Years went by, and it appeared as though the situation had been swept under the rug. My plan was to save up enough to one day pack my bags and leave, never to look back again. My mother and uncle were super close and he could have easily taken care of her in my absence.

That plan, however, was put on halt when the elders in the family decided that my mother should finally have a house of her own, a dream she had always had but never experienced. However, that would not be possible if I didn’t step up and help pay a portion of the mortgage. In actuality, I was given no choice either, so I put a stone on my heart and sacrificed my personal freedom so I could give my mother the comfort she deserves.

During the construction of the house though, everything went to shit. One day at the job site, a construction worker made fun of my more gentle mannerisms and began to make homophobic jokes. My uncle overheard and that was just the fodder he needed to begin making my life a living hell all over again.

From early 2016 until today, my uncle has been emotionally and mentally abusing me and anyone who will stick up for me. My mother would defend me, and he began to emotionally and mentally abuse her too.

I am stuck in the shittiest circumstance. My uncle and mother are waiting with bated breath to see what I do next.

My mother wants me to get married to a woman, something I will never do. My uncle WANTS me to flat out come out so he can further torture me verbally and/or physically, and make a spectacle out of my mother for having the audacity to speak up against his abusive tendencies.

And I honestly don’t know what the fuck I should do. On one hand, I refuse to marry a woman to please society. On the other hand, when I come out, my mother will want to have nothing to do with me, and with me gone, my uncle (and my aunt has joined the squad now) will have free reign to torture and harrass my mother. On top of that my mom won’t be able to make payments for the house, the house will be foreclosed, and my mom and sister will be forced to live on the streets, or move back in with my abusive uncle.

Just this past week while I was out of the house, my uncle came over to taunt my mother, because he knows he's emotionally vulnerable and won’t stick up for herself. He came over and told her that she’s basically unwanted and uncared for. That the people around her are going to treat her like a laughing stock. That no one is society will talk to her or say anything good about her because her son is a fag who will ruin the family izzat.

Izzat is something he is HELLBENT about. Back in the day when my mom was about to start college, he cornered her before she was about to leave the house and said “No one knows you for who you are, they know you as my sister. So if you fuck around with any guys whatsoever, I’m going to slit your throat and kill myself.” *slow clap for the amazing pep talk*

I am fucking exhausted. For the past nine years I have been surviving, not living. I go day in day out afraid for my life, afraid for what the future holds for my mother and sister. I’m afraid that something may happen to me, and no one will know and he will continue to live his life showing himself to be this perfect human who can never do any wrong.

However, I refuse to let that happen. Even if it’s the last thing I do, one day I am going to expose him and his truth to the world. He taunted my mother saying no one will care for her? Everyone is going to remember my mother for the beautiful soul that she is. It’s HIM that is going to be shunned by society for being the manipulative abusive psychopath that he is.

Everything is going to be made public one day. Crystal clear. Bright as day. I will make an example out of him, that if you around manipulating and abusing people for your little-man-syndrome/false pride, this is how you will be publicly disgraced and humiliated.

Until then, I need to go seek therapy, heal myself, and get ready to fight for not just my life, but for the sake of my mother and my sister. I had finally gotten to a point where I was actually excited to wake up in the morning. But now I’m back in that mental hole where when as soon as I wake up a wave of dread sweeps over me and I wish I hadn’t woken up. I would be lying if I said I have a will to live. However, I also refuse to do anything that would put my mother at risk for more abuse.

The thing that frustrates me the most is that while all this happened, NOTHING changed in my life. My struggle remained the same. As people zoom by me in life, getting amazing opportunities, running businesses, finding amazing life partners, just living their best life, I’m standing here like my legs are stuck in a block of cement. Feeling like I’m broken, lost, unworthy, unlovable, undesirable, and a failure.

Until I can do something, I could really use all the prayers I could get.

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scretladyspider · 6 years

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sorry if this is rude or super obvious but what is depersonalisation disorder?

It’s not rude at all (though I gotta be honest I was kinda scared to see what this message was, I don’t get a lot of positive messages on this blog in spite of trying to spread positive vibes? Idk. Anyway.)

Okay so here’s a little blurb from Mayo Clinic about it: “Depersonalization-derealization disorder occurs when you persistently or repeatedly have the feeling that you’re observing yourself from outside your body or you have a sense that things around you aren’t real, or both. Feelings of depersonalization and derealization can be very disturbing and may feel like you’re living in a dream.

Many people have a passing experience of depersonalization or derealization at some point. But when these feelings keep occurring or never completely go away and interfere with your ability to function, it’s considered depersonalization-derealization disorder. This disorder is more common in people who’ve had traumatic experiences.”

That’s a fancy way of saying that it’s kind of like feeling like you’re floating about, and you’re in a constant state of disassociation that gets better and worse depending on things like stress, if you’re depressed, discussion of traumatic experiences, etc.

I actually recently went to an Intensive Outpatient Therapy program for six weeks because while I have lived with this for a long time (about six years, it started shortly after a super stressful and traumatic period in my life which I may talk about another time but anywhooo), I was under a lot of stress, and it was getting worse and worse, and I felt like I’d gone mad… I still feel that way, to be honest, but here we are.

It’s a super confusing thing, because you feel like you’re dreaming all the time, but the logic in your brain says that doesn’t make sense, and you’re stuck in the middle of the two poles testing your reality and wondering when people are going to notice that you’re crazy. One of the main traits for diagnosing it is that you know that what you’re feeling, the sort of weird dis-associative feeling that you’re dreaming all the time, isn’t actually how reality works - you’re still in touch with reality, in some way. That’s more the derealization aspect of it.

The depersonalization aspect is feeling disconnected from your body, from your sense of self. Like for me… that’s when I look in the mirror, and a stranger is staring back at me, and she looks confused and terrified, and my brain yells that something is very wrong. Or when I am walking about and I look at my hand and it’s like, this isn’t mine, this doesn’t belong to me, is it it empty? Am I just skin over emptiness? Or you feel like a robot, like something else is moving your mouth when you talk and type and it’s just, odd, and wrong. It’s a hard feeling to describe, and a very disorienting one.

It’s like, there’s fight, flight, or freeze? Freeze is what I do in times of extreme stress, or what I have done when exposed to traumatic things that threatened me directly. Disassociating is like your brain going “okay, we’re going to freeze now” but like… doing it all the time, whether or not you’re in danger because your brain just can’t tell the difference at this point, even if you feel like you can.

Many mental illnesses have some aspect of disassociation to them - BPD, depression, DID, and PTSD - just to name a few all have disassociative aspects. Diagnosis is determined by fishing through what you’re experiencing in the now, what you’ve been through, and how it’s effecting you in every day life. Because what I struggle with most is this kind of dreamlike state, and alternating between that and feeling like I’m not real (and sometimes experiencing both sensations at once), after careful consideration, and being in treatment for the DPDR in IOP, an official diagnosis of depersonalisation disorder has now been made.

They arent’ totally sure what causes it, but they think it’s related to trauma. I’ve been through a lot of that in my life, so.. yeah, that makes sense. And on top of that, I only recently discovered I have ADHD (which isn’t surprising as it runs in my family), so, yeah. And I went for years without my traumatic experiences being treated, or talked about to be honest, so… yeah, it just kind of got worse, and here we are. And there isn’t a lot of study into it, either, so, there’s that too.

So yeah, it’s basically like this disorder where you’re just chronically disassociating, and I hope that someday I won’t have it anymore.

I hope this answers your question!

#answers #depersonalization #derealization #dpdr

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docj-md · 5 years

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4 more days

hey youre fav depressed bitch again. i cant sleep. i have may have to leave my dream university to go to an all white college and start all over. im really tired yall. ive been drinking since 8 and i had a red bull just to try and keep my spirits up because yesterday was so bad without my vices. ive been as calm as i can throughout the day but everything is catching up with me. i keep jumping out of my sleep right as i fall asleep. tuesday is my psychiatry appointment. the last two therapists i saw really dont make me like therapy. one told my mother to drive five hours to get me from university even though i told her she doesnt care about my depression because she already went through it and the last one saw me for about 10 minutes and determined i needed medication and she wasnt going to see me until i saw a psychiatrist. what fun. i cant watch shit and go to bed i keep disassociating and spiraling and crying. i got some wed today so maybe that will help and i got a pen please God protect me from my parents finding out. i found out i cant OD on zoloft so ill probably take 100 mg from my mom or something for tmrow.

im not sure if im crazy but i feel like my depression masks my bpd because my life is fucking sad. i live in a place thats not kind to darkskin women in general. i think im so beautiful but men would rather use me for sex a couple times than actually start a relationship with me let alone wife me. i want to be a fucking doctor but here I am and cant even help my fucking self. Everything is so full of shit to me right now i cant even express how far i am over life. I keep telling myself youll get through this but getting through it isnt enough anymore. Im so surprised i havent killed myself yet. Theres been low days after low days and i dont seen an end in sight. i gotta go somewhere. i just want to fucking leave. i have no money to my name, no degree, no fucking experience, and no place to go. i feel like death is the only rest ill get but i really cant bring myself to do it.

If i do leave i think ill go to miami. idk how ill find myself there. i feel like i can get money and food from people down there anyway. ill survive. i have so many dreams for myself anf my future kids and husband and i feel like im on the path to making it happen but its so fucking scary and dark and just fucking hard and as much as i tell myself im not walking it alone it feels like God is so far from me. I dont feel like my soul or something isnt in my body. im just fucking empty walking around doing what other people tell me i should be doing. i dont feel like im enjoying life im just trying to get through it.

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chocobroobsession · 5 years

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I have to get this off my chest

Things are about to get very dark and very serious. I just have to get my thoughts out for my own benefit. Ignore this if you will. I didn’t want to share on my main blog because there are some people I’m not ready to share this story with just yet. I’ll go ahead and warn you of what’s ahead because I don’t want you to get triggered: rape, sexual assault, suicide, depression.

When I was 16, I was raped by my then boyfriend. We were on a date and he indicated that he wanted more from me physically and I panicked. I wasn’t ready for that. I remember saying several things: I’m not ready. I don’t think I want that. Not yet. Not now.

Well, he did it all anyway. Up until that point, I had always been such a fighter, but in that moment, I froze. I disassociated. I retreated inside of my own head and didn’t even put up a fight. I realize now that it probably lasted only a few minutes, but to me, it was hours. I was so scared. I was in pain.

Afterwards, I asked him to drive me home where I spent the rest of the night sobbing and trying to clean the feeling of him off of my skin. I rubbed myself raw in the shower the next morning, trying to scrub my entire body with the hottest water I could stand. I puked. I bawled.

When I went back to school on Monday, I thought that maybe if I could hide it, then no one would have to know. Instead, I was met with harsh stares and whispers. Turns out, he got to school before me and told everyone what happened. Only, he twisted the story. I was the goody-two-shoes who was a secret nymphomaniac. I practically begged him to fuck me. I did such kinky things.

I was mortified. He lied and yet, everyone believed him. When I tried to suggest otherwise, I was immediately dismissed. My own friends believed him. People I had known since kindergarten. I spent the rest of the week being called things such as slut, whore, skank, and nympho. All of the girls sneered at me while the guys high-fived him and then asked if I would be willing to fuck them too. It was awful. I had never felt so alone in my life. I didn’t want to tell my parents because if my own friends didn’t believe me, why would they? I just knew they’d find a way to blame me for it all anyway.

Then the thought hit me--what if I’m pregnant? I wasn’t on birth control. I had been a virgin and wasn’t sure if/when I would decide to become sexually active. I was only 16 after all. My parents didn’t believe in abortion, so if was pregnant, I knew they would force me to have the baby. Perhaps they wouldn’t make me keep it, but there was no way they’d let me end it. So that’s when I decided that if I showed signs of pregnancy, I was going to kill myself.

I was at peace with my decision. I had initially thought of killing myself to save myself the embarrassment of the situation, but then I talked myself out of it. I could survive. I could make it to graduation and then never see any of these horrible people again. But could I survive with that monster’s baby inside of me? The answer was no.

Now that the horrible part is out of the way, we can fast forward. Obviously, I didn’t end up pregnant and I didn’t commit suicide. For years, I was plagued by nightmares--reliving the situation over and over again. I had bouts of insomnia followed by frequent sleep paralysis. It was really really rough. I also tried telling myself that perhaps I brought the whole situation on myself. I did go out with him that night. I should have known better. I didn’t remember specifically saying “NO”, so therefore it didn’t count.

Well, now that I’m older and hopefully a bit wiser, I realize that this wasn’t the case. No means no. Not yet means no. I’m not sure means no. No can have many synonyms.

You can go into a situation expecting sex and then change your mind. You can always change your mind. Your partner has to respect that. Even if that partner is your boyfriend/girlfriend/best friend/fwb/spouse. You are not obligated to have sex. Ever. It’s always ultimately your decision and you always have the right to change your decisions. It’s not final; not set in stone.

It’s been 12 years since that happened to me. Over a decade. And it still haunts me sometimes. But I have grown. I have healed some. I have people who love and support me. I suffered from depression before it happened, and I still do, but now I’m on a good med that helps. I do what works for me.

Recently, I was chatting with a group of friends. One brought up a high profile celebrity sexual assault/rape case and really managed to piss me off with her views. Now, mind you, as an adult, I am trying to be open-minded to other people’s views, but this struck a nerve.

She was saying that people shouldn’t bring up things that happened decades ago and that they should just “get over themselves”. That didn’t sit well with me. I mean, the past is in the past, but trauma tends to not have an expiration date. I mentioned that as a survivor, I still get haunted by the past occasionally. The petty side of me could totally see why someone would try to ruin someone’s life decades after the fact. If the guy who did this to me was up for a position of power and I had the chance to possibly ruin him, would I do it? I don’t know. The petty side of me would probably jump at the chance. I mean, in a perfect world, people should have to atone for their wrongdoings, and he never did that.

Don’t get me wrong: I do believe people can change. The tiny optimistic part of me hopes that all people see their mistakes and work to correct them and be better people. Yes, even murderers and rapists. Obviously, that’s not always the case, but a girl can dream.

But when I confronted this friend about how her views might contribute to the toxic rape culture here and how it’s easier said than done when it comes to “getting over” traumatic things, she dismissed me. It hurt. I told her it was so bad back then that I nearly killed myself, and she dismissed that too. She berated me for it. Said that I should have known that nothing is worth killing myself over.

I mean, technically she’s not wrong, but you don’t just say that. To a teenager, life is nothing but school and your friends and your reputation among your peers. When that gets thrown off balance, it does seem like the world is ending. I mean, that is your world. For me personally, depression makes me selfish. All I can focus on is myself. How I hate myself. How other people make me feel awful. How I can’t handle life. So naturally, 16-year-old depressed me couldn’t see how taking my life would affect others. I see now that it wouldn’t have been worth it, but that’s now. That’s 12 years later. This is after seeing how my life improved. Until you experience it, you don’t know what it feels like. And even then, we all experience it differently. Believe me, I don’t wish it on anyone.

So this conversation just got me brooding and thinking. We all experience depression and trauma differently. Some of us are able to “get over it’ quickly and easily, but some of us take a long time to heal. Sometimes, we don’t experience complete healing. We struggle with it the rest of our lives. But no matter how you handle it, YOU ARE VALID. Now, is it healthy for you to dwell on the negativity constantly and let it consume you? Well, no. That may happen at first, but you do need to learn to handle things. Do what you need to do to healthily cope. Seek resources. Go to therapy. Get on medication. Spend time with friends and family. Do all of the above or none of the above. Do what works for you to heal and get on with your life. You may never “get over it”, but you can continue with your life and find a reason to live.

You may find times in your life that you need to pause. Maybe you need to grieve for a while. Maybe all you need is a helping hand. A shoulder to cry on. An ear to listen. Whatever you need, don’t let people tell you the “right way” to deal. It has taken me years to get to the point where I can mention what happened without full on sobbing. Yes, I still cry, and maybe once I year I have a nightmare, but for me personally, I found ways to heal. I’m scarred, sure, but I’m living life and trying to get better every day.

I’m not sure where I was going with all of this. I just had a jumble of thoughts in my head that I had to get out. If you stuck around this long, thanks. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. I can’t promise I’ll be able to help, but I’ll be able to listen. You’re not alone.

Please, don’t dismiss people who are dealing with grief, trauma, and/or depression. We all deal differently and at different paces. Just be a friend. Be an ally. Speak up for those who can’t or are too afraid to. Because of this toxic rape culture, there are people too afraid to speak up. I know this because I’m one of them. This is my first time publicly admitting anything. But it’s a step in my own healing process. We need more kindness in the world. Just be kind.

#personal #not ffxv related #tw rape #tw suicide #depression #you are stronger than you believe

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muellercorn · 5 years

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Basically I Love Taylor Swift

Heyo I want to talk about how important of a figure Taylor Swift has been in my life since 2006. In 2015 I attended my firstTaylor concert (and my only to date) so now that we are on the verge of a new era (and hopefully tour) I've started saving to try to attend a concert soon. Therefore, I eventually feel ready to talk about my experience of attending the 1989 world tour at Hyde Park. This is a story I never even spoke about with friends because I was so desperate to attend a concert for so long that I was ashamed and embarrassed to admit what happened when I attended.

I've been a Taylor Swift fan since day one, I was 6 years old and just completely in awe. So after 9 years of dreaming and wishing I was seeing Taylor live and I could not have been more excited. My parents and I travelled down to London from our home in the North East of England, checked into our hotel then headed towards Hyde Park. Crossing over the road to Hyde Park my vision suddenly went to black and in a split second I'd completely disassociated from everything around me. You see, at age 6 I'd founded my love for TS, but I'd also been put in therapy for what would remain undiagnosed for 11 years but later be named as Emetophobia, OCD, anxiety among a few more. At age 15 I was absolutely no stranger to panic attacks, I'd had several a week since I was 6, however this was only my second time ever disassociating and by far the worst. As we got to Hyde Park I immediately needed to sit down, it started with a panic attack that I felt too tired to have. I couldn't accept that the world around me was real, I wouldn't let my parents touch me as I kept thinking and shouting that I didn't know who they were and they didn't seem like my parents. I just froze on a bench afraid to move for the fear that I'd black out. I just wanted to go back to my hotel, I begged and begged, I was willing to completely abandon my dream of seeing Taylor live. I was getting laughed at and mocked by passers by and I was just done. My parents however were not, although it felt like torture at the time they stayed with me and helped calm me down for at least 2 hours (if not more) because they knew I'd be heart broken if I missed the concert.

So eventually I got myself through the gates, got my light up wrist band and found a spot on the field. Literally just in time for Taylor coming on stage. I still wasn't all with 'there' mentally, but physically I'd made it. Obviously by this time I was right at the back of the field and I couldn't cope with trying to get amongst the crowd anyway, but I couldn't have cared less. I always denied it to others and said our train got there late and we couldn't get to the front, but at the time I was just happy to get to see my idol. I was having anxiety attacks every few minutes and my parents had sworn this was the last concert they'd take me to (and I haven't had the confidence to go to one since). A few months prior they'd decided to stop taking me to the theatre (my other great love) because despite my adoration for the arts, the anxiety the situation caused, resulted in me walking out and wasting a lot of money. All I know is if it weren't for how much Taylor inspired me that night, I would have given up on myself and denied myself so many opportunities and so much happiness in the future.

The concert is a blur to me, the best night of my life, but a blur. However, I have one incredibly distinct clear memory - listening to the speech before Clean, my favourite song from 1989. I'd watched previous speeches on YouTube so as soon as I heard the first few words I knew what was coming, but nothing could have prepared me. Taylor talked about how we were all going through our own anxieties, worries and hard times, but right now we were in awesome outfits and having the best night of our lives. The tears started to flow and it felt so surreal and magical it felt as if I was standing by myself in Hyde Park, just me and Taylor and she was giving me personalised life advice. Then I realised that despite the fact I had never met a single person in that crowd, we were all connected, we all had similar hearts and minds, and as Taylor said in hard times we all turn to music to get through. I cried my eyes out at this moment, I needed to hear what Taylor had to say and more over I needed to feel that inspired and moved.

That moment I decided to not give up on myself, to keep going, to return to a Taylor Swift concert when fates would allow. What made this moment even more special was that I knew it came directly from Taylor's heart, this wasn't the same speech that she'd given at the previous concert or the concert before there were ad-libs that came from raw emotion and passion and it was beautiful. I will never forget how I felt during this and the feeling I felt walking back to my hotel, hope that I hadn't felt in years and I'm so grateful. This is why I've loved Taylor for 13 years. She writes music that matters, that really really matters. This isn't music to make money it's art to heal, to comfort and to provide company.

I can not wait for this new era and to (hopefully) see Taylor Swift live again! It feels like she's written her song specifically for you each lyric related to the human condition at its core and that truly is enchanting. My battle with mental illness still goes on, I'm frightened at the thought of going to another concert, however there's nothing I'm more excited for right now than the idea of seeing Taylor perform live again, I trust her, I trust that the wisdom she'll bestow on me that night will make any prior anxiety completely worth it and will be laid to rest. I'm so grateful and beyond excited for this next era, music is my salvation and I'm ready for my soul to be nourished.

@taylorswift @taylornation

#taylor swift #taylurking #taylor nation #1989worldtour #1989 #1989 era #mental health #emetophobia #anxiety

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marshmallow-phd · 6 years

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The Experiments

Genre: Sci-Fi, Thriller, Experiment AU

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Exo (????)

Summary: You were a med school graduate who just wanted to help research cures for the world. Instead, what you got was a dream job at EXO Applied Sciences. That is, until you discover the secrets of Level Sixty-Six and the nine inhabitants that are stored down there….

Warning: None

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13 I 14 I 15 I 16 I 17 I 18 I 19 I 20 I 21 I 22 I 23 I Final

By three in the afternoon the next day, you’d interviewed all nine subjects and even learned their names. While some didn’t have any issues talking to you, like Yixing, others you knew would take a few more sessions. Kyungsoo said maybe three words throughout the whole hour. From what you read in his file, he was the most closed off, but still cooperative. Even with his small stature, he was the strongest of them all, possessing impossible strength. You wondered if he was just afraid to hurt someone accidentally. He never let you come too close to him, shrinking back if you leaned forward or made any sort of gesture in his direction.

Jongdae was the first one that you actually wanted to smack. Over the years, it seemed he built up a defense of sarcasm. You couldn’t take any of his answers entirely seriously and he even winked at you at one point. It couldn’t be denied, you certainly admired his bravado in the face of his situation.

The one who really deserved that admiration, however, was Baekhyun. His happy disposition shocked you from the moment you walked into his room. He was grinning as you sat down in front of him. It took only about five seconds for him to give you his name and he loved telling you stories about when they were all together in the large dorm room, located on a different floor. You didn’t even have to prompt him with any questions. That was his way of coping with his life, you concluded, preferring to focus on the fun times they had with each other.

Minseok was another quite one. His form of silence wasn’t one of fear or hatred of you, just a neutral disinterest. The only reason that you even knew his name was because of Baekhyun’s description. Most of the communication was you trying to ask open-ended questions and Minseok simply shrugging or glancing at you before looking away again. He would be a tough one to crack, but you hoped he come around soon.

The one that concerned you the most out of all of them was Sehun. His fear of you and of his circumstances radiated off of him no matter how neutral he tried to stay. Pushed all the back into the corner where his bed met the wall, he kept his arms wrapped around his folded knees, tucked in tight to his chest. You stayed a bit farther away than you had with the others, doing more to try and sooth him and convince him that you weren’t there to harm him more than anything else. The expression on his face gave off the vibe of a high wall that you would have to climb extensively before he would trust you. No, his fear didn’t show on his face; his expression was more mooted than that. Almost like he’d given up.

As you typed out your observations, you constantly went back and reread the sentences, trying not sound as empathetic and heartbroken as you felt. If you wanted to keep these sessions going and stick to the promise you’d made them, then you had to stay professional. At least in Dr. Wang and Dr. Kwon’s eyes. It took a lot of time, but when it was at the hour to go home, your report was finished at last.

The door to Dr. Wang’s office was locked and you didn’t have your own drawer to lock the papers in until the next day. Dr. Wang preferred reports to be written rather than handed in electronically. Not entirely sure what to do, you decided to see if maybe you could track her down.

Sticking with your own hallway for the time being, you poked your head into the first two labs to find them empty. If you were less anxious, you might have spent some time looking around as you’d never really explored the other work spaces before. But you didn’t want to seem like you were sneaking around and they looked just like any other laboratory you’d been in.

You came to the last one, concluding that if she wasn’t in there, then you would just forget it and slide the paper under her door and hope she didn’t yell at you for it. Unfortunately, while she wasn’t in this room, one other person was.

Near the back were several computers and vital monitors hooked up to a cylinder tank almost as high as the ceiling. It was full of water, much like an escape trick a magician would pull. But it was no magician floating in the water.

It was Junmyeon.

His eyes were closed as he bobbed up and down in the water, his chest not moving. There was no oxygen mask over his mouth to help him breathe, only waterproof wires stuck to his chest and head. The beeping of the monitors was the only hope you had that he was still alive. In a sort of trance, you stepped forward until you were only an arm’s length away. Reaching out, you pressed your hand up against the cold glass, a sort of fog forming around it, creating a perfect outline of your fingers.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You gasped, dropping your hand and swiveling around. Dr. Wang wasn’t looking at you as she stepped up next to you. Her gaze was fixated on Junmyeon, a strange look somewhere between admiration and a much darker emotion settling in her eyes.

“He can hold his breath under water for almost an hour without any internal damage,” she said in a breathy voice, like she was describing a painting. “It’s amazing how interchanging just a few sequences in one’s DNA can grant completely astounding gifts.”

“They’re an extraordinary group,” you agreed, although your opinion lingered on who they were as people, not the science that had been done to them.

Pulling herself away from the water tank, Dr. Wang looked over at you. “Was there something you needed, Dr. (l/n)?”

“Right, yeah,” you held out the report for her to take. “I’ve finished my first analysis. There isn’t too much to go on since it was hard to get some of them to talk, but I think if I keep going, I can get more data on their current mental states.”

“Excellent.” Dr. Wang glanced over the first page before tucking it under her arm. “I’ll go over it with Dr. Kwon. See you on Monday, Dr. (l/n).” She turned on her heels and left the room.

Just as you were about to follow her, Junmyeon’s eyes snapped open, meeting yours. You tried to convey how much you wished he wasn’t in there with your eyes, but you didn’t think it was enough.

You mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

He nodded, understanding. Knowing there wasn’t anything else you could do, you left the room as well.

Nada was already gone when you dropped your lab coat off and gathered up your purse to leave for the weekend. It was tormenting to know that you would be gone for two days, not knowing what was going on down in level sixty-six.

“(y/n)!”

Marcus ran up to you, panting from the short exercise.

“Hi, Marcus,” you greeted halfheartedly.

“You headed home?” he asked, putting his hands in his pockets. He was out of uniform so his shift must have been over as well.

“Unfortunately.” You were completely serious, even if he took it as a joke.

He seemed to take it that way, anyway. “You want to grab some dinner?”

You bit your bottom lip. As much as you really didn’t want to go home and be alone with your thoughts, you didn’t want Marcus to think it would lead to something more romantic. Your dilemma must have been written all over your face.

“It’s not a date,” he insisted, throwing his hands up, palms out. “My treat, but just as friends.”

“I guess that doesn’t sound too bad.” You sighed. “Okay, then. Where are we going?”

It’s a good thing it wasn’t a date, because you would be seriously unimpressed. “Dinner” was a hidden dive bar that was much too noisy for your liking. Marcus got a table near the back of the building and seemed to be on a first name basis with the wait staff.

Generic bar food was their specialty and nothing in particular stuck out to you. In the end, you and Marcus shared a plate of greasy nachos covered in too much cheese and not enough meat. You mostly just picked at it, not really hungry.

“Everything okay?” Marcus asked after you’d been silent for several minutes.

Wiping your hands on a napkin, you replied, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a long day.”

“The therapy sessions getting to you?”

You weren’t sure how to answer.

Yeah, they were getting to you. It was hard to see nine people who had had their childhoods taken away from them and hadn’t had contact with another human being who wasn’t out to poke and prod at them while performing painful tests in over two years. The process had been draining, but there was a silver lining. Being able to connect with them, to make Yixing smile just a little bit or to let Kyungsoo know that he’s able to be around others without hurting them, that made you feel like what you were doing mattered. So much more than staying in a lab and looking into a microscope day in and day out. Perhaps you chose the wrong profession in college.

“They’re…,” you took a deep breath, “strenuous. There’s only so much I can do or say. Half of them won’t even really talk to me.”

“I think it’s a brave thing you’re doing,” Marcus commented.

You looked up at him. “Really? How so?”

“The reason everyone is able to do what they do down there is because they disassociate.” Marcus stopped to take a sip of his beer before continuing. “They make themselves forget that they’re people like you and me. It makes me sick, to be honest.”

The image of Yixing and the guards flashed through your mind and your stomach did a little churn of its own.

“But you,” he tapped the top of your head with his finger, “you’re talking to them one-on-one. That makes you see them as only human. An animal can’t talk back. To do that, you have to be willing to face reality. To me, that’s brave.”

With the tips of your fingers, you played with the straw that floated in your glass of water. It was nice to hear something like that for once. All Nada really wanted to know was what they looked like. She wasn’t completely shallow, but like Marcus said, she’d shut off that part that would remember whose blood you were constantly looking at and cataloging. Plus, she’s never seen their living conditions up close.

“I really appreciate that,” you said sincerely. “It’s kind of been like walking on eggshells. Not wanting to seem too sympathetic. I’m sure if Dr. Wang suspected anything, she’d yank me out of there in a second. I thought I could do it.” It was hard admitting all this. You ran your fingers over your hair, trying to keep your breathing even. “I knew human trials were to be expected within EXO. I’ve read the stories and I knew I would have to accept that they happened. But forced experimentation like this? The cases we read about were always about somewhere else. Like a ghost story. I walked right into this blindfolded and now I can’t unsee any of it.”

“Maybe you were meant to be here,” Marcus offered.

You laughed. “What? Like fate?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, genuinely. “I mean, what if you were meant to help them?”

“How could I possibly help them? They’ve been in that place since they were teenagers. What hope is there?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? Opportunity might be closer than you think.”

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13 Reasons Why: Season 4 -- Character Thoughts

I’ve written about 13 Reasons Why twice before. Once when the first season came out and then last year I did a character breakdown for season 3. It feels a bit surreal to sit down and write what is quite possibly the last thing I ever write for this godforsaken Netflix show.

Here’s the thing, 13 Reasons Why has been a downright mess from the beginning. It is by no means a show that people should watch lightly or a show that should be consumed to understand mental health issues despite what it tried to market itself as. It was controversial for the sake of being flashy, it constantly disobeyed the recommendations from mental health consultants, and it was god awfully graphic when it didn’t need to be. And yet, despite graphically showing a suicide, showing multiple sexual assaults, and trying to get viewers to sympathize with rapists the worst thing this show has ever done is write season 4.

Now, here me out on this.

Were their amazing and heartfelt moments during this season? Yes, absolutely and they warmed my heart and made me smile. As a whole though, this season was a disoriented shit show that culminated in an almost two hour finale that left me sobbing so hard I gave myself a migraine.

I have a lot to say about the season and these characters and to be honest, this rant is probably going to be as disjointed as this season felt but I’m going to write it anyway. So here I go with another (and final) character analysis for the cast of 13 Reasons Why.

Clay Jenson

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again Clay Jenson has never been my favorite. And yet, I’ve spent four entire seasons hoping and praying that this boy gets the mental help he needs.

When the trailer came out for this season I was really upset because it made it seem that they were going to have Clay go to therapy with a therapist who was going to make his life a living hell. I was literally ready to write a rant about how disappointed I would be if this show ended with the message that “therapy isn’t helpful,” so I am extremely glad I didn’t have to do that.

Honestly though, I wasn’t sure why Clay was having such a strong reaction this season. After all, he wasn’t the one who spearheaded the cover up campaign nor was he a fan of Bryce or Monty. Clay should have been relatively okay this season and yet that’s not what we got.

To be honest, I spent the first part of this season extremely annoyed with Clay. One of his biggest issues, and issues for the entire cast of characters, is that they don’t reach out for help when they need it. Sure, Clay didn’t realize he was the one who vandalized the school and tormented his friends but he also didn’t tell the truth on how his depression and anxiety were manifesting worse than ever. Instead, he pushed everyone away…again.

Speaking of the disassociation, the way they shot those scenes and him coming out of them was bizarre. It’s almost like they forget 13 Reasons Why is an angsty teen drama and not some psychological thriller. I was definietly not a fan and truthfully almost stopped watching this season because of it (maybe I should have since it would have saved me a heartbreak).

The disassociation scene that really got me upset though was the one where he’s in the frat house with the passed out girl. I will never understand how the writers could write that scene. How could they put Clay and Bryce in the same room with an unconscious girl and have Clay actually consider raping her. I was floored and disgusted. This entire show is built on the fact that Clay Jenson actively despises rapist. That he would never and I mean NEVER take advantage of some girl for his own selfish gain. I hated this scene and the way the writers tried to make it seem like Clay was just like Bryce all along. That’s the furthest thing from the truth. Clay might be fucked up but he is no where on the level of Bryce.

I also don’t understand why Clay kept visualizing Bryce and Monty. Once again it felt like the writers were trying to get us to sympathize with these two rapists but fuck that. Bryce and Monty weren’t good people, they were monsters. And Clay actively hated them which is why I don’t understand why his subconscious kept dreaming them up. I understand the writers wanted to keep them in the show but I can’t stand behind the way they did it.

Something that really suck out to me was when Clay was in a therapy session and the therapist said something along the lines of you try your best to save everyone else but maybe you need to focus on you right now. Obviously, I’m paraphrasing here but that scene was impactful. For four seasons we’ve seen Clay set aside his trauma to help his friends. He tried to find justice for Hannah after her death, he talked Tyler down from doing something he’d regret, he literally saved Justin’s life, and he was willing to take the fall for Alex. All of his friends knew they could count on him and yet, Clay could never count on himself. I’m glad that started to change towards the end but I wish he would have realized it sooner and also confided in his friends to help him out.

One of my biggest complaints this season though has to be the way Clay treated his friends — in case that hasn’t been clear. Yes, he needed to focus on himself but that doesn’t mean he had to be so distant from his friends. He could have confided in them. He could have told Justin the truth just like he should have seen that Justin wasn’t okay. He could have talked to Tyler about the guns instead of being annoyed that Tony wanted him to help him stalk Tyler. He could have been there for Ani when her mother got injured. He could have been there for Zach who was clearly struggling. He could have been there for Alex who was clearly lost. He could have but he didn’t. Yes, he needed to focus on himself but alienating himself from his friends was the wrong move.

There is no denying that Clay Jenson has had a rough go at life. I did appreciate the fact that he got to give the graduation speech. Clay does have a way for words and he does have a thing for standing up for what is right. I like that Clay’s speech was honest but also hopefully, especially since he spent this entire season actively despising the future. After all, Clay has to live a life for himself and for the three people he loved who don’t get to have one.

I also loved that despite their rocky relationship this season the writers showed us that Clay and Justin were brothers, always. It absolutely broke my heart when Justin asked Clay to hold his hand in the hospital bed (and now I’m crying again). I’m glad in the end though, we got to have one more sweet and brotherly moment between these two when Clay found Justin’s college application letter.

There is a lot to unpack when it comes to Clay Jenson and I’m not quite sure I’ve had time to fully process him. One thing I do know for sure is that Clay Jenson loves so much and has been hurt so many times it’s unfair. He’s come so far from the jaded, out for revenge boy from the first season. I just wish he didn’t have to go through so much trauma to get there.

Justin Foley

Of all the death on 13 Reasons Why of all the fucked up shit this show has explored, nothing could have prepared me to watch Justin die.

I can count on my hands the amount of times I’ve cried over a character’s death but nothing compares to the sobbing that occurred in the final episode. I literally had to stop multiple times because I was crying so hard I couldn’t even hear.

Justin Foley has been my ride or die character from the very beginning. It’s like Hannah said “so that’s where the trouble began, that damn smile.” I have never rooted for a character as hard as I rooted for Justin Foley because the boy had potential, he did.

In case I haven’t made myself clear, Justin Foley did not deserve to die and I will never forgive the writers for taking yet another character from us and from this group of friends.

Here’s the thing that’s so frustrating, Justin has the best character development of any of the characters on 13 Reasons Why. In the first season, he went from this cocky jock who felt he found brotherhood in his rich best friend to this broken boy who felt so alone and responsible for Bryce’s actions that he ran away and turned to the streets and drugs for comfort. And then Clay saved him because Clay saw two things in Justin. 1. He knew Justin could help them get Bryce behind bars and 2. He saw potential in Justin. And so from that moment on Justin tried as hard as he could to do the right thing. Did he fail at times? Of course, but no character in this show actively tried to do and be better than Justin. No character wanted to live more than Justin. And to have him die feels like such a slap in the face to his journey.

I had such high hopes for Justin this season when he came back home from treatment. He was taking his recovery seriously, so seriously he even broke up with Jess which killed them both. He was helping Coach with the team, he was doing well in school and not skipping classes, hell he was even excited at the idea of being able to go to college. He was finally able to see a future for himself and then, within a second it was gone.

Even though Justin relapsed after his mother’s death and pushed everyone away, he still came to his senses and realized he fucked up. He detoxed himself, again, and came clean to Clay and his family. He wanted to get better, even in his lowest moment. He even pulled himself out of bed because there was no way he was going to miss prom.

Thank god he got his fairytale dance with Jess before everything came crashing down.

I am so mad about his death because the writers had the ability to chose a different fate for Justin. They had a chance to actually do something good with their show and show that people with HIV can live happy and fulfilling lives and instead they bought into this bullshit that an HIV diagnosis is a death sentence. Instead of giving us the happily ever after Justin deserved they let him become another character lost.

And for what? For shock value? For controversy? For attention?

There was no reason Justin should have died. There was no hint that it was his funeral we were seeing until the last two episodes. Some might say that’s good writing since they mislead us but I think that’s bullshit. What was the point of showing us a happy and thriving Justin only to have that imaged ripped away from us?

Someone please make it make sense.

And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough they have Clay see Justin with Bryce after his death. Why are these writers so hell bent on making Justin and Bryce seem like brothers. Newsflash, Justin already had a brother and his name was Clay Jenson. While I understand the point of Justin’s forgiveness speech was meant to get Clay to realize that he needed to forgive Hannah I am so pissed that they framed it within the context of Bryce. Once again I say, Bryce was not a good person he was a serial rapist and a monster. Stop humanizing him! Thank god, that wasn’t Justin’s final scene because I would have been so pissed.

In the end, I’m glad we got to see and hear what Justin thought of Clay. I know we’ve heard and seen them be brotherly before but hearing Justin say that Clay was his positive influence, his brother, and the reason he was alive was everything. Here’s the thing though, Clay may have saved Justin but Justin was the one who stayed alive. It’s like Jess said “don’t love anything more than life.” And Justin didn’t. He loved life so much and they took that away from him.

What was the point of having the boy, this broken and soft boy, do all this work and come so far just to have him ripped away from the future he so desperately wanted. The show had already made its point that life isn’t fair and it sucks it didn’t need to take Justin too.

Justin Foley deserved to graduate with his brother, love of his life, and best friends. Justin deserved to go to college. He deserved to have more family breakfasts with the Jensons. He deserved to settle down and have a family of his own. He deserved so much more.

I am so proud of how far Justin came and the writers can fuck off for ending it all.

Jessica Davis

I’ve always loved Jess but she is really stupid sometimes. Unfortunately, she was stupid most of this final season.

I know Jess was expecting to be in a relationship with Justin when he got home from treatment and I know it must have hurt having him tell her that he needed to focus on himself but she was so wrong for lashing out at him. She should have stood by his side. She should have understood! And maybe she did in the end because she did tell him not to love anything more than life ever again but fuck she needed to tell that to him in that moment.

So yeah I was annoyed with Jess this season. Not just because she left Justin when he needed support but because she, too, pulled away from everyone who cared and loved her.

I would like to preface this by saying that I read someone say something like “Jess can’t call herself a feminist because she fucks with boys to fuck with their emotions.” My response to that person and that thought process is fuck you. Newsflash, a person can be a feminist and like sex. A girl can be a feminists and still make mistakes.

Now that that is out of the way, I will say that I do not agree with Jess’s choices this season. She should have never got involved with Diego. I don’t care if she was “trying to keep him at bay” or “trying to see what he knew” she should not have been with him. After the thing with Justin, Jess should have taken the time to figure out who she was just like Justin was trying to figure out who he was. After all, no one really believed that Jess and Justin weren’t still in love with each other. Her story would have been so much more interesting if we got to see her support herself and support Justin in his sobriety instead of doing whatever the fuck she thought she was doing. Not to mention, she should never have walked away from him when she caught him relapsing in the ally way. I don’t care that he yelled at her, she should have pulled his ass out of there and taken him home. Not because it’s her responsibility to keep him alive but because she knew him better than anyone and knew that he didn’t deserve to be there again.

Not to mention, her dating Diego took away from all the cute Justin/Jess moments we deserved and now are never going to get.

The sad thing is, that’s not the only mistake the writers made with Jess.

Aside from abandoning Justin in the moment, one of my biggest issues with Jess was her complicated feelings around Bryce continued to be a big part of this season. Which again I say, Bryce was a rapist who didn’t deserve redemption so stop trying to make it happen.

The final scene after graduation where Jess sees Bryce and goes up to him ignited a rage within me that I actually stopped my inconsolable crying. In the scene, Bryce tells Jess that he won again to which Jess responds that they never would have all be friends if it wasn’t for him. Bryce then tells her “well that’s something right?”

While yes, this group of friends probably wouldn’t have been friends if it wasn’t for Bryce that doesn’t suddenly make Bryce a good person. Jess shouldn’t have even given Bryce the time of day. The ghost she should have seen should have been Justin. Let’s face it, Justin was the one who deserved to be in that final scene not fucking Bryce.

The only thing that Jess did do right, in regards to Bryce, was confronting Ani for sleeping with him. I’m glad she finally got hash that out because I truly cannot believe it was never a bigger issue with their friendship.

Another thing I still can’t get over is the fact that Jess dated Diego who spent the entire season trying to bring justice to Monty, a rapist who happened to rape one of Jess’s best friends. So yeah I’m anti Diego/Jess. Oh, and I also hated the fact that they tried to make it seem like Jess was going to end up with Diego “in a month.” Hello, the love of her life just died! The two of you are getting HIV tested because of his death and you think now is a good time to ask her out? Give me a fucking break.

I also didn’t understand why she pulled away from Alex and the rest of the group this season. Jess and Alex literally are ride or die and yet they basically ignored each other the entire season. I would have liked to see them bonding more. It would have been nice to see Alex confide in Jess about his sexuality. Maybe Alex could have helped Jess understand why Justin couldn’t have been in a relationship. I just wanted more of them together.

Again I will say, this cast is strongest when they rely on each other and no one seemed to rely on each other at all this season.

For all the negatives regarding Jess this season there were some positives. The scene where she leads the walk out after the fake shooter drill and the cameras and Diego being racially profiled was amazing. That is the Jess I love to see. The strong and outspoken Jess who stands up for what is right, even if it means she’s going to get in trouble. That episode was also extremely relevant in more ways than I can even begin to explain (but that’s a topic for another day).

I am glad we did get some quality Justin/Jess content. Though I would have liked more. I wanted to see the exchange that occurred when she found out his mother died. I would have liked to see them celebrate Justin getting into college and figuring out what Jess’s future was going to be since she got denied from her top three schools. Again, I wanted to see them support each other. However, I am so glad we got that dance scene at prom. If only the show had ended there. Truthfully that scene encompasses why I love Justin and Jess together so much. Are they a toxic couple, yes? But dammit, they love each other so much while also reminding each other not to put their love for one another above their love for life.

I’m also glad we got to see Justin and Jess in the hospital together even if it killed me. I’m glad Jess got to tell Justin one more time that he didn’t ruin her life, that he helped her find love. I’m glad they got to spend one more moment cuddled together in bed. I wish they had a lifetime more to spend together but dammit at least we got that scene.

When looking at Jess’s storyline as a whole from the entire series she really has come so far and yet this season she felt so stagnant. I just wanted and expected more from her.

Alex Standall

Alex Standall went from “I’m not gay” to making out with three boys and landing the best boyfriend ever all in the span of 10 episodes and I could not be more proud.

Given all Alex has been through he honestly was way more composed than I thought he would have been considering he was the one who killed Bryce. And yet, the only time we truly get to see him deal with the complex emotions he feels is during the camping trip when he breaks down in front of his dad. To be honest, I’m kind of glad we didn’t get an entire season of Alex being “woe is me” for killing Bryce because he really is the fucking hero of the story if you ask me.

That’s not to say Alex’s story this season is without faults.

One of the biggest issues I had with Alex this season is his disregard for Zach’s well being. Zach spent the entire second and third season working with Alex to get better. Zach was there for him in more ways than he could imagine and yet when Zach was struggling Alex didn’t show him the same kind of support. Now, some might say that’s because he felt embarrassed for kissing Zach but that’s a coup out. While the moment might have been awkward, they moved on from it. So no that’s not a reason and Alex should have been there for Zach. Hell, even in his fucked up state Zach was still championing Alex and pushing him towards Charlie. I am glad that Alex did push him to see Justin in the end but the support was long overdo.

The other issue I had with Alex this season was his relationship with Winston but to be fair, he didn’t know who Winston was when they started seeing each other so I’ll forgive him…I guess.

Now on to something positive, for once.

Alex Standall. Little Alex Standall who put Hannah and Jess against each other, who spent his entire high school career hating Justin for dating Jess, who nearly took his own life, who killed a rapist, who’s been through so much shit finally got his happily ever after. I know a lot of us were rooting for Alex and Zach to be endgame but I honestly could not be more thrilled that he got his happy ever after with Charlie.

To see Alex go from this broken and lonely kid to prom king with his boyfriend is the true definition of growth and happiness. Is Alex healed because he found love? Absolutely not, but he’s with someone who knows that Alex has a lot going on and he doesn’t care. He loves him regardless.

I really loved how causal Alex’s coming out scene was with his parents. And I loved that his brother was like “you’re dating the quarterback, that’s amazing.” It was not only heartwarming but it was funny and I loved it. I also loved that Alex didn’t have this coming out moment with his friends. He didn’t have to explain his feelings for Zach or Winston or Charlie. He didn’t have to say “I’m gay or bisexual ” to them. He just showed up with Charlie and that was that. I really applaud the writers for making that move.

I also loved that despite all their differences, Alex was able to be there for Justin in the end. It didn’t even feel like a forced thing, he wanted to be there for him. Alex even spoke, or tried to speak at Justin’s funeral and told everyone that Justin was there for him when it mattered. That showed tremendous growth for Alex who literally wanted to kill Justin more times than I can count.

Lastly, I would just like to say that I am so glad that Alex Standall is free. He didn’t deserve to go to jail for killing Bryce. There was a moment during prom where Alex, Jess, and Zach are all sitting there talking about Bryce and how he didn’t deserve to die. And I was so mad because dammit Bryce was a piece of shit who didn’t deserve to live but I think Zach really said it best, “he didn’t deserve to die, but we deserve to live.” Nothing could be farther from the truth. I’m glad Alex gets to finally live.

Zach Dempsey

All I’ve wanted for four seasons is for Zach to get the storyline he deserves and once again he was fucked over by the writers.

Here’s the thing, if Justin had the best positive character development of this cast, Zach Dempsey had the worst. After all, he spent this entire season regressing.

When Zach was first introduced back in season one he was this misguided jock who liked Hannah but had a weird way of showing it. And he was there for Alex in the second season and welcomed Justin back in the third season. We also saw him in the third season being cautious around the rest of the group after the Tyler incident. But he eventually warmed up to them all and realized that this group of friends are ride or die when it matters.

Sure, Zach had a hell of a season three ending after losing his entire athletic career at the hands of Bryce and beating the shit out of him but Zach knew he didn’t kill Bryce. In fact, the police flat out told him that in the third season which is why his choices this season made no sense to me. Perhaps, though, I’m being too narrow minded. Perhaps, Zach’s decision to drink and be reckless didn’t stem from his guilt over Bryce but rather his anger over the fact that his future was going to look completely different because of Bryce.

I will say this, Zach Dempsey deserved better from the writers but he also deserved better from his friends. I talked about this briefly with Alex’s breakdown but I’m going to say it again. Why wasn’t anyone there for Zach? Zach helped Justin get back on the football team so why the fuck didn’t Justin do more to help Zach? Surely he knows what its like to go down a destructive path. He knows the signs. Where was he?

And what about Clay? Clay practically leaves Zach for dead after crashing the car. Like what the fuck! Or Tony? I don’t think these two even say more that two words to each other this season and that’s pushing it. These two practically saved every single one of the people in the group and yet they didn’t care enough to reach out to Zach. And yes, I know everyone was going through their own shit but everyone is always going through their own shit. Zach deserved friendship. He deserved friends to call him out on his bullshit. I am glad that Alex and Charlie were able to pull him together to see Justin I just wished they had given him that pep talk sooner.

What about his family? Where was his mother or his sister? Why was no one watching out for this poor boy who was struggling? Where was his therapy session? Zach was just as worthy of being saved as everyone else.

Also, I absolutely cannot forgive the writers for making it seem like Zach was going to rape his barely conscious, sex-worker prom date. Just like Clay would never do that, Zach would never do that. He spent multiple seasons actively shutting that shit down so for the writers to even suggest he would become a monster like that is so disrespectful.

The one thing I can and will praise Zach on is his reaction when Alex kissed him on the rooftop. That scene reminded me of the sweet and innocent Zach that we had known prior to this seasons events. I love that he didn’t make things awkward or yell at Alex or anything. The two of them were able to laugh about it and move on. It never made their friendship awkward and they even joked about it later.

I am glad that by the time graduation came along Zach turned himself around. The death of Justin saved him in my opinion and in some ways I feel like Zach and Justin’s stories are eerily similar. They both saved each other at some point in time. They were both saved by their coach who gave them hell but saw potential in them. Perhaps, Justin was Zach’s cautionary tale.

Tyler Down

While I was disappointed in the lack of Tyler this season it did somewhat make sense. In my eyes, Tyler has already gotten his redemption arc so it seems fair that he could have faded in the background this season. However, when you set up the first half of the season revolving around Tyler being called into the police for the guns and then don’t explain it there a problem.

Did I think Tyler was working for the police? Yes, but it still should have been explored more. If anything else the failed sting should have been explained more. That episode ended in a cliff hanger with a gun shot going off and then the next episode started with no mention of anything. I seriously thought someone got shot but apparently that wasn’t the case.

While I understand why Tyler couldn’t tell Clay and Tony about his involvement I do think he could have given them more than just an “it’s handled.” After all, when has had anything been handled neatly when it came to this group.

I did find his relationship/friendship with Estella to be quite interesting. In some ways it’s the biggest fuck you to Monty and in other ways its extremely confusing because why on earth would someone want to be hang out with the sibling of the person who raped you. But then again, we are not products of our families, we are products of our own choices and Estella actively chose to speak out against sexual assault.

Overall, I’ve been pleased with Tyler’s journey over the course of the four seasons. I’m glad he got to live. I’m glad he’s happy. I’m glad he’s healing.

Tony Padilla

To me, Tony Padilla constantly gets treated like a secondary character when he has an important place in the overall narrative of this story. Last season we did get to learn more about his personal life and I am glad that continued this season. But I still think the writers could have given us more.

I did enjoy seeing him find himself in the boxing ring. In the first seasons Tony was this kid who was constantly getting in trouble for fighting and over the course of the remaining seasons he really learned to harness that anger into something a bit more positive. And he’s damn good at it. I’m glad Caleb and his father were able to talk him into going to college. Tony deserves the world after everything he’s been through.

One complaint I do have is how the show wants to write Clay and Tony as this ride or die friendship but they’re rarely ever there for each other unless a disaster is on the horizon. Why wasn’t Tony checking in more on Clay’s deteriorating mental state? Why wasn’t Clay present at any of Tony’s boxing matches? Why didn’t they have conversations that didn’t revolve around Tyler and the mysterious guns? If the writers really wanted us to believe that these two were ride or die they didn’t do enough to show us. And while the end scene of Clay and Tony driving off in the mustang was sweet and made the show come full circle, Clay should have been driving off with Justin.

However, I will say this, it absolutely warmed my heart when Tony realized that his friends and adults around him did care and want the best for him. For so long Tony has been the back bone of this friend group, the one that is there to clean up their messes and be a shoulder to cry on. And for the first time he gets to be the one who gets support. We see this happen during the school walk out when his friends try to tell him not to leave the fight but they realize he has to, to protect themselves. And eventually Tony does join the fight to protect Tyler. But then something happens, the police officer who’s been training him steps him and lets Tony go because he knows Tony can’t get arrested. He knows Tony will face bigger consequences for his actions and he doesn’t want that because he sees the potential Tony has to do great. It’s not just that scene though, we see Caleb and his father supporting him throughout the season too.

Overall, I think Tony is a character who grew into his own but also stayed true to himself.

Ani Achola

Just like many of us, I am not a fan of Ani.

She was irrelevant and annoying in the third season and she became even more irrelevant in this season. Honestly, I think it was wise of the writers to have her take a back seat role during this season because of all the criticism they received from last season. I do feel sorry for Grace Saif who plays her though because she is extremely talented.

Ani was a bit all over the place this season, even more so than she was last season. To be honest, I wasn’t sure why she wasn’t on edge knowing Winston and Diego and the rest of the football team were trying to figure out what happened to Monty. After all, she’s the one who spearheaded the campaign to frame him. She felt too okay and too calm with everything going on — it’s almost as if she thrived on the chaos.

I’m glad that her and Clay ended up breaking up. They were never a good match to begin with and it never sat well with me how she introduced Clay as her boyfriend to her mom without even asking him. I think there need to fix people is what became their demise because neither one was able to confide in the other without having them try to be the rescuer.

I do applaud the writers for finally having Jess confront Ani about her relationship with Bryce. That was such a major part of last season and while they touched upon it they never really discussed it further. Ani needed to be held accountable for her actions so I’m glad Jess set that in motion. I’m also glad they were able to come away from that and still be friends. That took courage and strength from Jess that I don’t think I would have.

The scene between Ani and Mrs. Walker was interesting. At first I thought she was being dumb for not talking Bryce’s college fund for herself but then in the same breath I understand because why would she want anything from the person who ruined all of her friends’ lives, even if she did “see something in him.” The resolution to that plot point was perfect though. What’s better than using a rapists money to fund the anti-sexual assault club at the school? It’s the ultimate revenge.

I also am grateful to the writers that they didn’t give us an Ani scene where she talks to ghost Bryce. One of the few good choices they made this season.

My biggest complaint regarding Ani this season is the fact that she was completely missing when Justin was dying. Sure, we didn’t need a scene with her in the room with him but she wasn’t even in the lobby. Regardless of her feelings towards Justin she should have been there. She should have been there to support Jess and Clay and Alex and every one of her friends who sat in that hospital lobby waiting for their turn to say goodbye to yet another classmate gone too soon.

Overall, I think Ani was irrelevant as a whole. She had no business befriending all these people and while she may have saved them I think they could have saved themselves without her help.

Charlie St. George

In the history of good Liberty High jocks, Charlie St. George is by far the best one and my favorite.

Standing up to your team especially when your the young player is a hard thing to do but Charlie did it last season so well. In fact, he even earned himself the captain spot this season and that’s a title he truly deserves. He constantly held his teammates accountable and put them in line when they were being disrespectful and assholes.

I also loved that his coming-out scene was just a casual conversation with his father who didn’t lash out or challenge his views. In fact, his dad joked about his obsession with Eli Manning and how he wouldn’t love him any less. Of all the fucked up things in this show, the one thing they often got right was showing parents who unconditionally love their children and that’s important.

Charlie’s greatest moments though are in his scenes with Alex. At first, I was a bit blind-sighted by their relationship (albeit I did support it right away) but then someone pointed out that in the final scene of last season, Charlie is watching Alex and that’s when I knew the writers had this planned all along. As much as we all wanted Alex and Zach to be a thing, Alex and Charlie was everything we wanted and more.

Not only was Charlie an amazing friend to Alex and willing to cover up a murder when he hardly knew him but he’s also a loving and supporting boyfriend, even before he had the label. Charlie researched Alex’s TBI and knew how to calm him down when he was having a panic attack and hearing things. He knew when Alex needed a shoulder to cry on and when Alex needed some space. And he knew, even when Alex didn’t want to admit it, that Alex deserved him.

I loved their first kiss. I loved the scene at the pier where Alex tries to push Charlie away but Charlie won’t let him. I love the promposal sequence. And I absolutely loved prom.

Liberty High’s Class of 2019 having two prom kings was everything we ever wanted.

I think what made it even better was the fact that they won at the hands of the football team. A team that was previously lead by two rapist who were constantly making fun of people’s sexual orientations and being homophobic assholes all the time. To see that team supporting and rooting for Charlie and Alex was a truly magical moment.

While I was and still am a bit confused why he got involved with this messy group, I’m glad he did. And I’m so glad there isn’t a fifth season that will ruin him because he needs to be protected at all costs.

Winston

I’m going to say something controversial here and I’m not sure how people are going to take it.

Winston is a gay version of season one Clay who falls in love with his made up version of people and then seeks revenge so that he’s not the only one in pain.

Literally, if you look at Clay’s arc in season one and Winston’s in this season you see they are the exactly same person. Winston may have transferred to Liberty after getting kicked out of Hillcrest but his true motivation was to figure out who framed Monty. And for what? They hung out what, two times? And the first time Monty literally beat the shit out of Winston!

Winston had this idolized version of who Monty was in his head. He essentially turned Monty into this manic pixie dream boy, just like Clay did with Hannah. This is proved in the prom scene when Winston dances with ghost Monty. In that scene Monty confirms that there was never a possibility that the two of them would ever be able to dance like this together, that Monty would never have let Winston fall in love with him. In fact, he tells Winston to live with the living. It’s the only thing Monty ever did right.

What’s even better is that Winston ends up falling for Alex, next. In fact in one scene he’s telling everyone that Alex is the first boy he loved and yet a minute later he’s back to seeking revenge for Monty because he loved him. Which is it Winston? And doesn’t that remind you of Clay?

I don’t feel sorry for Winston and I’m not his fan. He spent the entire season being a rape apologist and even went as far as befriending Tyler to get more information about Monty. That’s despicable. He doesn’t get a gold star for not telling the police the truth because he only didn’t do it because he “loved” Alex.

But unlike Clay who supports his friends and does this out of the good of his heart, Winston only did it to seek revenge. And I truly don’t think he cared about anyone.

For all I care Winston can go rot with Bryce and Monty.

Diego Torres

I don’t have much to say about Diego other than I wasn’t a fan.

The only redeemable thing about him was that he supported Charlie and Alex and wasn’t a homophobic asshole. However, being a decent human being in one aspect of life doesn’t make him worthy of anything. Especially when we spent most of the season being a rape apologist and tormenting Clay who was already in a fragile state.

Also, I absolutely hated his final scene with Jess when they were getting the results of their HIV test. How on earth could this dumbass kid ask Jess out after she just lost the love of her life to AIDS and they’ve just been HIV tested. How selfish and stupid can he be?

I will say that he did not deserve to be racially profiled during the fight scene between him and Justin. And I’m glad that Justin stood up for him and Diego in turn stood up for Justin during the fight with the police. Again, though, that doesn’t excuse the rest of his actions this season.

Perhaps if he would have admitted his wrong doings and apologized to Clay I could have gotten behind him but he didn’t and therefor he can rot with the rest of them.

---

While I have a lot more to say about these characters and this season I think I’m going to have to end it here. Perhaps, I’ll end up writing another post or review for this show but we’ll see. As I’ve said before there’s so much to unpack about this show that it’s hard to analyze everything.

You can stream the final season of 13 Reasons Why on Netflix.

What did you think of the characters this season? Do you think Justin deserved to die? Were you happy with the outcomes? Let me know in the comments below or by tweeting me @3RsBlog.

#13 reasons why #13rw #13 reasons why season 4 #rants #rant #clay jenson #justin foley #jessica davis #tyler down #Alex Standall #zach demspy #charlie st. george #diego torres #winston #ani achola

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macattackp · 4 years

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One of the swirling questions brought up from this therapy that scares me the most is who am I.... there are days it goes deep enough to be what am I?

When I was a kid I was eager and full of life. I didn’t always fit in but I would laugh it off. I wanted to know everyone and everything. The world was full of amazing things and I wanted to understand it. I wanted to know peoples’ stories. Why they felt what they did. I wanted to be there for them and let them know they had a place...

Then I got dragged into hell and left to rot... for 6 years straight... day in and day out. I don’t know how I survived. I don’t know why I survived. Many others didn’t. Why should I live on when so many got destroyed? What right do I have to go on when so many far brighter lights got snuffed out? Why would I get a second chance when so many who stayed true to themselves lost theirs?

But I lived... by some miracle I survived, and got taken into a new world. A world full of people who were treated like people not numbers. A world full of bright lights that could see hope, and the good in other people. People who would be taken aback at the mere thought that anyone could cause harm to another on purpose.

I say I lived... but the truth was something inside me had died. I saw those bright lights. Those clean souls. That pure innocence and naivety... and it made me realize how filthy I had become. It let me see the world I could never return to. I saw them like one sees people on the other side of a cliff. They couldn’t see the cliff themselves and thought I stood their among them. They couldn’t see how filthy I was... how covered in blood and scars I had become....

I was scared.... I was scared that if I got close, I would taint them like I was tainted. I was scared that if people got to see me for who I was they could never go back to that pure naive innocence. And I was scared that I had no place there anyways....

So I had made a choice.... I realized I should have died during those 6 years. I realized it was only by some dumb luck that I had lived this long. Even if I escaped my attackers, I would probably die due to the injuries I had sustained. I had forced my body past its limits. That’s a door that will never shut again once opened. It wouldn’t be long until I broke myself for good and fell apart.

Because of this I knew my place in the world.... For whatever years I had left, I wanted to keep others from becoming me. I wanted to protect them from what I went through even if it cost me. I wanted them to live and enjoy their lives for as long as they could. And then when they were happy and stronger, I could fade away from their lives like a forgotten dream, and die in peace without anyone worrying as I was never meant to still be there anyways.

But then something unexpected happened. I kept living.... Life went on... It was harder than it had been before and my body didn’t work like it used to, but it never gave out. What’s more, even though I should have been fine with it... even though I should have accepted this world had no place for me anymore... that what I wanted didn’t matter, as I had no place left in this world.... I found I wanted things.... I wanted love... I wanted a sense of belonging... I wanted someone to care about me like I cared for them.... I wanted to not hurt... I wanted a lifestyle that was sustainable....

As the years continued I started to form a new sense of self... I still had no place in this world, but I could relate to those who hurt like I hurt... even if they never seemed to fully relate to me the same way. I realized I would have to survive and live in this world... but I didn’t know how. It had been so long since I’d let myself dream. It had been so long since I had considered having a future... Just being alive was more than I deserved! So I decided as long as I could live a quiet life in a small town, earn more than I spent, get married, raise a family, just a simple life like that... I would be happy. I didn’t need anything massive. I already had been given more than I was worth... but then even the mundane seemed so out of reach for me no matter how hard I tried... it made me wonder if maybe I really did have no place in this world, but that this world had no way to end me either...

Then I got backed into a wall. My body finally gave out. After near 20 years of pushing myself past my limits, ignoring my screaming pain, and pushing through things because no one cared anyways as long as the results came in.... my body finally broke.... It had been giving out for years... people called me lazy, unmotivated, not trying hard enough... but the truth was my body wasn’t working like it should. I pushed and pushed. I grinned and laughed while at work then locked myself in my room and screamed while I was at home. I didn’t know what I was living for... what was the point of surviving if it was just to endure more and more while people got angrier and angrier at you? No one cared if I lived or died. If I could bring forward results then maybe they would care... but I couldn’t. I was worthless. I was useless. I had no place in this world...

and then as my body broke so did everything else. I was forced to see doctors and realized I had numerous issues. That I would never be able to walk or carry heavy items like I could before again. That I could never bring the results my value was being judged on because I was dealing with more pain than most people would experience. That my best days were near hospital visits for them...

I had, for a brief moment allowed myself to hope. Allowed myself to try and live on.... and the very world rejected me. Everything I tried was blocked off. For years I fought only to have things pop out of nowhere knocking me down. Then I realized that I was fighting an uphill battle all along while others were walking on the road?!?! The world was dark. The tunnel was collapsing. Every last glimmer of light I had been aiming for started getting blocked out....

It got to the point where I finally gave up on my 20 year fear of counselors and sought help. It wasn’t that I feared dying.... I couldn’t die no matter what I tried... no matter what anyone tried... death rejected me as much as this world did... I was left as a forgotten soul. I had no where to go, but no one would take me out either.... I couldn’t leave this world and I couldn’t stay either... I was desperate just to find some glimmer of hope in it all...

After initial counseling we realized, much like any doctor I’ve seen over the last 2 and a half years, things were far more serious than we had expected...After their suggestion, a week of severe disassociation, and a few nervous breakdowns, I ended up going into PTSD therapy.... I knew about the trauma of the 6 years of my childhood.... but it had numbed me to all the other traumatic things I went through afterwards..... It’s really been a lousy life in a lot of ways. Honestly it’s a bit encouraging to hear a professional remark that it’s not normal to have so many things go horribly wrong in one life... But it’s the only life I’ve known... it’s the only one I’ve got....

But now my world is being warped on me... I’m being told that people can care about me... that I have the right to be a burden to others... that it’s okay to make mistakes... that I’m allowed to be happy in life.... things that my mind just can’t comprehend...

Why? Why should I be allowed to have a life? I’m not a good person. I’m not a strong person. I’m not a person who has anything of value to bring to this world. I’m not a person anyone wants to be around. I’m easily forgotten. I am interesting up front but people quickly get tired of me. I’m haunted by nightmares and flashbacks. I hear the screams of those I couldn’t save. I feel their hands clench around my neck. I have SO MANY issues! I have so many scars. Even talking about my past in turn hurts those who listen. It’s a naivety you can’t get back once you lose it!

And how? How am I supposed to live??? I can’t say what is on my mind. I can’t be honest about my feelings. I’m terrified of hurting others or being misunderstood. No matter how many times I tell myself to scream for help, as soon as someone talks to me I have my same fake smile and my same faked cheery energetic persona. People aren’t like me! No one fights to see past the mask! No one doubts what they see up front! People just take what you say at face value and walk by! No one stops to see if you’re really okay! No one cares that much! As long as you look fine and act fine no one will question anything else no matter what they know you’re going through... and I can’t tell them the truth. I’ve tried. I’ve tried I’ve tried I’ve tried I”ve tried I’ve TRIED! AND IT WON’T COME OUT! “Oh I’m fine!” “Taking things a day at a time!” “Hey how are you doing??” My body rejects it. My body pushes the focus back onto them all the time like it is a self defense reaction. I can’t break it! I fight it so much and it won’t break! And no one stops to call me out on my bluff. They just look and go “Wow. I guess he’s fine then!” and go on!

What life is there for someone like me? What life is there for someone who’s seen horrors and lived? What life is there for someone who had no right to survive the things he did? I don’t get it! I don’t get why I kept going. I don’t get why I’ve been kept alive through so much! Do you know how many times I’ve been “killed” now??? Do you know how many things SHOULD have ended my life? The shootings, the stabbings, the beatings, the vehicles running into me, the head injuries, the poisons, the sicknesses, the electrocutions, everything?? And yet here I am! Why?? Why am I kept around?? No one especially wants me around. I can’t bring much to this world. I work hard and give my best but the truth is I’m effectively a fortune cookie level of encouragement. I can’t stand seeing people hurt like I do so I try to help, but what can I do aside from just some generic wisdom and telling them I believe in them? That’s so simple anyone can do it! I’m not rich to solve their problems. I’m not smart to solve their problems. I have no major talents or skills. I’m socially awkward as all get out!

I just don’t get it. I’m so frustrated and confused. My heart and brain keep swirling around in circles between what I want and what I feel I deserve. It’s so frustrating. It’s so overwhelmingly frustrating.

I want to see the world through new eyes. I want to see hope... and purpose... I... I want to believe there’s someone out there... even just one person... who is able to see me for who I am... and still care about me.... I want to be there for them, to support them, to give them everything I can, to love them with every fiber of my being... but the truth is, they could probably find a guy who takes them for granted who is able to more effectively care for them than the entirety of my whole self sacrificing best....

Ugh! I just don’t know. I can’t figure it out. It’s been 20 years since I’ve felt confident and like I had a place in this world. Yeesh, back then I was so cocky that if there wasn’t a place in this world for me I’d make one.... Do you know how pathetic it feels to be almost thirty and envy your grade 1 self??? But I don’t know what I’m aiming for....

I don’t know who I am... I don’t know what I am.... I feel like a glitch in the system. Something that was unexpected and never meant to happen, and as such there are no systems in place to look out for or deal for it... I feel like everything I was has been stripped away from me. I’m tired... I’m so very tired... But I’m still not dead.... so in the end, the only thing I can do is pick up my broken limbs and keep moving forward in the hopes that one day this will all make sense to me. Honestly there are days I wish I could just finally break so I could despair and get this over with... but here I am... it hurts... and I don’t know how I’m walking anymore.... but... I have no other choice... one more step...

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lim-lifeinmotion · 5 years

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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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nightmarecatart · 5 years

Text

Forevermore (Preview)

This is a project I have been working on for NaNoWriMo (2018), not entirely sure where I’m going with it but I have completed the first 50,000 words. Current title for this story is Forevermore, however it may change as the story develops. Feedback appreciated.

www.nightmarecat.wordpress.com

Dreams. I have dreams that break reality. As a child I believed in fairies. It wasn’t a normal childhood fantasy, they haunted me to the point my parents figured I needed help, nothing worked. As an adult, it’s hard to say you don’t believe in something, when there’s a constant vision of them every day. The fairies aren’t the tiny things people are led to believe, instead they looked like humans with the exception of the unique brilliant design of wings on their backs. Everyone would turn saying, “Blair’s a strange girl.” Only my grandmother would believe me after she found me out in the woodlands when I was a child. I had been following the little lights that were dancing around me. From that day I was forbidden from going in the woods and I hardly ever saw granny again.

It’s because of Granny Malina I was now heading back to my home village in the North of Scotland. My parents, god rest their souls, decided after a heated argument when I was 7, I shouldn’t really see her. She is my fathers’ mother but from what I recall of her, unlike my dad, she has a strong belief of otherworldly things. Pretty sure, if there was a way to become a fairy, Malina would take it in a heartbeat. Her little cottage was always decorated like a fairy princess palace. It’s been 18 years since that whole turn of events. On my 25thbirthday a few weeks ago, like the place was calling me back again, it was discovered granny had terminal cancer.

Happy Birthday, Blair and by the way the only person who did not think you are crazy or have some sort of mental illness is dying. The whole family although small figured it would be better if we could all come together and give her a family orientated final few weeks, heaven knows with how disjointed the family is she needed it.

“For Heavens sake learn how to bloody drive!” I screamed at the guy who had just cut me off on the motorway. My aunt Mysie, who had been looking after me for the past 12 years in the North of England, she nearly had a heart attack when she discovered I wanted to learn how to drive. Probably a good reason, with my red hair the stereotypical anger had to come out somewhere. Turns out I’m a bitch for road rage. My personality might have been one reason. The other reason was I believe she still thought there might be a trigger for overwhelming trauma there.

I mirrored the sign the guy in front of my had just given me as I overtook him again. Ah the human race despite the fact it is throwing it down with rain we still stop to roll down windows and give rude hand gestures.

“It was your fault moron!” I grumbled slapping the steering wheel, I should just be thankful I didn’t crash, my insurance was already at a maximum I could afford after accidentally knocking over my ex-best friend’s scooter when I found out she had been sleeping with the now ex-boyfriend… Like I said road rage, that and they both deserved it.

I’m seeing this get away as a holiday. Maybe a mind opener and something will hit me. Though I have a feeling I need to close my mind. Six psychiatrists later and the fairies still haunt me. In childhood it was put down to an over active imagination and I’ll grow out of it. As soon as I hit sixteen that’s when they started throwing about diagnosis’s like psychosis and schizophrenia. Deep down inside of me I know I’m mentally ok, although according to a few psychiatrists me thinking I don’t have a problem is a sign I have a problem, I tested out a theory with one of them by suggesting that I did have a mental health issue and I was discharged. Turns out, insanity can be classed as sanity these days. All of them recently agreed though I need to talk about what happened at my parent’s death. That like the police report was a case closed matter. And that’s how I’ll remain on it. I am not expecting this holiday to suddenly hit me with some life altering information. Then I’ll get home and write a best seller and me and J.K Rowling will be laughing it up over Cosmo’s or whatever those British people drink, though in my world give me a pint any day.

The last time I had breached my home village boundary was for the funeral of my parents. Not that there was much left of the bodies… the explosion took care of that. This time it looks like I’ll be leaving after another funeral. I did hope there would be some miracle cure, but I had enough therapy running through me that I knew the reality of things.

Instead of taking one journey I had decided, it would be better for mine and everyone’s lives if I had a stop over in Edinburgh. That way I wouldn’t be too tired from driving and I’d have a day to acclimatise to the Scottish environment again. Also, my family would have chance to get together, gossip and figure out how they were going to keep me from my grandmother and how to keep me hidden the rest of my life. I remember going to Edinburgh as a child before getting moved to England to live with my mother’s sister. Driving through it now, the buildings seem less daunting and scary and the crowds less anxiety provoking. On the other hand, everything in this world as a child was terrifying to me.

From Newcastle to Inverness it, according to Google Maps anyway, it would take five hours to get there. I figured although I am desperate to see Malina again I needed time to sort myself out. And I doubted I could sit in my car for five hours without ending up submitting to the temptations of blaring out Chris Rea’s “Road to Hell,” If it appeared on my playlist. I pulled into the village near Queensferry. I chose the place I was stopping at, at random and due to the fact, it was close to the bridge I needed to cross in the morning. I shivered at the forest I had passed to get here, damning myself for not doing my research properly. It was bad enough I was going back to a place with a large wood on its doorstep but stopping my first night in a place I didn’t know which also involved a large mass of trees this was asking for trouble.

Dragging my bag out of the car I got the feeling it was a typical village. Everyone knew each other and from the glances the place I was staying at was one of those inns that was there to more say they had one rather than for tourists. The musky smelling reception even had one of those bells, which I took pleasure in ringing profusely, on the ancient wooden desk.

“Can I help?” A bored voice sounded before an old lady appeared from a back room.

“I booked a room?” I had to question it considering I reserved it online and this place looked as if it hadn’t even seen dial up never mind WiFi. She smiled before shocking me and pulling out a Microsoft Surface tablet. Is it wrong to now expect my room to have a jacuzzi bath and a 40-inch TV with Netflix?

“What’s your name lassie?”

I sighed before giving my name, the familiarity of the Scottish accent made me feel warm inside, finally I felt home for the first time in ages.

“Room 4. It’s just up the stairs.”

No surprise, the room didn’t have a 40-inch tv. I think I am just thankful for the basic bath and TV though. I am just praying this place has hot water. I needed a soak. I didn’t exactly leave Mysie on good terms. She was adamant I wasn’t leaving. To which my reply was something along the lines of, I’m 25 and I can take care of myself. Thinking back at it probably not the right thing to say as that now leaves me wondering if I have a home to go back too. She’ll forgive me. Mysie had a memory of a goldfish, in my teenage years I constantly got away with sneaking out and not doing homework. She’d give me a warning and then give the same telling off the next time I did it.

Checking my phone, I noticed Mysie had tried calling fifteen times, the joys of putting my mobile on silent. Switching the volume back on but before I could even reach the zipper on my bag Pink’s Leave Me Alone (I’m Lonely) sounded. I forgot I put that as Mysie’s ring tone before I left, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the relevance now. Nonetheless, I answered it figuring one funeral this year was enough. Sympathy went to Mysie, looking after any teenager or young adult never mind me was enough but she also had anxiety issues, close to being on edge of a panic attack most of the time. I think her memory issues has something to do with the amount of times she disassociates.

“I’m still alive Mysie and no need to call the police on missing person just yet.” Real story, I’ve actually been a missing person five times since moving in with her, each time I’ve shown up with in ten hours of reporting.

“Where are you?” The shrill Newcastle voice came down on me.

“Scotland.”

“You’re visiting your grandmother.” She said not asked.

“No. I’m going to look for Nessie.” I replied sarcastically.

“Blair.” Mysie warned.

“I’ll keep you updated, but I have to do this.” I argued, I heard her huff on the other end, she knew especially with me being this far on the journey she couldn’t argue.

“I know you do. Just whatever happens remember I’m here for you.”

“I know you are.”

“Just keep in contact Blair and stay well.”

Falling back on the bed I found out the mattress isn’t going to be brilliant to sleep on. Talking with Mysie, I now felt guilty for leaving but I had to remember granny. She needed me now, even if she hadn’t seen me in about a decade.

After a day in Edinburgh, mostly shopping, I was in dire need of that bath and then bed. Despite the water didn’t get hotter than lukewarm and the bed was definition of uncomfortable, I felt beat. A brass band could march through and either they wouldn’t wake me up or I’d wake up screaming at them where they could shove each of their instruments and even how they could do it.

“Blair.” The female voice sang softly, it was familiar but still left me confused on if I was dreaming or this was real. I remember falling to sleep... I stood in a forest, surrounded by trees and darkness, I didn’t have chance to process my situation as a light suddenly appeared in the distance.

“Blair.” The musical voice came from the luminous presence.

“Hello?” I walked closer.

“Hello.” A curly red-haired woman smiled. She sat on the floor in a floaty green dress, with turquoise wings, patterned almost like a butterfly’s sticking out of her back. I tried to hide the horror. She was the woman who visited me in my dreams in childhood. However, back then I wouldn’t have recognised the similarities. Now I was older, it hit me. The woman looked like me. Only I didn’t have glitter strands running through my hair or obviously have wings.

“Who are you?” I shook, trying to remember what I called her as a child. I never asked her for her name. She was a fairy that’s all my childhood mind could process at the time. Stranger danger doesn’t apply to fairies or Santa.

“I was called Breena.”

“Was?” Oh god, don’t tell me I now see ghosts.

“It’s a long story. You’ll get to know some day.” Breena said still smirking.

“What do you mean?”

“Your grandmother is dying.” She stated, it wasn’t a question.

“How did you know?”

“Things are going to change for you, Blair.”

“You’re not answering any of my questions!” My temper was really getting the best of me, this Breena may look like me but obviously either knew too well or didn’t know at all how to really piss me off.

“I know everything you know. We are linked but only temporarily. There will come a time where I will disappear, and you will know everything I know.”

“But you’re not real.” I’m not sure if that’s me talking or the hundreds of therapists. Breena laughed before replying.

“As I said. Things are going to change.”

Wet. Something was licking my face. What? I doubted the old lady of the inn could handle a dog. And if she had cats I would know. I’d have been sneezing and in hives as soon as I walked through that door. I opened my eyes to find a dog hovering over me. Not just that but I was outside. In a forest.

“Not again.” I groaned, sitting up shoving my hair out of my face. Reason I hate places with forests. This happens. I’d go to sleep at night and wake up in the sunrise hours in some sort of woods.

“Toby what ye found!” A male voice shouted at the slobbering Labrador. “Aren’t ye cold lassie?” An old man appeared dressed in thick layers, I looked down realising I was only in pyjamas. Cursing in my head? Yes, I was.

“I’m fine. Best be getting back.” I tried to put on a Newcastle accent and laugh about it. Hopefully, he’ll come to the conclusion I’m some air-headed tourist on a hen-do or something what’s gone wrong.

“Are ye sure you’re ok?” He said as him and Toby followed me.

“I’m fine. It’s just a prank gone wrong.” Now thinking of it, the old lady at the inn might get some gossip out of this one. My muddy feet trudged back, I had gone deep into the forest, in the end Eric the owner of Toby walked me to the edge. Thankfully he promised not to say a word. I’m pretty sure though he’ll be back to tell his wife, Shona, everything and she’ll be on the next bus into town to tell all of her hair friends, turns out every Friday she has her hair done. Eric talked a lot on this walk. I think I would have preferred the company of the loopy Toby who ran into every mud puddle he could find, at least my head wouldn’t have been pounding as much and I’d have space to think.

Sneaking in through the front door was an epic fail. I could get away with it with Mysie and my parents but when the old lady was sat by the desk which was by the door, it’s sort of hard to get by. She looked up and down at my mud splattered nightwear and her mouth opened in shock. I didn’t justify it with any lie or excuse. Walking by, smiling at her like nothing had happened. She can make up her own story. Once I get cleaned up and changed, I’ll be leaving anyway.

Paying the lady of the inn I left, leaving a larger tip than I wanted, knowing she had to clean up the muddy footprints. I prayed and made a mental note that I was never returning to that village again. They’d have to kill me and drag my body back there, even then I’ll be dead but screaming I don’t wanna go because trust me I am not going to give up that easily.

Back in my car I was safe, I was awake, and I could finally get to thinking. It had been years since I had seen Breena. Before she used to tell me stories of her world, she was apparently a princess and her husband was a knight. As a child it was believable, but now? Fairy princesses don’t exist. If she was human, I’d have taken her words as a warning however, this figure had practically haunted my childhood is possibly the reason numerous times I have woken up in woodlands and the reason my sanity has been continuously questioned. I’m sorry but nope not believing in it. It was a dream and I am just sleepwalking again due to stress of my granny dying.

It is raining again as I hit the twenty-mile mark to Inverness. Something I’d need to get used to over the next few weeks. Though there was the slight problem that I didn’t exactly know where I’d be stopping over the next few weeks or however long I needed to stay. I mean I wanted to stay as long as granny lived but there was no way I could afford a hotel or paying for somewhere to stay. I hoped I could stay on the sofa in my grandmother’s house although it would be something that my family would criticise, financial help hadn’t really come from that side. I’d battled my way through life getting a part time job as soon as I hit sixteen. Mysie battled with enough demons to be taking care of me and listening to me wondering where my next outfit was coming from.

The roads were empty, sort of surprising. On the road as a child, my dad would constantly joke about how people queued up to see Loch Ness and the beauty of Inverness. I say joke… to be honest maybe he wasn’t joking. The place is beautiful. The constant scenery of Loch’s and greenery. If you get past the grey skies and fog, I was now facing. It wasn’t long before I hit the sign of my home village. Nerves started to heighten, the village was surrounded by forestry. One of the reasons I was glad to move away from here was because of that fact. It was harder to find me in a larger forest I spent a huge amount of my childhood being lost in it. I was back here for a reason. In the beginning I didn’t want to leave, the call back here seemed to become quieter as years went on.

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seattleboundwritergrl · 7 years

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Greatest Expectations (Processing this whole motherhood thing...) Part I

As of my writing this (as in this very sentence), my baby, Apollo Marcel, is ten and a half weeks old. Who knows how old he will be when I finish. I expected to be able to write this weeks ago--well, I did and I didn’t. But I will get to that, this whole post is going to be about expectations. I will start by saying, though that I don’t know how long to expect it will take me to write this. I’m typing in the dark as he is asleep but sort of stirring in the bassinet next to the bed. It was a rough night, an overtired night for everyone, and of course I should be sleeping too, but I can’t because my mind is whirring. I am typing slowly because it’s actually been awhile since I’ve used a computer rather than my phone and I’ve even been using voice to text on that more often than not. It feels like I’m actually conversing then, with the people I am messaging most which is mainly my friends with children, especially those in the thick of this newborn phase as well. Also it means I am talking around Apollo which is important. I suppose it is good for him even when I am fretting or venting to these friends. But anyway, I digress...

Expectations. Well, my expectations were fucked from the beginning. When I started trying to get pregnant, even though I was... shit, math, dates... 35? 36? and had been on the pill since a month before my 18th birthday (that I remember clearly), I thought I would get pregnant quickly. In fact I had something like a six month window where I felt like things would work out for my life--so I could teach the class I needed to teach to make maternity leave money and allotting enough time before I expected to have a book out (ha, that’s a whole other set of expectations that got skewed.) I didn’t get pregnant in those six months. In fact, it would take a year beyond those six months and I would get pregnant right before we planned to start fertility treatments in earnest (and I mean besides the acupuncture, the diets, the herbs, the ATMAT massage, etc etc). It was a whole lot of a heartache--a still unwritten essay’s worth of heartache--not to mention really triggering as a sexual abuse survivor. Cue a whole lot of feelings about my body being broken. But the month I got pregnant, I feel like despite month after month of false hope, I knew, I really knew. I knew I was pregnant. I knew the time was perfect. I also knew I was having a boy, even though I’d always wanted a girl. All the bullshit I’d found really hard to swallow on my darkest days over that year and a half of trying--that it will happen when it is meant to, turned out to be true. I’d changed jobs at work and a had a really supportive boss. I’d accrued a lot more PTO. Most important of all, I’d been in therapy for a good stretch of time.

Therapy helped me immensely with my perfectionism, my need to control things, my self-doubt. I worked through the things that caused that, the things I knew would hinder me as a parent. Not all the things, I’m sure. As someone who has been in therapy since she was a teenager, it seems there are always More Things. I thought, because of this, I had some fairly reasonable expectations about how all of this would go and how I would react. I thought, in fact, that I’d done a pretty good job of not having expectations, of being ready to go with the flow. And I do want to give myself credit and say that I did a pretty good job--a way better job than I would have a year or a year-and-a-half earlier--but of course it is impossible (at least for me) to have zero expectations and be totally zen especially about something as huge about bringing a child into the world. So I did my best, but I still had expectations, hopes that weren’t met and I’m still processing them.

Expectation number 1: That my baby would be born into a world where we’d elected the first female president of the United States not one where the piece of garbage running at the helm is a completely unqualified old white man who is a sexual assault criminal and somehow cannot seem to utter the words NAZIS ARE BAD. The election took place the day before we saw our baby’s heart beating for the first time. It was equal parts hopeful and terrifying, especially for someone who put off having kids for so long because she was afraid of bringing one into a dystopian hellscape. Because of the Trump presidency, the weird pregnancy dreams that I was looking forward to (because I am a weirdo who loves having weird dreams) were all nightmares. Like constantly. And I am a white woman living in Seattle. I can’t imagine how pregnant people of color felt during this time. I also expected that I would be able to do more to resist during my pregnancy and maternity leave than I have. I have to remember that this is a long fight and I will be a more active part of it when I have the physical and mental capacity and right now I am focused on growing a white male who will not be a garbage human.

The birth itself also did not go as I’d hoped. I have a NICU nurse for a mother and a Labor and Delivery nurse cousin, so I felt I had a pretty real grasp on how things could go. I would aim for a natural childbirth, but accept that I would have the baby however I needed to in order to assure that he and I were healthy. That’s all that mattered at the end of the day. So I practiced breathing and meditation. I went to childbirth classes and Scott and I practiced the techniques we learned there and through the hypnobirthing resources I’d gathered. I saw the nurse midwives at my practice and went to Centering Pregnancy for my prenatal care. I got a doula, a woman with the best energy I’d ever felt, who I knew would provide the calm support we needed. I spoke honestly with her about my abuse history. I worked on those fears with my therapist. I will say that the one thing I am so proud of, and my doula, Jessica, emphasized how proud I should be, is that I chose to get the epidural when I knew I needed it. Was I as dilated as I thought I would be? No. Did I use the tub as much as I thought? Also no. Did I get to eat the food I’d ordered. Quite unfortunately no. But there came a point where I recognized very quickly that the pain was triggering. That I was screaming NO at my contractions, and my No, obviously was not going to be respected. That soon I would freeze. I would check out and disassociate. That was the one thing I did not want--to disassociate during my son’s birth. So I said, “Platypus Pancakes,” which was my epidural safe word(s). And I felt good about it and my midwife, who had run my Centering group and also knew my history and worked so carefully with me, laughed and told me that that fact that was my code made him love me even more.

However, despite this moment of pride, despite the amazing support of my team and my partner, my birth was still traumatic. Apollo was fine--he was chill throughout the whole thing (well, after breaking the amniotic sac before I had contractions and kickstarting the whole process). There was not a blip on the monitor and for that of course I am grateful, but he was in a slightly bad position (which I suspected because of the pelvic pain I’d had through much of pregnancy) and he was a much bigger baby than anyone expected. Seven or seven and a half pounds, the midwives kept guessing, which seemed right. But ultimately he was 8 pounds 9 ounces. For these reasons, I could not get him out after 5 hours of pushing and was told I needed a cesarean. That 5 hours of pushing had done a number on me. I had horrible back pain, like so bad I was scared I would never be okay and scared I wouldn’t be able to be still on the operating table. It was not helpful that suddenly we were in medical mode. I couldn’t process anything. I couldn’t have another ice chip even though I was dehydrated as fuck. I was told by the emotionally tone deaf anesthesiologist that if my back pain wasn’t managed by the additional epidural or whatever it was they were doing, that they would just put me out. The idea that I would be unconscious for my son’s birth was beyond scary. Unsurprisingly, my blood pressure on the table was extraordinarily high. I wasn’t aware of it--dissociation was happening at that point for sure--but my doula would tell me later that it scared her. That’s why she was trying to get me to breathe.

The thing that brought me back in the OR was the doctor’s pronouncement that my son had a big head. I may have even laughed. Of course he did. The size of the male Kuehnert noggin is pretty legendary. But I was still out of sorts--able to watch my baby from across the room as the rubbed him down, able to hear his cries, able to yearn to have him on me right that second as I’d hoped for all along--but definitely not physically or mentally where I expected to be, where I wanted to be. And that has continued to plague me through these past ten weeks.

I think I’ll continue this in another post though because it has gotten long. He allowed me to write most of it in one sitting and is now down for another nap, but this seems a natural stopping point, so... To Be Continued When I Am Able

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