Every time I get to a place where I'm like "maybe I don't have cptsd maybe I'm just a fundamentally evil ungrateful person" I go to read posts on here made by other people with cptsd and its like someone has transcribed my inner monologue with perfect clarity and I'm like oh yeah guess what I am describing is what's known as a symptom

I fell asleep as soon as I got home and didn’t get to write about Kizuna. xP So belatedly, here are my thoughts.

Warning: Spoilers for Digimon: Kizuna Last Evolution

So to start with, some context: I had a bad day at work. Not gonna go into details, but it was the sort of thing to put you out of the mood for seeing a movie, even one that’s a childhood treasure. I almost didn’t go.

In addition, because of what happened at work, I had to stay an extra hour, which meant I missed the first 25 minutes of the movie. I’m not sure how much story I actually missed - probably there was 10 min or so of trailers - but it’s possible I missed some framing. Usually the cute, fun, get-to-know-the-character moments happen in those beginning scenes, and I didn’t get to see those. When I walked in, Taichi and Yamato were having a meal together and talking about how their lives were all changing, but the Digimon stayed the same. So that’s where I’m starting from.

One more thing - I haven’t read the Kizuna novel. It sounds like if you did, you already know everything that happens. (Possibly reading the novel is more interesting than seeing the movie.) Sorry if I’m surprised by things y’all already knew!

For those who don’t like reading my long-winded posts:

Kizuna is what I would have expected from a Digimon sequel before Tri came out. That is, it’s predictable.

The art is quite good, except when it’s not.

There’s not enough of characters who aren’t named Taichi or Yamato.

Yamato is extremely COOL.

Koushirou has some good moments.

Tri is actually still canon, which I didn’t know - Meiko appears briefly in Kizuna.

It was fun to see the 02 kids, but they didn’t do anything special, although they did more than some Adventure kids.

It ends with the partner Digimon disappearing ‘forever,’ but also with Taichi putting in I think his thesis in politics specifically between the human world and the digital world. So everything seems geared to reach the 02 ending, where we know they were with their partners. So I guess at least we can headcanon that they find a way to reunite :/

OK so.

The art is really nice in this movie. Very smooth, very anime movie-like. I preferred Uki Atsuya’s designs and it did feel a little weird to go back to a more wide-eyed, innocent style now that the kids are older, but it was so lovely that I didn’t mind. Tri really lacked smoothness in the animation, so this was refreshing.

There are some times where the animations falters or some error happens - at least twice I noticed characters’ mouths moving without them saying anything, and there’s a scene where Taichi gets blown back by Eosmon’s attack and when he sits up his, um, backside is quite pronounced, like on-the-cover-of-Playboy-pronounced x’D Who knew Taichi was so thicc?

I liked in the beginning when they fly through cyberspace to take on Eosmon and it’s just like the cyberspace in Our War Game and Diablomon Strikes Back. The beginning was a bit promising. Omegamon is called on to help but his evolution breaks down, and fortunately Menoa knows all about why. There were some strong emotional moments when Taichi seizes the chance to help with a Digimon situation, and even stronger when they find out their partner Digimon are going to leave when they become adults and commit to a path (since apparently becoming an adult means you no longer have the endless possibilities of childhood). Digivolving speeds up the process.

Taichi and Yamato react very strongly. Other Chosen don’t seem in danger yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Takeru breathes a sigh of relief when he checks his digivice and realizes there’s no countdown, but Yamato’s and Taichi’s digivices are glowing with a countdown clock. Yamato screams and runs off to do anything he can to stop this. Taichi tries to deny it, but then Gennai appears in his apartment (which I think he cannot afford because we never see him turn on the lights :P) and tells him it’s all true and there’s nothing we can do about it. Then it’s bye-bye Gennai.

Oh, but before Gennai shows up Taichi is showing Agumon his apartment, and Agumon immediately finds his porn stash. I mean, that’s what you get for having magazines and DVDs instead of just using the Internet, Taichi, you moron. Teehee.

So Menoa and Imura convince the Adventure kids to “help” them, saying they’re trying to save the Chosen’s trapped consciousness. Yamato immediately figured out something’s not right, but pegs Imura as the likely suspect. However, he’s suspicious of Menoa too. Remember in Tri, when he sneaks after Nishijima and Himkawa, and gets them to talk? This is that only More. He lurks in stairwells, he goes without sleep, he researches online databases, he gets the 02 kids looking up details on Menoa, he follows Imura to some secret hideout covered in the typical secret agent decor of Papers Pinned To Walls With Illegible Writing.

As fun as it is to watch Yamato be all Men In Black, shouldn’t it... be... Ken? X’D Or are there many secret agents in space?

When Imura confronts Yamato, Hikari and Takeru have been taken prisoner. Somehow. They’re tied to chairs and Koushirou gets sent a message from Hikari’s phone saying in many different languages “Which one will be next?” So Taichi and Yamato hurry to the scene. At this point, Mimi has already had her consciousness abducted, and we now find out Jou’s KO’d too off screen.

Yamato sees Imura sitting on the stairs holding a gun. He lifts the gun and says “Takeru is already -” and I as like OMG THEY KILLED TAKERU!? but the gun is just... for show x’D Takeru has had his consciousness trapped. So has Hikari. Yamato makes good with Imura and they realize they need to go after Menoa, that she’s the one behind it all. Uh, too late though, because Menoa’s already moved against Koushirou, I think because she wants his information on Chosen Children around the world, and traps his consciousness as well. But not before Koushirou is able to track the location of Eosmon and leave the coordinates in a message for Taichi.

I don’t like Menoa. First of all, she’s a foreigner who likes to insert random English words where they’re not needed, and her accent is one of the worst I’ve ever heard x’D If you’re gonna cast someone who can’t speak a language as a speaker of that language, how about not have them actually speak it? But also, she’s not interesting. She had a Digimon partner - surprise! - who was a butterfly - surprise! - and who disappeared when she entered the path to adulthood - surprise! - and who she’s been grieving for ever since, so her big master plan is to somehow trap the consciousness of all Chosen Children around the world in another dimension where they can live inside their memories and never have to grow up. (The Digimon too.) She refers to it as her “Neverland.” None of this interests me. Yawn.

She is able to trap all the Adventure kids except Taichi, Yamato, and Sora. But don’t get excited about Sora not being trapped - Sora has decided not to fight anymore, and she sticks her decision the whole movie long. Sora is almost completely absent.

So now almost all the Adventure Chosen have been abducted and most of them didn’t even get to do anything, unless they were all being super awesome in those first ten-fifteen minutes that I missed. The 02 kids do not get trapped and when Eosmon copies start raining down around the world, they run around trying to stop them. Daisuke is adorable. Pretty much just what you’d expect. Iori is Iori. Miyako is her exuberant self. Ken is forgettable X’D I’m so sorry, Ken. Someone give him a hairstyle. My problem with the 02 kids is because, as much as it sucked that they never turned up after their inauspicious start in Tri, having them around isn’t really improving anything. Nostalgia, sure. But they’re too busy doing research and fighting to have those nice character moments we’d like to see. They do the shonen anime thing of Stating the Obvious and Promising to Unite As One and that’s it for their dialogue. They��re polite and take turns letting each other say the predictable line. At least we know Stingmon still calls his partner “Ken-chan.” <3

Taichi and Yamato use Koushirou’s coordinates to go after Menoa in her world. But not before Yamato reacts with irrational strength when Taichi suggests they save their trapped friends. Because saving them means digivolving, which means the process of losing their partners forever will speed up. “Taichi!! Are you okay with that??” Taichi’s like, “Um... no, but people are trapped and need to be rescued.” And Yamato’s like “Oh right.”

So they go and are attacked by Adventure-age versions of their trapped friends and also random Digimon. There’s quite a lot of blood?? Someone, I think Yamato, has a freaking Drimogemeon attacking him. He doesn’t get gored though lmao. Eosmon has a billion copies and they’re around the world going for Chosen Children. They bring out Omegamon and he gets his leg chopped off, whee. But both Digimon are physically intact when the evolution is broken.

Menoa is completely mentally unstable and fuses with Eosmon to become their “goddess.” Taichi sticks his hand out zombie-like under the pile of Digimon attacking him and yells at his Adventure-age friends “We must move on!” (ie, grow up). He is able to crawl to Hikari and blow her whistle with a huge breath.

This snaps everyone out of it. At this point I think “Okay! Big battle all together!” But nope. It’s still just Taichi and Yamato, who get new evolutions that look like Thundercats, and go after Menoa. While some song plays making it difficult to hear dialogue, they defeat Eosmon which makes the copies around the world disappear, and then they find Menoa trapped within her own memories of her partner, Morphomon, and rescue her as well. Menoa’s last scene is being handcuffed by Imura.

Then Taichi and Yamato go out separately with their partners and have a last conversation with them as the countdown clock is about to expire. Yamato plays his harmonica. Agumon tries to ply Taichi for food. We get Agumon’s vantage point looking up at Taichi and it’s like “wow you’re huge now.” Agumon and Gabumon both ask their partners what they’ll do tomorrow. Just as Taichi and Yamato think of an answer, they look and their partners are gone. Taichi and Yamato do some pretty impressive sobbing. Then we see them some time later hurrying on with their lives under symbolic cherry blossoms. The end!

The credits show scenes of the Chosen living their adult lives, the younger ones still with their partners, the older without. It ends with a peek at Taichi’s thesis, representing step one towards becoming a diplomat between the human and digital worlds. Like I said before, since we know they still have their partners in the 02 epilogue, it’s strange to me that they kept everything the same except that. So let’s headcanon that they’ll meet again o.O I guess

So if you read this far, you probably got the vibe that I wasn’t super impressed by Kizuna. But it’s not a bad movie. Tri pretty much spoiled me. I get that there are people who really don’t like Tri for various reasons, but to be honest, I think that even if you dislike it, you have to acknowledge what a gift it was. Six movies that gave every character something to do and mostly avoided the predictable stuff, not entirely, but much better than would be expected from an anime movie. Tri did so many interesting things. It’s got its flaws, a couple big ones, but I can never get past how it built everything up and what it resulted in.

But Tri’s number one strength comes from having six movies to tell the story. Kizuna has just one. If Tri had been condensed into a single movie - say we meet Meiko, the infection happens, she’s the origin, before the partners lose their memories Meiko asks the kids to kill Meicoomon, Daigo dies saving Taichi and then Taichi kills Meicoomon, the end - Idk if I would have liked that. It wouldn’t have gotten the build up it needed. I wouldn’t have learned to love Meiko. Stories need pacing, they need development, and more of each the more characters there are. Tri had the time to give us that.

I wasn’t expecting Kizuna to be like Tri - both the art style and all the info about it said otherwise - so I have to say that all in all, Kizuna is the movie I originally would have expected a Digimon sequel to be. It’s got That Plot that every fan read or wrote on fanfiction.net back in the day, where the kids lose their partners as a result of becoming an adult. I always hated that plotline because it was so predictable. If everyone can think of it, how can you call it creative?

But it is quite Japanese in a way, the appreciation for “the transience of things,” what they call 物の哀れ. Sora’s final ikebana display includes what I assume were cherry blossoms rising above a field of colorful flowers. Cherry blossoms represent this ephemerality in Japanese culture because of their short flowering time and how their appearance marks the beginning of spring. So in that way it’s all very striking and real. But I just personally don’t like it and never have. Also I think that for me, because I was so moved by Kokuhaku, there wasn’t much chance for this plot to have the same effect: Kokuhaku simply did it better.

I do think Kizuna is appreciable on its own and that if Tri weren’t a thing I’d have liked it better. I am not sure if I’m gonna go see it again. I might! I got a Koushirou clear file for going this week. (... The postcards we got for going to Tri were way better, though xP) So could at least go and collect more maybe.

But Kizuna has a big downside, which is that it’s just as obsessed with Taichi and Yamato as Tri was, but it’s even more felt due to the time constraints. At least with Tri, we got to see everyone do something at some point. In Kizuna, they don’t even try. Mimi, Jou, and Hikari are barely around and get their consciousness trapped early on. Takeru at least gets to join the initial fight with Eosmon, but I think that’s due to wanting to give a nod to Our War Game and maybe just because fans like Angemon. Then Takeru’s gone. Koushirou gets to be his brainiac self, I don’t really have a complaint about his treatment, except in the final battle where he’s just there. And Sora simply isn’t around period. Tri didn’t have the 02 kids, ok, that’s too bad... Kizuna has them but they’re boring and most of the Adventure cast doesn’t get to do much either. Is this really better, guys?

When you’ve got a cast this big, I don’t think you can do things the typical way. I’m an X-men fan, I should know. Lol.

That’s it for Kizuna! I’m still happy it exists, and have to admit that I might have had a slightly more positive take if I hadn’t been in such a bad mood from my day, so I hope that on a second viewing, whether I go to the theaters or wait to find it online, I will find more bits to appreciate.

Had I stuck with my plan, I would be a teacher. That much I can be certain of.  However, I often wonder when I dream of what could’ve become of my life how much would change.  Surely wasting time and energy on could haves is futile.  No regret is ever truly ever satisfied.

               Perhaps, instead, I should focus on what is happening in my life now.  In the past few years, I have come face to face with a horrible reflection of what the world really is and who I really am- both of the images unsettling.  Each new revelation is nauseating and I have yet to find my sea legs.

               I’m an unstable type 2 bipolar who sees a general practitioner for medication I do not like to take.  I’ve had three therapists-all of which I have walked out on as soon as I started to make progress without any notice.  I like being in pain- partially because I deserve it, but mostly because it gives me a justifiable reason to feel as bad as I always do.  I like to hide behind intricately thought out day dreams when I feel worn down.  To put it plainly, they make existing easier. I liked spinning white lies just delicate enough to placate my dreams- that is one flaw that I have corrected.

               The world sucks.  Have I processed each horrifying truth enough to make a coherent explanation or argument as to why? No, I have not. This is the best I can do: Racism, narcissism, racism, extremism, racism, materialism, racism, capitalism, racism.  Does that cover it?  The main thing I cannot shake as of late is how little we have come in such a long time. In the new millennium, people thought there would be flying cars and cures to all sorts of devastating illnesses. Instead, the warriors of our world are still having to fight for undeniable facts to be understood: Racism is bad. White privilege is real.  Black people deserve better. 

               No, I didn’t become a teacher.  I had my first psychotic break in the middle of my senior year of high school.  I was desperate for help and didn’t quite know how to describe what was happening in my head truthfully, so I said the first thing I could think of that would get me in a facility without question: I hear voices.  What that lie was covering was that I was suicidal.  The only voice I heard was my own begging me to put an end to what had been and would undoubtedly be a miserable existence. I lasted all of three days before I decided I was cured and coerced my parents to sign me out. Retrospectively, that was the worst mistake of my life.

               Maybe if I had stayed, I would’ve given my body enough time to adjust to mood stabilizing medication that would curb my mania and hold back the depressive episodes that always followed.  However, the deeper the doctors tried to dig, the more creative I had to become to keep them out.  I am not a threat to anyone but myself, of that I am certain. Still, I cannot stomach the idea of someone actually figuring me out.  My mind might be broken; I might be sick; but keeping it to myself keeps food on the table and the people that I love happy, so I cannot stop.  That is what my defense mechanisms are for.

               Doing what has to be done is second nature to me, and is what led me to my current job.  When I interviewed, I was manic; but as a type 2 my mania came across as charismatic and enthusiastic.  Those qualities made me a perfect candidate.  Two years later, and I’m finally admitting that I have been the target of toxic coworker interactions and with the help of my supervisor, I made the decision to contact HR.  Nothing has been done, and I’m sick with stress so I’m starting to wish I hadn’t.

               I’m starting to understand why I was targeted- I take it, because I deserve it.  I’m easily manipulated and act on my emotions.  My coworker can scream at me and make passive aggressive comments so low that only I can hear and then turn the situation around so that I am the aggressor, and just that easily I will agree.  Accepting the blame seems justifiable, and as someone who hates herself it just makes sense.  I’m easy to trap.

               This feeling I have in this moment is odd to me- I can’t explain how disoriented I have become. I am accustomed to self-loathing.  Depressive episodes are a guarantee with my diagnosis, but this time I don’t see myself coming out of it. 

             I have run out of allies.  After getting engaged, losing my mother in law, dealing with her disabled widower, moving to a new city, and having my wedding postponed by a pandemic; I have retreated into myself as much as possible pushing away important people in my life in the process. I have run out of grace.  Dealing with these thoughts since adolescence I fear  I’ve used my mental health punch card all up, so I don’t see the point in reaching out.  I have run out of fear.  The uncertainty of what comes next always saved me.  Now, I can’t bring that fear to the front of my mind; I can’t make myself care anymore.

               Make no mistake, my intention of writing this to the void is as simple as a rock formed S.O.S. message, and as insignificant as a raindrop in the Pacific Ocean. I’ve grown tired of this merry go round.  I can’t make myself say this out loud.

                I’m in trouble. Somebody, somehow- hear me.

Prayers aren’t doing anything. We need gun control laws. We need our government to take action... Or do we?

Ok, so since this is a blog, that means I have to write original stuff from time to time, otherwise it can’t rightly be called a blog, can it? I have many kinds of friends, and I make it a point to be friends with different people, especially ones with different opinions. Here, a family friend of my fiancee posted on her facebook this statement:  “Prayers aren’t doing anything. We need gun control laws. We need our government to take action.” She is very pro gun control and insists that action be taken, however, we politely entered into a discussion about it and I tried to explain why I am against “gun control”.  

I said:  “ I think the most important thing is identifying violent and unstable people early, but the state of our mental healthcare workforce is lacking. The culture and resources dedicated to this needs to shift. I think the political left should focus their efforts there and come up with the most humane ideas. As for gun control in general I am against and will continue to carry concealed. Most of the gun control ideas are either already on the books or knee-jerk and not well thought out. Also the second amendment precludes most of it anyway. I like for things to be practical and effective, so it’s just my opinion that we need to shift focus on how to empower physicians and law enforcement and the judiciary with laws while at the same time allocating more funds to mental health safety nets and research. “

She replied:  It’s hard for me, because I think no matter what we do considering the mental health community (which could take decades) won’t stop mass shootings. When someone has a conceal carry on during a mass shooting, I feel like it just makes it more dangerous because they don’t always know where to shoot, can hurt more innocent people, and could be considered the shooter. What about the mass shooting in Australia? The 1996 Port Arthur massacre resulted in legislation that saw a dramatic decline in gun crimes. It made a huge difference. Was sandy hook (and everything since) not enough to change our legislation? This pattern will continue as long as the NRA has politicians in its pocket.

I then said:  I understand where you are coming from; my perspective is different. Some of the best data and research currently available has put the onus on gun control proponents (for instance check out the Harvard Law study I posted below, that is fairly comprehensive and has good/logical points backed by statistical evidence). Most concealed carry holders have decent training and must demonstrate proficiency and accuracy by law. Also, they are trained/lectured in precisely which instances your gun can be pulled, under protection of the law. The NRA is not really the issue, but the millions of citizens that will not give up any Constitutional right apropos 2nd Amd. that hold their feet to the fire. If the NRA were dismantled entirely today, another would arise in a few months and eventually become just as prominent. I also plan on becoming an NRA member in the future, or whatever gun rights lobby group that will protect my right of self defense, particularly with the rise of white nationalist groups. The first thing the KKK and Jim Crow/government law did was to take away guns from black citizens. If you listen to Malcom X or even MLK (who owned firearms in his home for self defense), the logic and reasons seem fairly sound and self-evident, at least to me. Also, the 2nd amendment and the Federalist papers particularly Madison, make a compelling argument for it as well. Let me know if you want the link, it is a very interesting read. I still contend that the mental health in this country is terrible, even with my first hand knowledge, I still can't believe some of what I've seen. But yes, I understand where you are coming from. There will be no path forward with no improvement if we can't find some common ground on where to take action, as it seems stalemate currently.

She said she would like to read my sources...

Here is the article I cited in its entirety from Harvard Law Review journal: http://www.law.harvard.edu/.../Vol30_No2...

These are some of the more interesting/salient parts in terms of debate: 

INTRODUCTION International evidence and comparisons have long been offered as proof of the mantra that more guns mean more deaths and that fewer guns, therefore, mean fewer deaths.1 Unfortunately, such discussions are all too often been afflicted by misconceptions and factual error and focus on comparisons that are unrepresentative. It may be useful to begin with a few examples. There is a com‐ pound assertion that (a) guns are uniquely available in the United States compared with other modern developed nations, which is why (b) the United States has by far the highest murder rate. Though these assertions have been endlessly repeated, statement (b) is, in fact, false and statement (a) is substantially so. Since at least 1965, the false assertion that the United States has the industrialized world’s highest murder rate has been an artifact of politically motivated Soviet minimization designed to hide the true homicide rates.2 Since well before that date, the Soviet Union possessed extremely stringent gun controls3 that were effectuated by a police state apparatus providing stringent enforcement.4 So successful was that regime that few Russian civilians now have firearms and very few murders involve them.5 Yet, manifest suc‐ cess in keeping its people disarmed did not prevent the Soviet Union from having far and away the highest murder rate in the developed world.6 In the 1960s and early 1970s, the gun‐less So‐ viet Union’s murder rates paralleled or generally exceeded those of gun‐ridden America. While American rates stabilized and then steeply declined, however, Russian murder increased so drasti‐ cally that by the early 1990s the Russian rate was three times higher than that of the United States. Between 1998‐2004 (the lat‐ est figure available for Russia), Russian murder rates were nearly four times higher than American rates. Similar murder rates also characterize the Ukraine, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, and various other now‐independent European nations of the former U.S.S.R.7 Thus, in the United States and the former Soviet Union transition‐ ing into current‐day Russia, “homicide results suggest that where guns are scarce other weapons are substituted in killings.”8 While American gun ownership is quite high, Table 1 shows many other developed nations (e.g., Norway, Finland, Germany, France, Denmark) with high rates of gun ownership. These countries, however, have murder rates as low or lower than many devel‐ oped nations in which gun ownership is much rarer. For example, Luxembourg, where handguns are totally banned and ownership of any kind of gun is minimal, had a murder rate nine times higher than Germany in 2002. The same pattern appears when comparisons of violence to gun ownership are made within nations. Indeed, “data on fire‐ arms ownership by constabulary area in England,” like data from the United States, show “a negative correlation,”10 that is, “where firearms are most dense violent crime rates are lowest, and where guns are least dense violent crime rates are high‐ est.”11 A second misconception about the relationship between fire‐ arms and violence attributes Europe’s generally low homicide rates to stringent gun control. That attribution cannot be accu‐ rate since murder in Europe was at an all‐time low before the gun controls were introduced.13 For instance, virtually the only English gun control during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was the practice that police patrolled without guns. During this period gun control prevailed far less in England or Europe than in certain American states which nevertheless had—and continue to have—murder rates that were and are comparatively very high.14 In this connection, two recent studies are pertinent. In 2004, the U.S. National Academy of Sciences released its evaluation from a review of 253 journal articles, 99 books, 43 government publications, and some original empirical research. It failed to identify any gun control that had reduced violent crime, sui‐ cide, or gun accidents.15 The same conclusion was reached in 2003 by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control’s review of then‐ extant studies.16 Stringent gun controls were not adopted in England and Western Europe until after World War I. Consistent with the outcomes of the recent American studies just mentioned, these strict controls did not stem the general trend of ever‐growing violent crime throughout the post‐WWII industrialized world including the United States and Russia. Professor Malcolm’s study of English gun law and violent crime summarizes that nation’s nineteenth and twentieth century experience as fol‐ lows: The peacefulness England used to enjoy was not the result of strict gun laws. When it had no firearms restrictions [nine‐ teenth and early twentieth century] England had little violent crime, while the present extraordinarily stringent gun controls have not stopped the increase in violence or even the increase in armed violence.17 Armed crime, never a problem in England, has now become one. Handguns are banned but the Kingdom has millions of illegal firearms. Criminals have no trouble finding them and exhibit a new willingness to use them. In the decade after 1957, the use of guns in serious crime increased a hundredfold.18 In the late 1990s, England moved from stringent controls to a complete ban of all handguns and many types of long guns. Hundreds of thousands of guns were confiscated from those owners law‐abiding enough to turn them in to authorities. Without suggesting this caused violence, the ban’s ineffectiveness was such that by the year 2000 violent crime had so increased that England and Wales had Europe’s highest violent crime rate, far surpassing even the United States.19 Today, English news media headline violence in terms redolent of the doleful, melodramatic language that for so long characterized American news reports.20 One aspect of England’s recent experience deserves note, given how often and favorably advo‐ cates have compared English gun policy to its American coun‐ terpart over the past 35 years.21 A generally unstated issue in this notoriously emotional debate was the effect of the Warren Court and later restrictions on police powers on American gun policy. Critics of these decisions pointed to soaring American crime rates and argued simplistically that such decisions caused, or at least hampered, police in suppressing crime. But to some supporters of these judicial decisions, the example of England argued that the solution to crime was to restrict guns, not civil liberties. To gun control advocates, England, the cradle of our liberties, was a nation made so peaceful by strict gun control that its police did not even need to carry guns. The United States, it was argued, could attain such a desirable situation by radically reducing gun ownership, preferably by banning and confiscating handguns. The results discussed earlier contradict those expectations. On the one hand, despite constant and substantially increasing gun ownership, the United States saw progressive and dramatic reductions in criminal violence in the 1990s. On the other hand, the same time period in the United Kingdom saw a constant and dramatic increase in violent crime to which England’s response was ever‐more drastic gun control including, eventually, banning and confiscating all handguns and many types of long guns.22 Nevertheless, criminal violence rampantly increased so that by 2000 England surpassed the United States to become one of the developed world’s most violence‐ridden nations……

Here is part of their Conclusion: This Article has reviewed a significant amount of evidence from a wide variety of international sources. Each individual portion of evidence is subject to cavil—at the very least the general objection that the persuasiveness of social scientific evidence cannot remotely approach the persuasiveness of conclusions in the physical sciences. Nevertheless, the burden of proof rests on the proponents of the more guns equal more death and fewer guns equal less death mantra, especially since they argue public policy ought to be based on that mantra.149 To bear that burden would at the very least require showing that a large number of nations with more guns have more death and that nations that have imposed stringent gun controls have achieved substantial reductions in criminal violence (or suicide). But those correlations are not observed when a large number of nations are compared across the world. Source: Harvard Journal of Law and Public Policy http://www.law.harvard.edu/.../Vol30_No2...

I then said, Federalist 10 and 46 represent in my opinion, the chief parts/reasoning of why the second amendment is important.

Here is part of Madison's argument in Federalist 10: "From this view of the subject it may be concluded that a pure democracy… can admit of no cure for the mischiefs of faction. A common passion or interest will, in almost every case, be felt by a majority of the whole; a communication and concert result from the form of government itself; and there is nothing to check the inducements to sacrifice the weaker party or an obnoxious individual. Hence it is that such democracies have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention; have ever been found incompatible with personal security or the rights of property; and have in general been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths. Theoretic politicians, who have patronized this species of government, have erroneously supposed that by reducing mankind to a perfect equality in their political rights, they would, at the same time, be perfectly equalized and assimilated in their possessions, their opinions, and their passions. A republic, by which I mean a government in which the scheme of representation takes place, opens a different prospect, and promises the cure for which we are seeking. Let us examine the points in which it varies from pure democracy, and we shall comprehend both the nature of the cure and the efficacy which it must derive from the Union." James Madison, Federalist No. 10

So here he argues why a Republic is better then a Democracy, and the idea of the "mischiefs of faction" and how at any given time the majority will in one way or another coerce the minority. Democracy, counter-intuitively then, is the great civilization killer, and easily undermines individual freedom, hence the "tyranny of the majority".

In Federalist 46, he examines the differences and pros and cons of having a Standing army (Military controlled by government) vs armed citizenry: In Federalist No. 46, Madison calculates that the new government could support a standing army but "To these would be opposed a militia amounting to near half a million of citizens with arms in their hands, officered by men chosen from among themselves, fighting for their common liberties, and united and conducted by governments possessing their affections and confidence. It may well be doubted, whether a militia thus circumstanced could ever be conquered by such a proportion of regular troops… . Besides the advantage of being armed, which the Americans possess over the people of almost every other nation, the existence of subordinate governments, to which the people are attached, and by which the militia officers are appointed, forms a barrier against the enterprises of ambition, more insurmountable than any which a simple government of any form can admit of. Notwithstanding the military establishments in the several kingdoms of Europe, which are carried as far as the public resources will bear, the governments are afraid to trust the people with arms."

Here I think we find the seeds of the Second Amendment, and the relationship to standing army (Government controlled) vs an armed citizenry, which if need be (unlikely going to happen, but still) acts as a kind of fail safe to preserve the Republic (atall costs). Democracies do not need a first or second amendment, however a Republic does. (In my opinion). In a Democracy, the vast majority would be fine with gun control, likely not seeing any "modern" need for an armed citizenry, and would just vote on it and it would be so. But the problem is that this is precisely how nations die, and join the eternal cycle of failed states.

I could go on in a further attempt to explain my logic/reasoning as to why I think the second amendment is necessary to preserve the Union (forever), and to preserve the Republic (specifically). But I think I have said enough to at least get my reasoning in a way that does not make me seem like a radical. I think if you really consider it, you will see where I am coming from.

Also, here is an article from one of my favorite philosophers of today, Sam Harris, whom you may be familiar with. He writes with clarity and sound logic. Here is a piece he did on gun control (if you are interested): https://www.samharris.org/blog/item/the-riddle-of-the-gun

Here are some follow up questions in a pod cast: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I0DYpaLgWIo

Here is some more material on the "dilemmas of democracy" https://www.city-journal.org/.../james-madison-and...

Here's a brief discussion of Federalist 46 https://armsandthelaw.com/arc.../2005/04/federalist_no_4.php

Here is something I wrote that you may be interested in and partly explains why I am "republican" along with what I mentioned about Democracy and the "micheifs of faction": What follows is something I wrote for a facebook “civil politcal debate” as a favor to a fellow freemason in Canada, where I attempted to get at the essential reason why I think we have so much political upheaval, and how to get back to our Constitutional way of life by examining Hamilton’s Federalist No. 17 and the implications therein. “First, I would like to thank Bro. Charles for inviting me to comment in a civil discussion of politics, a subject I usually do not attempt to discuss on Facebook due to the inherent limitations of the medium itself. The format and back-and-forth nature of posts only seems to foster hurried and usually less well thought out arguments “in the heat of the post”. I have come to realize you do not persuade others by quipy remarks or tones that, in your own certitude, just come off as condescension regardless of how well thought out or how right you may be (or think you are). I shall attempt to render my opinion on the first part of your questions Charles, and that is, is the phenomenon like Trump and Brexit a ‘Great Rebellion’? The short answer is in the affirmative, and here is why. Two words: Power, and Sovereignty; but perhaps not in the way you may be thinking. What I mean by power is, where does the actual political power come from in this day and age? From the People presumably, but the fear, justified or not, is that both nations, a Constitutional Republic and a Parliamentary Democracy are no longer responsive to the Will of the People. The Spectre of Oppression rises as the perception of true freedom wanes. People feel more and more disconnected, disaffected, disenfranchised, and trod upon by undue regulation. In many instances, it affects them personally, financially, and has significant influence on their means. And yet, what recourse do they have? Voting ad nauseam with little to show for it? It feels as if no one represents you completely, largely due to entrenched political platform with little maneuverability, dominated by crony kow-towers suffering from Group Think. With each election cycle, we the Peoples of both Nations, feel like our Power, or Self-Evident Liberty to govern ourselves, is slipping away. Alexander Hamilton, in Federalist no. 17, has this to say about the advantage of maintaining matters related to Law and Justice at the Local level: “There is one transcendent advantage belonging to the province of the State governments, which alone suffices to place the matter in a clear and satisfactory light… I mean the ordinary administration of criminal and civil justice. This, of all others, is the most powerful, most universal, and most attractive source of popular obedience and attachment. It is this, which, being the immediate and visible guardian of life and property; having its benefits and its terrors in constant activity before the public eye; regulating all those personal interests, and familiar concerns, to which the sensibility of individuals is more immediately awake; contributes, more than any other circumstance, to impress upon the minds of the people affection, esteem, and reverence towards the government.” Hamilton is essentially saying that Liberty is best maintained locally, in terms of civil and criminal law, and that when done so, is more responsive to the People, and they in turn, are more cooperative and filial with the Government (imagine that! Lol). So, therefore, this is the crux of my point, and where my assumptions rest as to the nature of the problem. Trump and Brexit (and Bernie I would argue) are manifestations of the People’s hope to regain some of the “Power” they intuitively sense they have lost, but few will cite the raison d'être as I have. Naturally then, my solution rests in returning the ‘ordinary administration of criminal and civil justice’ or “Power to the People” in the form of greater reliance on Local and State Governance, and considerably less Federal encroachment in these arenas, which would serve to assuage the Fears, real and imagined, of the Populace, and bring back a more responsive government for the people, by the people. Now that I have clarified (hopefully) what I mean by “Power,” let us move onto Sovereignty, which is defined as ‘the authority of a State to govern itself’. This part is easy, for I see sovereignty as a natural extension of the principle of power, or rather, as an (Fractal-like) iteration of the self-evident Right of Liberty, or to govern ourselves. One of the chief complaints I heard/read from supporters of Brexit was that being in the EU degraded British Sovereignty. Well what does this mean really? It means that the very ‘power’ Trump supporters (and other supporters) want back, a greater ability to self-govern, are the very same thing the Brexit voters want; more freedom, particularly in regards to civil law and the regulations they feel like they have no say or voice in. Their say in the ‘ordinary administration of civil and criminal justice’ is eluding the voters of both nations. Taking back one’s sovereignty is just another way of saying I want more say in civil and criminal law from a governmental perspective. So, this is why I would have to answer the first part of your question in the affirmative; it is a ‘thing’ whose cause rests in the voters declining ability to have a voice in civil, tax, property, etc. law that is imposed on them by politicians orders of magnitude removed from them.”

Anyway, I wanted to share this with my followers, food for thought. I highly recommend reading and listening to Sam Harris philosophical approach to the Riddle of the Gun.  Take care followers and have a Blessed day.

REGIII32

p.s. feel free to debate and argue (followers), I enjoy hearing your thought processes and seeing your evidence.

Terms of Entrapment -- Prologue

Here I was...again.

The wet Romanian soil that mixed with soot beneath my feet was cold in comparison to the chaotic fire in front of me. Even so far away from the biggest of the flames, I could still feel the waves of it's warmth on my pale skin. The fire seemed to be alive as it swept through the estate before me and swiftly down the hill it sat upon. I didn't even gag at the smell of the rotting flesh  assaulting my nose --  it was expected considering a faceless corpse wasn't far from me. Besides, the scent wasn't as bad as it would've been had it not began to downpour. My  copper red locks clung to my drenched gown, and I couldn't help but  stare at my drenched state as I stood completely still.

I knew the current me, the me that's a brunette bookworm from New York City with the most morbid sense of humor, is asleep in my bed in modern day Paris. No longer am I the Romanian redhead  I currently see myself as. I'm sure Bram Stoker's book isn't that far off on how I used to be, besides my looks. Y'know, Dracula's brides -- I was the one who was no bark and all too happy to sink her fucking fangs into something.

It's always here I come back to in my sleep lately, the memory becoming more and more prevalent since I first touched down on European soil a few years back. I suppose it's my specific form of punishment for the past, why wouldn't it be? My soul isn't in the original pit of fire I had sold it to through marriage. Somehow, I had been reincarnated and slipped out of a loophole I didn't even know existed. I figure reliving my death over and fucking over in my nightmares is more than fair.

"Dracula! I know you are in there, my love! I need you! Make them unhand me!"

Perhaps the worst part was hearing her cry his name so desperately, even though that bastard was nowhere to be found. Glancing uphill, I followed the trail of fire toward the castle to look at the source of the voice, my eyes landing on the feminine silhouette that was the source of the cry of his name. The wind and rain whipped around her, throwing cascades of ash blonde locks into her pretty, sickly face while the skirt of her dress was tossed rapidly by the wind as well. She didn't even bother to shield herself, body trembling as she screamed in agony for any sign of Dracula -- as if she had actually known him long enough to have the right to scream like that. Then again, I wasn't surprised to find her like that, nor was I surprised when the shouts of her human husband, Mr. Harker, reached my ears. Clearly the little brat was going through a withdrawal and had escaped wherever the hell her husband and the Vatican had hidden her. Having not lain with Dracula nor tasted his blood in about three moon cycles, it was incredulous that Mina was even still alive -- all of those separated from their sire within her Changed class die within just one moon cycle. The Church must've been close to the cure Mr. Harker had paid them so handsomely for.

This sort of situation happens more often than people would think between the Changer and the Changed. When it comes to being changed, it's unknown which of the six classes of Changed the new fledgling will be. The different classes have a very direct influence on the connection the fledgling and sire will share for eternity. Nobody can influence or change the class a Changed will fall under. This connection, no matter how it turns out, is crucial and referred to as Soul Binding: A case of natural selection completely up to fate in the supernatural society that can determine life or death all whilst keeping power balance with a chain of command system. A Changer cannot determine what class of fledgling they will have, and the Changed will vary significantly. Each supernatural species has these major six classes, and these can even be broken up into smaller, more specific categories. A Changed can even have characteristics of multiple classes. These Changed are referred to as "Toss-Ups" or "Jacks".

The first class of the Changed are the Independent. This class of the Changed will share very little connection at all to their sire, and therefore the majority are free to find and follow their own paths and agendas. This class isn't very common, and due to their lack of connection, these types of Changed tend to stay to themselves, often ashamed or angry about what they've become.

The second class are the Familiars; fledglings that end up having a paternal or fraternal bond with their sires. This class heavily depends upon their makeshift family and are extremely family-oriented -- they hardly leave each other. Although that doesn't mean shit doesn't happen; Supernatural families can become dysfunctional too. However, if separated from said "family" for long periods of time, these types of Changed can become extremely emotionally unstable.

Intimates are the third class, and clearly where my fellow brides and I fell. Intimates become lovers or mates, and often they don't leave each other either. Of course clearly, this isn't always the case and sometimes these Changed will have a very toxic relationship with their sire. It's perhaps the most complicated of the classes, because the reality is while they will always need each other, they might stop wanting each other. It can be either a very bitter and nasty situation or a mutual understanding, these relationships often ending in scandalous affairs or open relationships.

Next comes the class of the Obedient. This poor fourth class are the Changed who become subservient, or those who believe their sire is their God. The majority are basically servants, but there are some who will do anything and everything their sire even thinks of, and thus the situation can become deadly for a fledgling. This class often has to deal with obsession issues, and it can get rather annoying for the sire, leading to rejection. There have been rare cases of an extreme Obedient being rejected and killing their sire or even themselves.

The fifth class is the Territorial, and they are some vicious sons of bitches. These fledglings get very emotional and very violent very fast over their sires, or even over others they become attached to. They won't hesitate to get to their sire no matter the cost, and it can be deadly for all involved.  Plus side? They are skilled in battle and have the most strength. Brutal con? Anger issues are aplenty, and they can be extremely overbearing toward their sire of the object of their affection.

The final class of the Changed are referred to as Addicts. Addicts are perhaps the most pathetic and endangered out of all six classes. They depend solely upon some form of their sire that can range from simply hearing their voice to even their blood. Some cases were quite mild, and others quite severe. Many are rejected by their sires and therefore die simply because they're considered too much to handle.

Mina Harker was the very definition of a severe addict in the supernatural society. Ugh, she was a disgusting, sickly sight, and it honestly satisfied me to see her that way. Her skin was a horrid shade of grey and those bags under her eyes matched her sunken cheeks perfectly. She needed that bastard I called a husband more than she needed her own damn husband, and due to how supernaturally uneducated and how new of a fledgling she was, Mina's still human-like mind had mistaken her addiction for her sire as true, undying love.

I loathed her and still have an undying distaste for her; she ruined everything! Everything was fine until he took an interest in her.

"Whore." I felt my lips mumble bitterly, my thick Romanian accent present.

The fire roared loudly as it rose higher, the fingers of the flames reaching for the dark sky above as if to greet the rain, and I took a deep inhale of breath, waiting for my feet to move by themselves. I have no control of my actions every time I relived this moment, but full control of my thoughts. Adamantly, the control of my thoughts is a blessing in disguise when it comes to getting killed over and over. The first few times this happened, it horrified me immensely to be able to know I was going to die and not be able to stop myself. But nowadays? I genuinely think of what I should have for breakfast when I wake up or what I have to do later on in the day while my body is on an unfortunate autopilot.

I narrowed my eyes as I felt my body take the first step toward my inevitable demise, waiting for this to play out...but my body stopped walking. What the hell?

"What the hell?"

Did I just talk? Like...actually make my current thoughts verbal?

I did.

My eyes widened slightly as I tested out my ability to look down. I could move my neck and look down, and for further proof to myself, I wiggled my bare left foot with ease.

Oh...well, this was new.

And scary.

What was going on?

I glanced back up to the scene uphill again as suddenly all sound stopped. The fire still consumed everything, yet no cackle came. The dumb broad still stood there screaming as her husband and one of his friends held her back from running blindly into the fire, but her screams weren't piercing my ears. I gulped deeply and began to walk uphill, the guards I passed not even noticing me.

Something was amiss here.

The scene continued, but without me playing my part. I watched as Mina yelled at the empty space in front of her where I usually would be at this point, hissing and blaming her for everything that happened. I watched as she was shoved back along with her husband by an invisible force that would've also been my doing had this played out like usual. It would've been at this point that I had stormed inside of my burning home, but I didn't -- not when I saw Dracula's own guards pull Mina up and carry her away as she began to convulse, also helping up Mr. Harker to follow behind. My confusion was immense as to why exactly they treated Mina with such...respect. If she was truly so respectable, she wouldn't have dared to be Dracula's mistress in the first place. We wouldn't be in this fucking mess had she stayed faithful to her loving husband and if my husband could think just a little less with the head below his belt.

You think the original three of us would've been enough; Verona, Marishka, and I. We paid prices so high and committed so much sin, played a huge part in building Dracula's empire by getting our hands filthy for him, only to be tossed aside in the end for this tramp. My fellow brides wouldn't ever come to know this though.

They were already dead; I was the last bride still standing

Scoffing and shaking my head with another mumble, I continued onward into the castle. "Unbelievable."

As the temperature began to rise and I walked deeper into the flame-filled castle, I noticed that I couldn't feel the searing of my flesh like I usually would've, but I could damn well see the fire eating away at my arms, clothing, and singeing my hair. This could only be described as new, and I pondered there in the inflamed ; do I take the path that led to my death still, or do I venture another way? How long do I have until I wake up from this exactly?  

I was suddenly snapped out of my thoughts as I caught something in my peripheral vision walking across a doorway that led to another corridor. It was something that had to have been easily almost eight feet tall, very slender, and resembled a shadow. It could've been many things, like the writhing shadows that the flames danced against, but something told me that wasn't the case at all. The shadow-like thing was much faster paced, and seemed to have a sense of purpose. It peaked my interest easily, so therefore, I decided to head in it's direction without much of a second thought.

I didn't get very far though.

My time was up, I knew, when I suddenly found myself with a gaping whole in the chest where the purified stake should have been, and felt my head be sliced from my neck. I closed my eyes, hating to watch as my vision spun in circles when my head rolled down to the floor with an unceremonious thud.

Fuck.

My eyes snapped open as I took a sharp intake of breath, staring up to the soft baby blue ceiling of my bedroom. I gently gripped my navy blue comforter, needing to know that it was there until the familiar bustle of vehicles and people began to reach my ears from the large window to my right, causing me to exhale in relief.

I was back in reality; I was awake, in Paris, in 2017.

And something was instantaneously unusual.

Reunion

Inspiration struck again! And so soon after the first bit! :D

@a-million-chromatic-dreams; @radioactivedelorean; @witete, I’ve got more Good Things going here! I bet you can guess what’s going on with this one, considering how “Intervention” ended. We need a couple very important people!

About a week after Stan’s and Ford’s rather abrupt disappearance, Dipper and Mabel were still tamping a circle into the carpet of their living room in Piedmont.

“Grunkle Stan wouldn’t just take Grunkle Ford and leave the hospital like that,” Dipper muttered. “Not when he took him there to get help. There has to be another reason why!”

“But we’ve thought of almost everything!” Mabel argued. “I mean, there was nothing wrong with the hospital room -- we saw it!”

“Yeah, and it didn’t look like there was a struggle or anything.” Dipper’s frown deepened as he rubbed at his chin in thought. “There’s got to be some piece of the puzzle we’re missing. Something that caused them both to disappear without making it look like they were getting hurt or anything like that.”

“Ya mean like an alien lady opened a portal and we walked through it?”

“Yeah, like--” Dipper froze mid-step as soon as he registered the fact that the voice he heard was not Mabel’s. He looked up.

Stan waved at them from the open window. “Hey, kids.”

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel leapt forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re okay!”

“Course I’m okay, pumpkin.” Stan slipped his arms under Mabel and lifted her up in a hug. “What, did ya think I wouldn’t be?”

“B-but you’ve been gone for a week!” Dipper burst out. “Where have you been?! I-is Grunkle Ford okay?!”

“Ford’s doin’ better than he could have in that stuffy hospital,” Stan replied seriously. He grinned. “I came by ‘cause visiting hours just opened up, an’ I figured you kids would wanna see him.”

Dipper and Mabel exchanged looks.

“B-but what about our parents?” Dipper asked.

“Don’t worry about ‘em.” Stan dug into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a card with a little pink lizard with frills on it. “This’ll explain what’s goin’ on.” He flicked it into the room, and it landed on the carpet, right at Dipper’s feet. “Now, come on! Ford wants ta see ya!” He pulled back, away from the open window, taking a brightly-smiling Mabel with him.

Dipper climbed out the window after them and stared when he saw what was waiting for them in the backyard.

“I-is that a portal?” He pointed at the rip in space that looked like it led into space. The glow it cast over the backyard almost felt...weirdly comforting, but Dipper wasn’t about to let himself get relaxed just yet. “A-and it’s not unstable or anything?”

“Yup.” Stan held out a hand to Dipper and grinned. “Come on. We got other dimensions ta be!”

Dipper looked between the portal and Stan’s confident grin, then nodded and grasped his grunkle’s hand.

When the trio stepped through the portal, Dipper shut his eyes instinctively as soon as he came into contact with it. It felt weird, like he was passing through a waterfall made of slippery jello, and while something about it felt okay it still felt a little wrong to him somehow.

The feeling was over as quickly as it came, leaving him with a tingling sensation in his limbs.

Stan slipped his hand out of Dipper’s and patted him on the head. “We’re here, kiddos. Open ‘em up.”

Mabel gasped as Dipper opened his eyes. “Oh, wow! Grunkle Stan, this place is beautiful!”

Dipper blinked, adjusting to the bright light of the place they’d arrived in, and his eyes widened sharply. “Whoa.”

They’d arrived in a rather ornate, stone hall, made of orange-white stone with purple veins flowing through it. The same pink, frilly lizard that Dipper had seen on the card was everywhere -- tapestries that hung from the walls, carved into the pillars, even a part of the tiles that made up the floor.

But the one thing that caught Dipper’s attention the most was the gigantic purple-skinned, seven-eyed woman who was standing in front of them.

“Welcome,” the woman said kindly, “to Dimension 52.”

Dipper’s jaw dropped. An actual alien -- and one from another dimension no less!

“Give ‘em a sec, Jhessie,” Stan said. “Gotta let them get used ta the--”

“Ohmygoshyouaresopretty!” Mabel burst out of Stan’s arms and made a run for Jhessie, obviously intending to hug the woman. Mabel’s head was barely level with the woman’s knees, which was a statement to the woman’s height. “Are you helping Grunkle Ford?”

“Indeed I am,” Jhessie replied. She looked between Mabel and Dipper, who had yet to approach. “It is good to meet you, Dipper and Mabel. Ford has been excited at thought of you coming.”

Dipper shook his head; his questions about this dimension and Jhessie herself would have to wait. “Wh-where is he?”

Jhessie motioned for them to follow her. “He is in this chamber right over here. Be gentle, as he is only recently regained control over his speech, but he has yet to proceed beyond simple words without them becoming completely slurred.”

Dipper couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Grunkle Ford? Talking? When he had last seen him, Ford hadn’t been able to so much as twitch a finger!

Dipper quickly scrambled forward to fall in step with Mabel, right behind Jhessie. “Wh-what are you doing to help him?”

“Is it magic?” Mabel asked, wide-eyed.

Jhessie laughed softly. “You might call it magic, but here, it is simply extremely advanced sciences that I am capable of making use of.” Her expression became more somber. “Your dimension’s medical technology cannot hold a candle to it, and would not have been able to do enough to restore him. I apologize for worrying you, but I had to take him when I did, else I would have missed any chance to give him back what he has lost.”

Dipper and Mabel exchanged looks as they came to a stop in front of a stone door that was just barely Jhessie’s height. She pressed a hand to the face of the frilly lizard carved on it, then pushed it open on silent hinges.

The room on the other side was a simple one. There was a fireplace in the corner and a cot lying near it with a pile of blankets stacked on it haphazardly. There was an actual bed as well, large enough for two people to lie on it comfortably. Lying in it, head resting against a large pile of pillows with his arms lying limply at his sides, was Ford.

Jhessie smiled a little as Dipper and Mabel stepped in on light feet, moving closer to the bed. Stan stepped into the room as well, but he didn’t follow after his niblings.

Not at first, anyway.

“Hey, Ford!” Stan yelled from the room’s entrance. “We got ya some visitors!”

Dipper and Mabel stopped short of the bed as Ford’s eyes snapped open at Stan’s voice. Then his eyes moved, and his head followed, turning so that he could look at the two niblings.

A grin split Ford’s face, and that was the twins’ signal to move.

“Grunkle Ford!”

Dipper and Mabel were instantly on the bed, hugging Ford as tightly as they could -- even if he couldn’t hug them back, they could see the light in his eyes and the joy on his face as they held him as best they could.

“K-kids,” Ford murmured, his voice hoarse from who knew how long it’d been since he’d last spoken.

His voice only made Mabel even more excited.

“Grunkle Ford, you’re getting better!” She grabbed one of his limp arms and pulled it up so that it was almost like he was hugging her. She grasped his larger hand tightly and gave him a wide, bright, one-hundred-percent Mabel grin. “I’m glad you’re okay!”

Ford gasped softly, and Mabel felt his hand squeeze hers back, albeit weakly. His gaze moved to his other hand, and Dipper quickly followed it, only to suck in a breath in surprise when he saw Ford’s fingers twitching a little.

“Your hands!” Dipper quickly grabbed Ford’s other hand like Mabel had and wrapped Ford’s arm around himself as best he could in a hug. “Could you move them before--”

Ford shook his head a little as Stan and Jhessie came over.

“Your recovery is coming along nicely,” Jhessie said. “I doubt it will be much longer before you will regain the ability to use your limbs, but it will take time before you will be able to use them as you used to.”

There were tears shining in Ford’s eyes -- but these weren’t from regret, from fear, from sorrow. The smile that was splitting his face was more than enough to show that. His hands tightened as best they could around Dipper and Mabel, the twins holding onto them in order to help. “Th-thankyou.”

“I am only doing what I should have done sooner,” Jhessie replied gently. She placed a hand on his head, Ford leaning into the touch. “Now, it is getting to be rather late in the day, and you require more rest. It would not be wise to allow you to push yourself.”

Ford frowned a little, then looked at Dipper and Mabel, who were still hugging him tightly.

“They can stay here as long as they like,” Jhessie said. “I understand it is late in your dimension, as well?”

Dipper nodded. “Yeah, the sun went down an hour ago.” He yawned. Now that he was thinking about it, he was actually feeling a little tired.

“You need not worry over your parents while you are here; the message Stan left for them will explain the reason for your absence,” Jhessie added. “The only reason that the one from your hospital did not was because Stan thought it would be amusing if I left a ‘calling card’.” She sent Stan an amused look, and he snickered as Ford’s grin went mischievous.

“C-can we sleep right here?” Mabel asked. She snuggled closer to Ford, gripping at the dark purple robe he was wearing instead of that horrid hospital gown.

“Of course,” Jhessie replied. “There is more than enough room, and I have not had time to bring more cots here.”

Mabel instantly kicked her shoes off and burrowed under the covers and under Ford’s arm, getting a short, delighted laugh from her grunkle. Dipper was quick to follow suit, after also taking off the hat he’d borrowed from Wendy.

“We love you, Grunkle Ford.” Mabel looked up at Ford with delighted, relieved eyes.

Ford smiled. “You t-too.”

It didn’t take the three of them too long to drift off to sleep, relieved that Ford was no longer as trapped as he had been and glad that that could be with him.

Stan grinned up at Jhessie. “Told ya this was a good idea.”

Jhessie rolled her eyes. “I already knew that it was.” She nudged him towards the cot. “You need rest as well, Stanley. Do not try to hide it -- I saw your yawn just as much as Ford did.”

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t --” Stan cut himself off with a yawn. “Don’t rush me. I’ll go to sleep when I wanna, not before. Go on, I’ll be fine.”

Jhessie chuckled softly, then glided out of the room on light feet.

Stan watched her close the door behind her, then looked at his sleeping brother and niblings.

Ford cracked an eye open and motioned with his head for Stan to go to his cot.

Stan snorted. “Yeah, no. There’s enough room on that bed fer one more, I think.”

Ford’s eyes widened as Stan came over, then crawled under the sheets next to Dipper.

“Now, I’m only gonna do this once, cause the kids are here an’ I feel like it.” Stan sent his brother a pointed look.

Ford snorted as an amused smirk crossed his face.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Now go ta sleep, Poindexter.”

Ford rolled his eyes as Stan closed his, then followed suit and settled into an even breathing rhythm. Having his entire family near him like this...it helped, somehow. The scientific part of his mind chalked it up to a placebo effect, but the other part of his mind, the one more geared towards his family, suggested it was their presence, and the love he felt from them.

Ford’s smirk turned into a smile at the thought as he drifted off.

re·cov·er·y 
a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength.
 I wouldn't say I'm in recovery, but I also wouldn't say I'm fully in my ed or addiction at this point. I feel like I'm re entering recovery. But this time fully and honest, and I think that is why it is taking a little longer to surrender. When I do surrender I am doing It fully and completely. Two months back in treatment. Three months since I last wrote, so as assigned I'm writing again. An assignment I actually don't mind, I get to do what I love. A lot has happened. I've found myself kicked out of my parents house, yet again, jobless, broke, living with friends. Seems to be the norm. My mood has been extremely unstable and my behaviors are out of control. Well, sort of. I stopped purging. Since December 20th, when I finally came back to rosewood, I've only purged once. Which, is crazy because before I came in I was purging everything I ate. So major improvement there. Readmitting myself was this whole process. Due to health reasons it took longer then expected. My doctor found I had pancreatitis, which freaked me out to no end and back and motivated me to start eating a little bit before I even got back into treatment. Which, was insanely hard. My first two to three weeks back, I couldn't finish a single meal. It was humiliating to some extent, I felt completely incapable. With restricting, I haven't really been. There's this grey area in my brain where if I don't have the means to eat and if I don't have money, I don't have to eat. Which, was a bit of a problem maybe a week or two ago but I've seemed to improve with that one. So I guess my behaviors aren't out of control; I haven't purged, meal plan compliant, I don't binge, I don't use laxatives/diuretics/diet pills, I don't over exercise. Where does the problem stand then? Easy: my drinking. I'm in a constant debate with myself lately. Do I have an alcohol problem? A year ago I would've instinctively answered yes, I am an alcoholic. Today, well, I am not sure how to answer that question. I've drank a couple times now since being back. I'm supposed to be sober, everyone is supposed to be sober while in a program like this. My rational is: if I don't have a problem, I shouldn't have a problem staying sober for the duration of my stay at rosewood. But I find myself trying to sneak around the rules to drink. Is it a problem? I'm not too sure. When I drink I don't do so excessively, just enough to get decently drunk. Which, if you know me, you'd know its pretty easy for me because I basically have zero tolerance. So, again, I ask, where is the problem? The problem that I am encountering is not the actual alcohol it's self, or any drugs, or anything tangible for that matter. I do not think I am physically addicted to any substance currently as it stands. What I am addicted to, is escaping. And that's where the problem lays. I can't handle my reality, I want to get plastered, and forget about the shit show I call my life. I'm still terribly depressed and it keeps coming and going in waves and I can't really take it anymore. My life is currently rotating between, I want to kill myself and I'm writing a suicide note, to, my life is amazing and I love everyone so much and I'm so grateful for what I do have and people are inherently good. Which, is exhausting. A wave of sadness hit me the other day. Partially due to concerns, partially because of no reason. The other night I spent most of the evening with my boyfriend. I almost went into a flash back and started disassociating but was able to pull myself out of it before it had happened. He was extremely supportive and understanding, which was extremely comforting while I was in a more vulnerable place. When I got back to my friends place that I'm staying at, I was texting him, and something had come up. I've found myself scared to think about what things would be like with out him. Which, is insane because I haven't thought that about someone since my ex who I dated for almost two years. I don't find myself pushing him away, if anything I'm scared because I know I'm becoming attached, and commitment is scary, but I want it so badly. So, relationship wise, I'm extremely happy with where it's going. I'm very grateful I met someone who gets me and is there for me. It's going on the right direction, I'm in love, I'm happy, communication is there, things are good. So abnormal for me, but hey I'll take it. It's good and exciting. But, i miss my mom. My sisters, my brother. I know I have family, they're there, just not there right now. I have other family, family of choice vs. family of origin. I have people around me that help me out and are there for me. But I still miss them. So much. Before I readmitted me and my mom had probably the best mother daughter relationship I could of ever asked for. We had very real conversations about life; the good the bad, the nitty gritty details of addictions and my eating disorder. My mom confided in me and I the same. I miss my mother terribly. I miss my sisters and their beautiful sun-filled smiles. Sophia and her innocence. Audrey, who finally felt comfortable enough telling me her deep 5th grade coming of age secrets. Leo, who was just beginning to trust in me once more. I miss them. I miss them so much it hurts and I try not to think of it. So I won't talk about it anymore. I guess over all everything has improved and become more complicated. Still Canadian though, that's a major stress for me. But, I think I have figured out a way around it. I can get an F-1 visa, which is a student visa. Of course I'd have to take out loans to be able to go to school, and probably be in debt for the rest of my life, and after I'm done with school my visa is up and I cannot switch visas to something more permanent. So, it would just be delaying the process of going back to Canada. Which, at this point, I don't mind too much. Who knows where I'll be in four years. Four years ago I definitely didn't think I'd be back in treatment for a second time. Nor did I think I'd be alive at 20. At 16 I thought by time I was 18 I'd be dead. And "If I make it to twenty I'll have dentures" which didn't exactly happen. So yeah, maybe things have improved. I don't have much to complain about right now. Well, I have tons to complain about, I'm just choosing not to, because I'm not so sure how that'd serve me at this point. Wallowing in my own self pity doesn't help much anymore. I realize I need to get up, and move forward. I need to take action. It is my life and I do want it to be better then it has been. Ive recently reconnected with an old friend. I'm extremely grateful for her, as she has been there through the most depressive points in my life, and still has stuck by. She is family, and I love her dearly. Talking to her more recently I've realized how much I have changed, although I feel as though I haven't. We used to be a little group, me, her, my ex who is her step brother, her best friend, and her boyfriend who is now her husband. We used to do everything together. Before I had initially started treatment I lived with her because, well, my parents kicked me out. She had taken me in and for about two months we were this happy little family, until my suicide attempt. Which I regret so terribly and hate myself for putting them all through. When I was 18 I had an episode where I slit my wrists and hoped to die. Instead, my ex came into the bathroom where I was attempting to do so, and then a few minutes later, the rest of everyone. They rushed me to the ER and I was admitted to the psych hospital about twelve hours later, where I had never felt so alone. I spent five days in the hospital and then went to reasons inpatient for my ed because like my friend had said "be honest about your eating disorder". They had stayed with me while I was in the ER and the entire time she had been saying to be honest. And honestly if I didn't listen to her I probably never would have gone to treatment. So ash, if you're reading this, thank you. Thank you so much for everything you've ever done for me. I love you and you're a huge part of why I ever decided to change and learn to live. My parents always told me growing up that friends never last and family is forever. I'm upset, I'm hurt, I'm angry. Where the fuck are my parents now? If family is forever where are they? All I have is friends at this point. Which, again, I am so insanely grateful for. I don't know what I would be doing with out any of you. The people I choose to surround myself around are the people who actually stick around. Who knew, if you surround yourself by good people, good things happen. In my relapse this last time around, someone had asked me why I was killing myself over making my parents happy. At that time I wasn't exactly too sure what they meant and why they would say something like that. I was upset and hurt by it. But looking back just three months I completely understand that statement. Unfortunately, if I want to recover and live my life, I have to be separated from my parents. I love them so much. I love them to the moon and back. I have so much respect for them and would never do anything to hurt them. I think they are amazing people, but right now as it stands I have to love them from afar. And I'm coming to a place of acceptance with this. I think this is manageable at the point. As far as my visa goes, I've decided to get my F1. A student visa. I'll take out a loan and pay for school. I'll probably be in debt for the rest of my life but at this point, I do not care. All I'm doing is going to school for cosmetology and honestly, that's not that much money. So I need to finish high school. Which is on my list of things to do. This week I'm going to figure out how/where to go to get my transcripts. Or if I'm just going to take my GED. Also this week I'm going to meet up with a friend on Sunday and see if I can get a job anywhere. I'm excited honestly things feel like they're moving forward finally. And that's because of me. Because I finally decided to stop crying and wallowing in my self pity and actually get up and do something. The good news is, everyone else's voice is out of my head. I'm a lot more clear on what to do and how to do it.

Soraya Roberts | Longreads | January 2020 |  9 minutes (2,284 words)

I hate jocks. Like a good Gen X’er, I walked around my high school with that patch on my backpack — red lettering, white backdrop, frisbee-size. A jock high school. It’s impossible to overstate the contempt I had for sports as a kid. I hated what I took to be phony puddle-deep camaraderie, the brain-dead monosyllabic mottos, the aggressive anti-intellectualism. More than that, there appeared to be a very specific cruelty to it. The way there were always a couple of kids who were always picked last. The collective bullying if someone didn’t measure up to the collective goals. And none of the teachers ever seemed to be as mean as the coaches. They strutted around like grown children, permanently transfixed by the ambitions of their adolescence, actively excluding the same kids they had mocked in their youth.

When I hear about sports stars who kill or commit suicide or generally behave antisocially, I always think: no wonder. In a culture that destroys your body and your mind, no wonder. It’s something of a paradox, of course, because, as we are repeatedly told, physical activity is often essential to psychological health. But why is it so rarely the other way around? I watch Cheer and I watch Killer Inside: The Mind of Aaron Hernandez and I watch former NBA star Delonte West get callously thrashed and I wonder why these athletes’ inner lives weren’t as prized as their motor skills. That’s not true; I know why. It suits a lucrative industry that shapes you from childhood to keep you pliable. And what makes you more pliable than mental instability? What better way to get a winning team than to have it populated with people for whom winning validates their existence and for whom losing is tantamount to death?

* * *

There’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment in the Hernandez doc when there’s an unexpected crossover with Cheer. A childhood photo of the late NFL star and convicted murderer flashes on-screen as we learn that his female cousins made him want be a cheerleader. It was the same for Cheer’s La’Darius Marshall, who is shown in one snapshot as a young cheerleader, having discovered the sport after hanging out with one of his childhood girlfriends. Both men came from dysfunctional backgrounds: Marshall’s mom was a drug user who ended up in prison for five years. He was sexually abused, not to mention beaten up by his brothers; Hernandez found his own mother distant, and he was also physically and sexually abused. Both found solace in sports, though Hernandez had the kind of dad who “slapped the faggot right out of you,” per one childhood friend, so he ended up in football, his dad’s sport, instead. But their similarities underscore how professional athletics, when so closely tied to a person’s sense of self, can simultaneously be a boon to your mental health and its undoing.

Killer Inside is a misnomer for a start. Everything pointed to Hernandez’s conviction for murdering another footballer (semipro linebacker Odin Lloyd) — or at the very least a fair amount of psychological distress. (I’m not certain why the doc chose to focus on his sexuality — besides prurience — as it seemed to be the least of his concerns.) As he said himself to his mom, who almost immediately replaced her dead husband with Hernandez’s cousin’s husband when he was just a teenager: “I had nobody. What’d you think I was gonna do, become a perfect angel?” The way he fled from his home straight into the arms of a University of Florida football scholarship, having wrapped up high school a semester early, is telling. Football made him somebody. He depended on being a star player because the alternative was being nothing — as one journalist says in the doc, at Florida you had to “win to survive.” 

If the NFL didn’t know the depth of his suffering, they at least knew something, something a scouting service categorized as low “social maturity.” Their report stated that Hernandez’s responses “suggest he enjoys living on the edge of acceptable behavior and that he may be prone to partying too much and doing questionable things that could be seen as a problem for him and his team.” But his schools seemed to care more about his history of drug use than his high school concussion (his autopsy would later show chronic traumatic encephalopathy) or the fact that he busted a bar manager’s eardrum for confronting him with his bill. Physical pain was something you played through — one former linebacker described a row of Wisconsin players lining up with their pants down to get painkiller injections — and psychological pain was apparently no different. “It’s a big industry,” the ex-linebacker said, “and they’re willing to put basically kids, young men, in situations that will compromise their long-term health just to beat Northwestern.”

Cheerleading, the billion-dollar sport monopolized by a company called Varsity Brand, has a similarly mercenary approach. While the money is less extreme — the NFL’s annual revenue is more than $14 billion — the contingent self-worth is not. A number of the kids highlighted in Cheer had the kind of childhoods that made them feel like Hernandez, like they had nobody. Morgan Simianer in particular, the weaker flyer who is chosen for her “look,” radiates insecurity. Abandoned by both her parents, she was left as a high school sophomore in a trailer with her brother to fend for herself. “I felt, like, super alone,” Simianer said. “Like everyone was against me and I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t important to anyone.” Though Marshall’s experience was different, his memories of growing up are almost identical to his fellow cheerleader’s. “I felt like I was really alone,” he said. “There was nobody that was gonna come save me.” Like Hernandez, sports was all they had.

And if a competitive sport defines you, then its coach controls you. Hernandez’s father, the ex-football heavyweight, was known as the King; Monica Aldama, the head coach on Cheer, is the Queen. Describing how she felt when Aldama remembered her name at tryouts, Simianer said, “It was like I’m not just nobody.” For her ability to literally pummel a bunch of college kids into a winning team in half the regular time, Aldama has been characterized as both a saint and a sinner. While she claims to be an advocate for the troubled members of her team, she fails to see how their histories skew her intentions — her position as a maternal figure whose love is not unconditional ultimately puts the athletes more at risk. Aldama proudly comments on Simianer’s lack of fear, while it is a clear case of recklessness. This is a girl who is unable to express her pain in any way sacrificing her own life (literally — with her fragile ribs, one errant move could puncture an organ) for the woman who, ironically, made her feel like she was worthy of it. “I would do anything for that woman,” Simianer confesses at one point. “I would take a bullet for her.” Jury’s out on whether Marshall, the outspoken outsize talent who regularly clashes with his team, would do the same. His ambivalent approach to Aldama seems connected to how self-aware he is about his own struggles, which affords him freedom from her grasp. After she pushes him to be more empathetic, he explains, “It’s hard to be like that when you are mentally battling yourself.”

That Cheer and Killer Inside focus on the psychological as well as the physical strain faced by athletes — not to mention that athletics have no gender — is an improvement on the sports industries they present, which often objectify their stars as mere pedestals for their talents. The Navarro cheerleaders and Hernandez are both helped and hurt by sports, an outlet which can at once mean everything and nothing in the end. This is the legacy of the 1994 documentary Hoop Dreams, which followed two teen NBA hopefuls and was as much about the intersections of race and class as it was about basketball. Not to mention OJ: Made in America, the 2016 ESPN miniseries that explored how the story of the football star and alleged murderer reflected race relations in the United States in the mid-’90s. Conversely, mainstream film and television continues to be heavily male when it comes to sports, focusing on individual heroics, on pain leading to gain — the American Dream on steroids. Cheer and Killer Inside expose this narrative for the myth it is, spotlighting that all athletes have both minds and bodies that break, that their legacies as human beings are not about what they have won but who they are. But the climate in which they’ve landed cannot be ignored either, a social-media marinated world in which sports stars are no longer just players but people who are willing to be vulnerable with their public, who are even further willing to sign their names next to their problems for The Players’ Tribune, the six-year-old platform populated by content provided by pro athletes. “Everyone is going through something,” wrote NBA star Kevin Love in an industry-shaking post in 2018. “No matter what our circumstances, we’re all carrying around things that hurt — and they can hurt us if we keep them buried inside.”

Fast-forward to that new video of former basketball pro Delonte West, the one of him having his head stomped on so hard in the middle of the street that I still wonder how he survived it. He also came from an underprivileged, unstable background. He chose the college he did for its “family atmosphere.” Like Simianer, he fixated on his failures and played with abandon. Like her, he also had trouble verbalizing his feelings, to the point that they would overflow (in anger for him, tears for her). Though he says he was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder, he considers his biggest problem to be “self-loathing.” But why? He was a sports star who signed a nearly $13 million contract in his prime — what better reason for self-love? A study published two years ago in the Research Quarterly for Exercise and Sport, profiling the psychological well-being of 99 elite athletes, may provide an answer. The study found that those with high perfectionism, fear of failure, and performance-based self-worth had the highest levels of depression, anxiety, shame, and life dissatisfaction. Those with a more global self-worth that did not depend on their performance had the opposite outcome. As if to provide confirmation, a subsequent study published in Psychology of Sport and Exercise that same year revealed that athletes with contingent self-esteem were more likely to burn out. When sports become your only source of value, your wins ultimately don’t come to much.

* * *

The irony of all of this is that I came back to sports as an adult for my mental health. Obviously, I’m not an elite athlete — whatever the opposite of that is, I am. But having no stakes makes it that much easier to use physical activity for good. Nothing is dependent on it; that I’m moving at all is victory enough. But my circumstances are different. My jock high school was a private school, sports were (mostly) optional, and elite academics were where most of us found validation — and financial stability. “Conventional wisdom suggests that the sport offers an ‘escape’ from under-resourced communities suffering from the effects of systemic neglect,” Natalie Weiner writes in SB Nation. “If you work hard enough and make the right choices — playing football being one of the most accessible and appealing ways for boys, at least, to do that — you should be safe.” This reminds me of Aldama telling a room of underprivileged kids with limited prospects, “If you work hard at anything you do, you will be rewarded, you will be successful in life.” This is the American Dream–infused sports culture the media has traditionally plugged — the one, ironically, dismantled by the show in which Aldama herself appears. As Spike Lee tells a group of the top high school basketball players in the country in Hoop Dreams: “The only reason why you’re here, you can make their team win, and if their team wins, schools get a lot of money. This whole thing is revolving around money.” 

In the same SB Nation article, which focused on how school football coaches combat gun violence, Darnell Grant, a high school coach in Newark, admitted he prioritized schoolwork, something both Cheer and Killer Inside barely mentioned. “My thing is to at least have the choice,” he said. Without that, kids are caught in the thrall of sports, which serves the industry but not its players. Contingent self-worth does the same thing, which is why mental health is as much of a priority as education. The head football coach at a Chicago high school, D’Angelo Dereef, explained why dropping a problematic player — which is basically what happened to Hernandez at U of F, where coach Urban Meyer pushed him into the NFL draft rather than taking him back — doesn’t fix them. “They’re not getting into their brains to figure out why,” Dereef told the site. “It’s like putting a Band-Aid on a big cut — that’s not going to stop the bleeding.” While the NBA was the first major sports league to address mental health in its collective bargaining agreement in 2018, in mid-January the WNBA signed its own new CBA, which only vaguely promised “enhanced mental health benefits and resources.” That the sports industry as a whole does not go far enough to address the psychological welfare of its players is to their detriment, but also to their own: At least one study from 2003 has shown that prioritizing “athletes’ needs of autonomy” — the opposite of contingent self-worth — as opposed to conformity, has the potential to improve their motivation and performance. In sports terms, that’s a win-win.

* * *

Soraya Roberts is a culture columnist at Longreads.

As Grand Canyon National Park turns 100, one man hikes the entire length to save it

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Pete McBride is worried about the Grand Canyon, so he decided to hike it — all of it.

A few years ago, the adventure filmmaker, photographer and writer filmed the path of the Colorado River and was amazed to see that the river doesn’t reach the ocean anymore.

The river “flooded the sea for six million years, and it stopped two decades ago,” says McBride, who has traveled to 75 countries for a host of publications and projects over 20 years.

The trip “made me shift my focus, so now I do a lot of photography around conservation, around fresh water and around public lands.”

Having hiked Mount Everest and documented nature in Antarctica, he didn’t think the Grand Canyon needed his images to survive.

“I figured the Grand Canyon was one of the most protected pieces of landscape on the planet, so it didn’t require another photographer to go photograph there.”

Learning about current threats to the canyon changed his mind.

One of the seven natural wonders

One of the seven natural wonders of the world and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the Grand Canyon is one of the most photographed landscapes in the world.

The Grand Canyon is about five or six million years old, but rocks at the canyon bottom date back about 2 billion years. Human artifacts have been found dating back nearly 12,000 years to the Paleo-Indian period, and it’s been continuously occupied into the present day.

The land now known as Grand Canyon National Park, which celebrates its centennial anniversary in February, was first protected by the US government in 1893. When Congress resisted US President Theodore Roosevelt’s effort to make it a national park, which required Congressional approval, he protected it as a national monument in 1908, which he could do without their help. It became Grand Canyon National Park on February 26, 1919.

“In the Grand Canyon, Arizona has a natural wonder which is in kind absolutely unparalleled throughout the rest of the world,” said Roosevelt at the time. “I hope you will not have a building of any kind, not a summer cottage, a hotel or anything else, to mar the wonderful grandeur, the sublimity, the great loneliness and beauty of the canyon. Leave it as it is. You cannot improve on it.”

(Photo courtesy Erin Whittaker/National Park Service)

Given that illustrious history, McBride was surprised to hear from people working inside and around Grand Canyon National Park that the canyon faces multiple threats.

They come from increased helicopter flights, a proposed tram to the canyon floor, proposed tourist developments and possible uranium drilling. (The threat of uranium isn’t a hypothetical issue: Three buckets of uranium ore were stored at the park museum for nearly two decades, according to a park employee who went public in February. Federal officials are investigating his report.)

While some of the developers who want to make money off the park aren’t from the area, some are Native American tribes who have watched others profit for decades.

A park under threat of development

Most visitors spend only a few minutes at the South Rim, experiencing just that famous view of Grand Canyon National Park, unaware of the canyon’s role as home to ancient peoples, animals and plant life or the threats and economic pressures placed on it.

So McBride decided to hike the length of the canyon, a 750-mile journey (give or take a few miles).

There wasn’t any thru-trail for him to follow. And the hike would include an elevation gain and loss of around 100,000 vertical feet, unstable rock and temperatures fluctuating from 8 degrees to 116 degrees Fahrenheit.

“I don’t know why I got the idea to walk it,” since there’s no trail for much of the distance, he says. “I figured it’d be challenging, but I’ve done a lot in the back country and wilderness and I figured it couldn’t be that hard. And oh, how wrong I was.”

When McBride and his friend, writer Kevin Fedarko, first started planning their hike, they convinced experienced Grand Canyon hiker Rich Rudow to let them join his September 2015 hike.

It didn’t go well.

Loaded up with way too much camera gear and not prepared for the impact of the extreme heat on their bodies, the canyon made them sick and disoriented, forcing them out on their sixth day, as Fedarko later wrote in National Geographic.

The Colorado River winds its way along the West Rim of the Grand Canyon in the Hualapai Indian Reservation on January 10, 2019 near Peach Springs, Arizona. The Grand Canyon National Park is preparing to celebrate its centennial in February. (Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images)

Back in Flagstaff, Arizona, McBride was diagnosed with hyponatremia, a heat-induced imbalance of salts and minerals, which could have killed him.

There would be no thru-hike.

In fact, McBride and Fedarko thought about quitting as they got medical attention and recovered from their first attempt. But the local hiking community and Native American conservationists convinced them to complete the trip in order to draw attention to the magnificent natural wonder.

Hiking in two-week stints

During five weeks in October, they planned a hiking trip that involved hiking the canyon in two- to three-week stints starting in November 2015 going through March 2016, often bringing more experienced Grand Canyon hikers along, traveling about 15 miles per day and 150-200 miles per trip, completing about 600 miles before summer.

They skipped hiking during the deadly hot summer months — but still photographed the park — and finished up their last two-week stint in late October of 2016.

“There’s no trail for 70 to 80 percent of it, so you have to find your way and you have to learn how to find water. You have to make sure you don’t get pinned up on a cliff, just kinda figure out how to stay alive,” McBride said. “it’s a great lesson in humility and self-sufficiency and getting back in tune with our natural world.”

He carried just one camera, a Sony A7 with a wide angle lens 16-35, to shoot the video that became “Into the Grand Canyon,” a movie airing on National Geographic and streaming on NationalGeographic.com, and the pictures that became his book, “The Grand Canyon: Between River and Rim.”

McBride went through eight pairs of shoes over 13 months, hiked through four sprained ankles, two broken fingers, that case of hyponatremia, lost two girlfriends and even threw his heart out of rhythm, requiring heart surgery.

The lessons he learned, the wisdom he gained, the humility he earned — all of that, plus a careful selection of his images, were more than enough to fill his book.

Here are some of his discoveries on the journey, in his own words and adapted from his book:

It can be viewed from space

“Despite my fatigue, I often lay awake at night: sometimes too wired and worried about finding water and sometimes too spellbound by the spray of stars above us. Kevin (Fedarko) describes this celestial sweep as a second river — one that mirrors the main Colorado below us.

An aerial picture taken on January 3, 2019, shows the Grand Canyon covered with snow in Arizona. (Photo by DANIEL SLIM/AFP/Getty Images)

“Being inside the only canyon on the planet that can be seen from space makes you feel miniscule. And when you stare skyward, you realize one of this landscape’s unspoken marvels is the clarity of its night sky — one of the few landscapes in America without a blanket of light pollution. I lose myself in the space above and the idea that Mother Nature is still queen in some parts.

“As I doze, I overhear Kevin taking audio notes (easier than writing when he is tired), remarkably 100 yards from me. It is so quiet I think he is five feet away. He describes these moments ‘below the river of stars’ as if ‘the canyon is holding us in the palm of its hand.’”

A silence so profound

“When you get beyond the roar of the river inside the canyon, the silence is so profound and so ancient that it escapes description. At times it makes my ears ring because I’m trying to listen so hard to something that isn’t there. At other times the void of noise is so profound I wonder if it belongs to another world — a world we have long forgotten.

“In the evenings or early mornings, Kevin and I can converse in relaxed, tired voices even though we are the length of a football field apart.

“The same occurs when we hike, but if a single rib of rock separates us, we can’t hear each other holler at the top of our lungs, as if, at times, our voices can’t pierce the blanket of quiet that envelops us.”

The unfiltered night sky

“The clarity of Kevin’s ‘river of stars’ is hemmed on the edges by the distant glow of Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Otherwise, looking across the sweep of erosion, rock, and time, there is no sign of civilization before us. Of course, we do see jets blinking above, mostly headed to Los Angeles, but they die down after midnight.

“It’s so silent (that) you can be laying in the morning, and you can hear just the distant brush of the bat wings as they’re going out and looking for bugs, and you could hear the little clatter of sheep hooves on a rock layer that might be 1,000 feet below you.

“We just don’t have a silence that’s that deep … it made me realize just how magical that is and what a noisy world we live in.

“I think that was part of the magic where it changed me to a degree, and I now am very aware of noise and silence. It’s not silence without sounds. It’s a silence without the chaotic noise of human sounds. It’s a silence layered with these rich wildlife sounds that we’ve forgotten or our senses are not used to hearing.”

You, too, can go deeper into the canyon

While many visitors only visit the South Rim or take a short (and noisy) helicopter ride to view the canyon, McBride says there’s a better way to appreciate this magnificent national park without risking one’s life on a year-long adventure.

Pack a hat, good hiking shoes and lots of water and choose to spend the day at the canyon beyond a few minutes at the South Rim. “Experience it away from vehicles. You can do that in a variety of ways.”

A general view of the South Rim of the Grand Canyon in Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona, on February 13, 2017. (RHONA WISE/AFP/Getty Images)

Visitors can hike into the canyon, just remembering that the hike back up is twice as hard. Visitors can also ride a mule down into the canyon and back up, or ride one way and hike the other way.

Bicycle lovers can rent bicycles and ride the bike path along the South Rim or mountain bike on the trail on the North Rim (open seasonally). Guests using wheelchairs will find some wheelchair-accessible trails, including the Trail of Time and parts of the Rim Trail.

Hardier types can hike two-thirds of the way into the canyon (with all of your gear) and camp at Indian Garden Campground, where there is drinking water. There are also rafting trips for every skill level.

Listen to the sounds

If you take some time to listen to the sounds of the canyon, quietly, McBride says it may change you.

“The silence of this natural wonder starkly contrasts with the noise we make everywhere else, even as the canyon invites us to carry some of that silence within ourselves as we return to the world beyond the rims,” writes McBride.

“As I wonder if any of my images have captured that, I find myself pondering an even deeper question: Is it possible that this journey by foot, along with the photographic record that it has yielded, might help illuminate and underscore what we all share — as well as what we all risk losing — if we fail to protect this vast abyss by foregoing the urge to transform its beauty into cash and simply leaving it as it is?

“While the answer to that question is for others to decide, I do know one thing. After spending so many months drenched in the silence and magic of the seventh natural wonder of the world, I know there is only one place that looks and sounds like this.”

from FOX 4 Kansas City WDAF-TV | News, Weather, Sports https://fox4kc.com/2019/02/25/as-grand-canyon-national-park-turns-100-one-man-hikes-the-entire-length-to-save-it/

from Kansas City Happenings https://kansascityhappenings.wordpress.com/2019/02/26/as-grand-canyon-national-park-turns-100-one-man-hikes-the-entire-length-to-save-it/

Annie Laurie Daniel

Non Fiction Writing

14 November 2016

DBT: A dark comedy

(My Experiences in a women’s treatment facility)

Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, colloquially known as DBT, is a technique of therapy best described formally as: “a cognitive behavioral treatment that was originally developed to treat chronically suicidal individuals diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD) and it is now recognized as the gold standard psychological treatment for this population. In addition, research has shown that it is effective in treating a wide range of other disorders such as substance dependence, depression, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and eating disorders.”

THE ONLY THING THAT ENERGIZES ME IS THINKING ABOUT MYSELF

The waiting room was harshly lit. My eyes were heavy and swollen, my throat sore from chain smoking on the curb minutes before and my nose dripping from remnants of  DOC (drug of choice. DBT is filled with terms for all of our “trigger worthy” vices that land us in such intensive care.)The day after I graduated high school on June 12th, 2015 I was checked into a women’s residential treatment facility in Venice, California. I was eighteen, manic depressive and fresh off of a two year stint influenced by cocaine, harmful and traumatic sexual relations, liaisons and experiences and an overall toxicity that had me fifty-one-fiftyed too many times. A kind therapist and intake specialist had a thick clipboard with all of my information. I was crying, cold, and thirty pounds lighter than I am today. She went through a series of questions required for all intake’s into residential facilities. “Date of Birth?” “March 11th, 1997.” She paused. “Does that mean that you are seventeen?” No, I shook my head. It felt like a pumpkin that had been smashed by angry preteens, orange and rotting, seeds spilling out all around me. “I just turned eighteen.” She continued. “When was the last time you did a DOC and in what quantity?” The night before there were fifty of my classmates packed into my house in Bel Air. We had graduated from Le Lycée Français de Los Angeles less than 24 hours ago. I remembered all the thick white lines and the pink marble of my mother’s bathroom, several bottles of champagne consumed in my honor by myself, and the thick black smoke filled lungs heart and (soul?) before men used my body as their ashtray and I didn’t know how bitter other people and parts of myself could taste. Lonely and lost and very confused. Little to no self worth or inherent values or morals. Manic episodes weekly. Incredibly unstable, drug addicted, borderline alcoholic, uses sexual relations to fill the void and male figure left empty by absent father. “Cocaine and Alcohol, less than 12 hours ago. Moderate quantity.” She wrote it all down. “Why, aside from the obvious, are you here?” I remember shivering in that waiting room, although in the middle of June it must have been quite warm. She offered me a blanket and I accepted. Wrapped up like a baby. Poetry from the dirtiest of mouths makes them howl in delight. An atrocity committed for the amusement of others, a struggle to be heard amongst an unforgiving crowd. An attempt to connect to those who see the filth and hear not the words. “Sexual assault?” I nodded. “Suicide attempts?” A slower nod yes. “Well, then you’re in the right place.”

I checked into treatment alone while my family was on a two month vacation in India, many thousands of miles away. I checked out of treatment alone while my family was in France after their exotic adventure.

(The difference between a relapse and something you can get away with)

There’s something amazing about recovering addicts, regardless of the addiction. We were a small group of women in age ranging from eighteen to late fifties. We each had one roommate in separate room’s of two incredibly well kept houses on the West Side of Los Angeles. We weren’t allowed to use the phone or take a walk without permission from a “Community Consular”, one of the many qualified and over motivational 24/7 staff on location. We had curfews and set schedules and rules and requirements for every section of free time not spent in one of our many therapy groups including but not limited to: ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) is a unique empirically based psychological intervention that uses acceptance and mindfulness strategies), CBT (Cognitive behavioral therapy), Mindfulness, Art Therapy, etc. We were loaded into minivans and escorted everywhere we went. It was posh, expensive, exhausting. To be forced into a position and required to examine and evaluate your every flaw and how to potentially...fix it? Absurd. I was an adult, legally speaking, I knew that much. I had lived on my own since I was fifteen, I didn’t need to be babied at rehab. Silly thoughts from a silly girl. I was there for a purpose, for a reason. My extreme emotions that had fueled my art and every action I made in my life for years was now diluted and told to be quiet. Quiet your unquiet mind, someone is paying for you to get better. Someone is paying for you to be healthy and function. I didn’t want to be functional, and I’m not sure I wanted to be alive. Life can be a cunt with its whirring wheels, wheels that are not intact but never stop. That's not to say that there have not been sweet moments among the bitter and alone. There have been sunny afternoons and sleepy mornings and nights that shake steadily until the sun rises. There has been wine poured and champagne kisses that were fucked out of me in baths and showers and beds all across Los Angeles and Paris. Tormented by a love that we cannot grasp. Too much love for the things that hurt us, that fill us temporarily with a feeling of purpose and meaning. Indulging in emptiness and romanticizing pain. Windows open, arms outstretched.

Some really cool people that i met and were really cool to me but the world was a huge dick to them

My roommate was Yasmine. She’s still one of my best friends to this day, the other night we went dancing in Lincoln Heights and drank Gin & Tonics and smoked spliffs and cigarettes in her apartment in Hollywood and laughed and cried about our time in Venice together. We are both Hollywood women, not meant to be confined by the ocean, the salt in the sea only wishes it could mirror the salt in our tears. We stopped crying out of sadness and started crying out of happiness over the summer. On June 15th, 2015 she barged into the house we resided in during those months by the saltless sea off of Lincoln and Rose and screamed “I’mmm baaaaack !” I hadn't met her yet, but she had been temporarily discharged after her insurance failed. 9 years older, 7 inches shorter, beautiful brown haired expat raised in Saudi Arabia with a similar manic depressive bipolar diagnosis as my own. It was love at first sight. We painted in the evenings, and we smoked in the mornings. We waited in line together twice a day outside of the “medicine chamber” where our beloved caretakers would sit patiently as we choked down our cocktail of numbing mood stabilizers and antidepressants and antianxiety and a few others just for fun. We gossiped until early in the morning about our lovers and our dreams and she read “Tropic of Cancer” out loud to me as I wrote her letters in French. The world was unkind to her in Burbank where she worked by day as a “creative assistant”. Men used her body as they used mine and left her strapped into hospital beds hazy and manic.

Ann loved frozen bananas. She was in her early fifties but looked a decade older. A mother of many from North Dakota, she was almost always silent, a woman raised in a time where women weren’t allowed to take up space with their bodies or minds, especially when they were as unquiet as her’s. There was a smoking bench at the facility, a beautiful stone slab covered with vines. I’ve never met an addict (recovered or in process of) that doesn’t smoke, aside from Ann. She would sit with us while we smoked on breaks between groups, our only vice still indulged. We would bitch heavily about our group leaders, our therapists and the many rights we no longer had, choosing to ignore the fact that we were there for a reason and had willingingly removed the toxic black tar from our eyes and hearts. While we blew out smoke and tap tap tapped our hands against our heads, legs and into the dirt Ann would quietly smile and nod. She knew the tax of being a woman too loud for the men around her. There was a girl my age that came into the program in hellfire. Court ordered, a self proclaimed sex addict, borderline personality queen high on compulsive lies. She would regularly reach into the freezer and eat Ann’s frozen bananas. Ann learned to yell when she confronted the frozen banana thief. The gang of gals was sitting in our usual smoking spot waiting to be driven in a godforsaken Honda Odyssey to Pottery Therapy off of Venice Blvd when Ann screamed for the first time, standing up for herself and her stolen frozen bananas. She doesn't deserve to have an abusive husband or resentful daughters. She deserves to live far, far away from Bismarck, North Dakota, with as many frozen bananas as she wants.

I miss myself a lot

I didn’t need help. I was older. I was mature. When I was fifteen my parents moved back to the east coast, the dirty south my father hailed from. My parents always hated LA. When I was fifteen my mother gave me the opportunity to live on my own. He was 56 when I was born, the last after several marriages and children, and he was deeply uninterested in my existence. I was a pet in my parents home. I didn’t have the brains that landed my sister at The London School of Economics, and it was clear I wasn’t going to be following in their path of super-lawyers. “Annie Laurie is such a hoot ! You know she’s an artist ?” I lived with a boy named Max in Hollywood, he was 21, Swiss-Ukrainian, would wear a thick pea coat and scarf even in July and rolled his own cigarettes as he waited for the mail. I went to Lycée and would illegally drive my mother’s BMW to school. It was a charmed life. Shortly after I fled for France for good, elated to be free of smog and freeways once again. I went to school and I took the métro or sometimes the bus. I had a lover named Anthony and I read lots of poetry and I got drunk on Tuesday nights and sometimes smoked hash. I didn’t do any drugs and I didn’t sleep around. I went to all my classes and I made films with my friends on the streets of Paris and I wrote in my diary and slept in on Sundays and kissed a lot of my friends for fun. Independence is earned. I thought that I had earned adulthood by living without my parents, cooking and cleaning for myself in a small apartment, I didn’t ever think I would be a manic, drug addicted, suicidal lady of the night. When I entered treatment I knew that I needed something, but there was no clear self diagnosis. I went back to Paris for a long weekend in May of 2015. Somber and skinny, my friends contacted my parents and suggested something dire needed to be done. I don’t remember that trip very well except for crying on the train from Rennes to Paris. I suppose that’s the trip that saved my life, but I guess I’ll never really know.

Leave me alone;

To be 14 in the south of France

Holding hands with a Romanian girl who I swore was my best friend and who’s name I cannot remember after 3 cocktails, 2 mimosas and a tall Pacifico.

She had black hair and a laugh that was pure. Her hand was smaller than mine, and we laughed while running through traffic in the streets of Nice, before there was terror and her passport rejected by Sarkozy.

I had my first wet kiss, my braces thick and my hair frizzy without my western appliances. I left my purse on a beach in Nice and lost my phone, wallet, and self esteem with a man much older, the first of many to come.

I remember drinking clear liquid that resembled rubbing alcohol but was purchased from a French man in a liquor store that merely mumbled “put in in your purse, don’t tell the police you bought it here.”

My first cigarette in the park, a Marlboro Menthol stolen from my sisters pack. Finally, feeling apart my of my culture. Many men have said “but you’re not really french, are you?”.

No, I was not born there. My parents are not French, one a blue blooded Boston bred heiress, the other a southern gentlemen that worked his way from nothing into deep wealth and the miscommunication and distance that comes with it.

But yes, I respond. Drunk, almost always, do you want to see my EU passport? My father always hated LA and I suspect he’s always hated me. I’m not resentful or angry at my parents. They provided me with so much……..opportunity. They allowed me to fend for myself with a platinum Amex. That was all they knew how to do, burried in their work and their lives. They were happy that way.

 DEAR DIARY: (THE CLASSIC OVERSHARER) (ARE ALL ADDICTS OBSESSED WITH THEMSELVES LIKE ACTORS OR JUST ME) Friday, June 12th, 2015: It is over. I am empty and alone. I am aware that this is the best thing for me but I am sad and scared. I am so deeply sad. Saturday, June 13th, 2015: They say that the first few days are the hardest. I believe it. I’m not allowed to make phone calls or leave this building until tomorrow. Play the game and try and get better. It’s all I can hope for. There’s one woman I’ve met that said she has a finacé and a boyfriend and has been in and out of treatment for over a year. Her mother told me that I look like I’m coming from the stables or a barn. Sunday, June 14th, 2015: Whenever I sleep I have nightmares. Wednesday, June 17th, 2015: The mornings here smell like ocean and grass and nice wood. We don’t have mornings like this in Bel Air. It reminds me of when I was a kid in the south of France, when I was little and very happy to be alive. Tuesday, June 30th, 2015: Today I feel frustrated, untrusted, apprehensive, nauseated. How’s that for mindfulness?

A question commonly asked in mindfulness: “When do you remember feeling loved? Happy? What brings you purpose?” I remember not feeling loved for six months in Echo Park. He was a sculptor, how ironic, as if I wasn’t already made of stone. I wanted him to see the value in me beyond my pussy but as he so often told me “If I can’t commit to my art, how can I commit to you?” I remember not feeling loved outside of dirty punk shows, a place I once considered a community had left me behind as a groupie and nothing more. Now that some time has passed I’m lucky that I escaped those dark sweaty rooms alive, they had nothing to offer me but toxicity and cruel partners with hard hearts and fast fast fast fucking guitars. I remember not feeling loved on the métro from République, raining quickly, my body moving slowly. Are these memories of wasted energy and soulsucking relations and using my body to validate my very existence to all men and mostly myself the reason I was in this situation in the first place? Reflection is key for a good memoir. While I had plenty of time to reflect on every poor life choice and abhorred interaction I had gotten myself into, there’s plenty of thoughts and memories that are still absorbed in the pink cloud of recovery. Sobriety is a mystical concept to me still. I’m livid that cocaine was done in my bathroom in my house a few weeks ago while I slept ten feet away. Friends don’t mess with other friend’s addictions, but my comfort and safety wasn’t a priority when a crisp 100 dollar bill was passed around by my classmates. When I was seventeen I was sleeping with a heroin addict. He was tall and skinny and very mean. YOU DON’T REMEMBER TELLING ME YOU WERE IN LOVE WITH ME WHEN YOU WERE SPEEDBALLING ON HEROIN THANK GOD YOU DON’T REMEMBER WHEN I SAID THAT I LOVED YOU TOO. I had to pull him out of my bathtub when he was nodding off one night at a party. He was wearing a red silk kimono. The dye had started to leak and melt off of his robe like blood. It got all over me as I carried his lanky body into my bed. I locked the door and cried as I put my cheek to his chest, cheek to chest, cheek to chest to hear his heartbeat. I took bumps of cocaine every time I made sure he was still alive. This was my senior year winter formal after party. I remember feeling very alone as I smoked a cigarette in my room waiting for him to wake up. The sun rose, and he eventually rose with it. Gave me a kiss on my face, did a bump of blow, and called a friend for a ride home. “You’re a good girl, Annie.” I nodded. I was a good girl, indeed.

Cocaine changed me in a way that I really liked. I lost a lot of weight and I sure did feel great ! Everyone I knew was a casual user. Most people I know still are. My year and a half sobriety is on December 12th, and I’m getting a cake. You can have some if you’ve never done coke in my house (most of my friends and one of my roommates did not pass this test.) I was aggressive and really happy at parties. I made myself vomit and I felt sublime. I slept through classes and broke into the bathroom at school to stop my bloody noses. I was happy to “function so well on such a great drug.” I had the money for it so I was fine. I was a compulsive liar, and so were all of my friends. I was satiated in my own misery and musically masturbated to my own crash. No one was stopping me, and the numbness that I lived in was far more enjoyable than living in a mediocre emotion of existence. Mundane rituals of Dicté and SAT prep were interrupted when punk boys in beat up cars would pick me up in Culver City and fuck me in dirty apartments in Santa Monica before taking me home to Bel-Air. I really missed my room in France. They didn’t like me talking about it very much. My connection to my home was pretentious and I was a bore. Cocaine made me interesting and more importantly, desirable (the drug and my constant possession of mass amounts kept my musicians happy and unkind.) I had shitty friends and no support system and no stability and that is the end of that.

 THINGS MY MOTHER HAS TAUGHT ME:

NEVER TAKE YOUR PURSE OUT AT THE PIGALLE METRO STOP

HOW TO DRINK WINE WITH DINNER (AND AFTER DINNER AND BEFORE)

HOW TO REGULATE AND RESTRICT EATING. THE ONLY ACCEPTABLE CALORIES ARE THE ONES IN YOUR MARTINI

GUILT TRIPS

THINGS MY MOTHER NEVER TAUGHT ME:

HOW TO FORGIVE OTHERS AND MYSELF

HOW TO LOVE SOMEONE, FUNCTIONALLY

PUSSY IS SACRED, DICK COMES FOR FREE.

The first time I was raped was April 2015. Outside of a party in Palm Springs during Coachella weekend, I waited for my Uber. I was there with a man I had met at a party, we flirted a little and did lots of cocaine. That was it. It was warm out when a stranger pushed me against the side of a truck, pulled my pants down, and fucked me. I was in shock. I didn’t start crying until the next day, when my friends abandoned me at the festival. Alone, I drove home. Pussy is sacred, dick comes for free. It comes when we don’t want it. Now we live in a time where over wine me and my best friends talk about the first time we were raped instead of first kiss stories. Losing a part of myself the second time I was raped by an older student at CalArts, the third time I was raped by my older boyfriend the fourth fifth and sixth times I was raped and I started losing count. When my mother was seventeen in 1973, driving outside of Portland, Oregon her Jeep broke down. While she attempted to fix it herself, two men in their 20’s pulled over and offered to help her jumpstart her car. Instead, they took turns raping her on the side of the road. Against her car. Like mother like daughter, raped by strangers in the night. Strange men with fast hands and a female timidness that won’t leave my bones after years of instruction to smile and make eye contact and be friendly and inviting. Pussy is sacred, so sacred men are willing to do anything to take it from you. Sometimes people don’t believe that you were attacked because they saw you arrive and leave the party together, regardless of the fact that your dress was broken and you were falling everywhere and couldn't open your eyes and your shoes had blood on them and he said that we was going to take you home. He said he was going to take me home. He told my friends he was getting me water and would clean the blood. I hope my blood stained his sheets I hope it never washed out. He said that red was his least favorite color. Funny, because there were dashes of it everywhere (RED LIKE my blood my hair my blood my hair my blood my hair).

I could write about why I ended up where I did and how I got started and the first line I ever did and the first manic episode I ever had and every infuriating moment spent being babysat and driven around in a Honda Odyssey and all the things I couldn’t talk about and all the things that I did anyways. How my art is fueled by my traumas and elations. But for now this is enough and I am enough as I am at least for today. I hope you enjoyed your stay. Cumbacksoon.

Be a Good Sport

Soraya Roberts | Longreads | January 2020 |  9 minutes (2,284 words)

I hate jocks. Like a good Gen X’er, I walked around my high school with that patch on my backpack — red lettering, white backdrop, frisbee-size. A jock high school. It’s impossible to overstate the contempt I had for sports as a kid. I hated what I took to be phony puddle-deep camaraderie, the brain-dead monosyllabic mottos, the aggressive anti-intellectualism. More than that, there appeared to be a very specific cruelty to it. The way there were always a couple of kids who were always picked last. The collective bullying if someone didn’t measure up to the collective goals. And none of the teachers ever seemed to be as mean as the coaches. They strutted around like grown children, permanently transfixed by the ambitions of their adolescence, actively excluding the same kids they had mocked in their youth.

When I hear about sports stars who kill or commit suicide or generally behave antisocially, I always think: no wonder. In a culture that destroys your body and your mind, no wonder. It’s something of a paradox, of course, because, as we are repeatedly told, physical activity is often essential to psychological health. But why is it so rarely the other way around? I watch Cheer and I watch Killer Inside: The Mind of Aaron Hernandez and I watch former NBA star Delonte West get callously thrashed and I wonder why these athletes’ inner lives weren’t as prized as their motor skills. That’s not true; I know why. It suits a lucrative industry that shapes you from childhood to keep you pliable. And what makes you more pliable than mental instability? What better way to get a winning team than to have it populated with people for whom winning validates their existence and for whom losing is tantamount to death?

* * *

There’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment in the Hernandez doc when there’s an unexpected crossover with Cheer. A childhood photo of the late NFL star and convicted murderer flashes on-screen as we learn that his female cousins made him want be a cheerleader. It was the same for Cheer’s La’Darius Marshall, who is shown in one snapshot as a young cheerleader, having discovered the sport after hanging out with one of his childhood girlfriends. Both men came from dysfunctional backgrounds: Marshall’s mom was a drug user who ended up in prison for five years. He was sexually abused, not to mention beaten up by his brothers; Hernandez found his own mother distant, and he was also physically and sexually abused. Both found solace in sports, though Hernandez had the kind of dad who “slapped the faggot right out of you,” per one childhood friend, so he ended up in football, his dad’s sport, instead. But their similarities underscore how professional athletics, when so closely tied to a person’s sense of self, can simultaneously be a boon to your mental health and its undoing.

Killer Inside is a misnomer for a start. Everything pointed to Hernandez’s conviction for murdering another footballer (semipro linebacker Odin Lloyd) — or at the very least a fair amount of psychological distress. (I’m not certain why the doc chose to focus on his sexuality — besides prurience — as it seemed to be the least of his concerns.) As he said himself to his mom, who almost immediately replaced her dead husband with Hernandez’s cousin’s husband when he was just a teenager: “I had nobody. What’d you think I was gonna do, become a perfect angel?” The way he fled from his home straight into the arms of a University of Florida football scholarship, having wrapped up high school a semester early, is telling. Football made him somebody. He depended on being a star player because the alternative was being nothing — as one journalist says in the doc, at Florida you had to “win to survive.” 

If the NFL didn’t know the depth of his suffering, they at least knew something, something a scouting service categorized as low “social maturity.” Their report stated that Hernandez’s responses “suggest he enjoys living on the edge of acceptable behavior and that he may be prone to partying too much and doing questionable things that could be seen as a problem for him and his team.” But his schools seemed to care more about his history of drug use than his high school concussion (his autopsy would later show chronic traumatic encephalopathy) or the fact that he busted a bar manager’s eardrum for confronting him with his bill. Physical pain was something you played through — one former linebacker described a row of Wisconsin players lining up with their pants down to get painkiller injections — and psychological pain was apparently no different. “It’s a big industry,” the ex-linebacker said, “and they’re willing to put basically kids, young men, in situations that will compromise their long-term health just to beat Northwestern.”

Cheerleading, the billion-dollar sport monopolized by a company called Varsity Brand, has a similarly mercenary approach. While the money is less extreme — the NFL’s annual revenue is more than $14 billion — the contingent self-worth is not. A number of the kids highlighted in Cheer had the kind of childhoods that made them feel like Hernandez, like they had nobody. Morgan Simianer in particular, the weaker flyer who is chosen for her “look,” radiates insecurity. Abandoned by both her parents, she was left as a high school sophomore in a trailer with her brother to fend for herself. “I felt, like, super alone,” Simianer said. “Like everyone was against me and I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t important to anyone.” Though Marshall’s experience was different, his memories of growing up are almost identical to his fellow cheerleader’s. “I felt like I was really alone,” he said. “There was nobody that was gonna come save me.” Like Hernandez, sports was all they had.

And if a competitive sport defines you, then its coach controls you. Hernandez’s father, the ex-football heavyweight, was known as the King; Monica Aldama, the head coach on Cheer, is the Queen. Describing how she felt when Aldama remembered her name at tryouts, Simianer said, “It was like I’m not just nobody.” For her ability to literally pummel a bunch of college kids into a winning team in half the regular time, Aldama has been characterized as both a saint and a sinner. While she claims to be an advocate for the troubled members of her team, she fails to see how their histories skew her intentions — her position as a maternal figure whose love is not unconditional ultimately puts the athletes more at risk. Aldama proudly comments on Simianer’s lack of fear, while it is a clear case of recklessness. This is a girl who is unable to express her pain in any way sacrificing her own life (literally — with her fragile ribs, one errant move could puncture an organ) for the woman who, ironically, made her feel like she was worthy of it. “I would do anything for that woman,” Simianer confesses at one point. “I would take a bullet for her.” Jury’s out on whether Marshall, the outspoken outsize talent who regularly clashes with his team, would do the same. His ambivalent approach to Aldama seems connected to how self-aware he is about his own struggles, which affords him freedom from her grasp. After she pushes him to be more empathetic, he explains, “It’s hard to be like that when you are mentally battling yourself.”

That Cheer and Killer Inside focus on the psychological as well as the physical strain faced by athletes — not to mention that athletics have no gender — is an improvement on the sports industries they present, which often objectify their stars as mere pedestals for their talents. The Navarro cheerleaders and Hernandez are both helped and hurt by sports, an outlet which can at once mean everything and nothing in the end. This is the legacy of the 1994 documentary Hoop Dreams, which followed two teen NBA hopefuls and was as much about the intersections of race and class as it was about basketball. Not to mention OJ: Made in America, the 2016 ESPN miniseries that explored how the story of the football star and alleged murderer reflected race relations in the United States in the mid-’90s. Conversely, mainstream film and television continues to be heavily male when it comes to sports, focusing on individual heroics, on pain leading to gain — the American Dream on steroids. Cheer and Killer Inside expose this narrative for the myth it is, spotlighting that all athletes have both minds and bodies that break, that their legacies as human beings are not about what they have won but who they are. But the climate in which they’ve landed cannot be ignored either, a social-media marinated world in which sports stars are no longer just players but people who are willing to be vulnerable with their public, who are even further willing to sign their names next to their problems for The Players’ Tribune, the six-year-old platform populated by content provided by pro athletes. “Everyone is going through something,” wrote NBA star Kevin Love in an industry-shaking post in 2018. “No matter what our circumstances, we’re all carrying around things that hurt — and they can hurt us if we keep them buried inside.”

Fast-forward to that new video of former basketball pro Delonte West, the one of him having his head stomped on so hard in the middle of the street that I still wonder how he survived it. He also came from an underprivileged, unstable background. He chose the college he did for its “family atmosphere.” Like Simianer, he fixated on his failures and played with abandon. Like her, he also had trouble verbalizing his feelings, to the point that they would overflow (in anger for him, tears for her). Though he says he was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder, he considers his biggest problem to be “self-loathing.” But why? He was a sports star who signed a nearly $13 million contract in his prime — what better reason for self-love? A study published two years ago in the Research Quarterly for Exercise and Sport, profiling the psychological well-being of 99 elite athletes, may provide an answer. The study found that those with high perfectionism, fear of failure, and performance-based self-worth had the highest levels of depression, anxiety, shame, and life dissatisfaction. Those with a more global self-worth that did not depend on their performance had the opposite outcome. As if to provide confirmation, a subsequent study published in Psychology of Sport and Exercise that same year revealed that athletes with contingent self-esteem were more likely to burn out. When sports become your only source of value, your wins ultimately don’t come to much.

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The irony of all of this is that I came back to sports as an adult for my mental health. Obviously, I’m not an elite athlete — whatever the opposite of that is, I am. But having no stakes makes it that much easier to use physical activity for good. Nothing is dependent on it; that I’m moving at all is victory enough. But my circumstances are different. My jock high school was a private school, sports were (mostly) optional, and elite academics were where most of us found validation — and financial stability. “Conventional wisdom suggests that the sport offers an ‘escape’ from under-resourced communities suffering from the effects of systemic neglect,” Natalie Weiner writes in SB Nation. “If you work hard enough and make the right choices — playing football being one of the most accessible and appealing ways for boys, at least, to do that — you should be safe.” This reminds me of Aldama telling a room of underprivileged kids with limited prospects, “If you work hard at anything you do, you will be rewarded, you will be successful in life.” This is the American Dream–infused sports culture the media has traditionally plugged — the one, ironically, dismantled by the show in which Aldama herself appears. As Spike Lee tells a group of the top high school basketball players in the country in Hoop Dreams: “The only reason why you’re here, you can make their team win, and if their team wins, schools get a lot of money. This whole thing is revolving around money.” 

In the same SB Nation article, which focused on how school football coaches combat gun violence, Darnell Grant, a high school coach in Newark, admitted he prioritized schoolwork, something both Cheer and Killer Inside barely mentioned. “My thing is to at least have the choice,” he said. Without that, kids are caught in the thrall of sports, which serves the industry but not its players. Contingent self-worth does the same thing, which is why mental health is as much of a priority as education. The head football coach at a Chicago high school, D’Angelo Dereef, explained why dropping a problematic player — which is basically what happened to Hernandez at U of F, where coach Urban Meyer pushed him into the NFL draft rather than taking him back — doesn’t fix them. “They’re not getting into their brains to figure out why,” Dereef told the site. “It’s like putting a Band-Aid on a big cut — that’s not going to stop the bleeding.” While the NBA was the first major sports league to address mental health in its collective bargaining agreement in 2018, in mid-January the WNBA signed its own new CBA, which only vaguely promised “enhanced mental health benefits and resources.” That the sports industry as a whole does not go far enough to address the psychological welfare of its players is to their detriment, but also to their own: At least one study from 2003 has shown that prioritizing “athletes’ needs of autonomy” — the opposite of contingent self-worth — as opposed to conformity, has the potential to improve their motivation and performance. In sports terms, that’s a win-win.

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Soraya Roberts is a culture columnist at Longreads.

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