Luke Castellan // Percy Jackson and the Olympians

sorry but the fact that alex knows she's in a timeloop but everyone else doesn't is so heartbreaking especially when it comes to jonas. Imagine you forged an unbreakable bond with your brother or you both hate eachother beyond belief. and then the next time you see him he doesn't remember anything? an entire relationship erased?? an endless cycle of never going past one point in time?

hello wednesday

i have finally accepted this morning that i am not a girl’s girl.

i hate women.

but i recognize a queen.

i have never seen the number 444 so constantly like i have the past two days— or even twenty four hours.

i am not alone. only my brain is- in my skull.

-x

I’m very frightened every time I get on my husband’s motorcycle with him. 

He’s a very responsible driver, that is in no way the problem - he doesn’t take unnecessary risks, he isn’t a daredevil type, and having been in a terrible wreck as a young teen, he has a certain appreciation for the dangers of the road that I don’t have, because I haven’t lived through something like that.

I trust him with my life, implicitly.

I fear what a negligent driver may do, or if some other random event of terribleness might befall us while we ride, though.

I’ve lived with anxiety disorders for more of my life than not - one of the most painful parts of living with the trauma and the disorders I have is that I remember what I was like before them. Before they took root. I remember the child I was, fearless and adventurous. I try to feed that part of me, breathe life back into it by doing things like this because I’m angry I was robbed of that - so, I put my trust in the man that loves me, and I get on his motorcycle. 

In a strange way, I reach some level of zen while on the bike. I don’t know if I’m right about it, but I have a theory as to why that is; it’s sort of like Anxiety Input rates finally match the Anxiety Output rates, and so I wind up feeling very calm and centered.

Most of the time, my spine is producing enough cortisol to outrun a lion (my physician’s words, not mine), even while I’m just sat on the couch. But if you put me on a motorcycle, driving on winding roads anywhere between 45mph and 80mph, that cortisol is suddenly appropriate - my spine is no longer at odds with my environment.

If you’ve never been on a motorcycle as a passenger or even a rider, this may be something you don’t know; when the bike leans, you need to lean with it. That might feel dangerous, counterintuitive, but if you pull in the opposite direction, you’ll send it careening. Lean with the driver and the bike, even if you’re going 70mph around a long, curved, on-ramp.

That is a very difficult concept when you live with chronic, horrendous anxiety. As in most ventures of wellness, my husband is my rock, though. He leans, and I lean with him, because I trust him. He loves me, he is the only person I have never doubted loves me. He would do anything for me, he would never put me in harm’s way, and so if he is leaning, it must be safe to lean, and I will lean with him. 

It can be particularly frightening when we’re taking a turn so severe that I can sense the asphalt getting nearer.  We’ll be almost parallel with the ground, and that’s scary, but I can do it if it’s with him. I feel safe with him.

There’s a bridge we used to ride over all the time back when we lived in SC - the bridge connected a lot of highway traffic in and out of Savannah, GA, so it was busy, and fast (think maybe 60-80mph). It was also 135ft above the Savannah River. We would get so high up, so fast, my ears would pop at the altitude change. Objectively, a terrifying adrenaline rush. 

I would feel such peace there, though.

One time, I let go of my husband while we crossed the bridge. As we neared its apex, I spread my arms out, and shut my eyes. The music in my helmet was blasting, the wind was severe so high up, I had to clench my thighs hard around the bike and my husband to keep balance, to keep on the bike, but for a moment I was flying.

I remember I only took that risk once, because letting go of the rider is a bad idea in general, but I just needed to know what it would feel like. Just once.

When I put my arms back around him, I remember I was laughing to myself a little, I felt like I might cry, but I wasn’t sure why.

I stared at the back of his neck, and that’s actually what got me writing this. I was sitting down and trying to write something else entirely, but I got to thinking about the back of my husband’s neck, which I am well-acquainted with because of the motorcycle riding.

He has a strong neck, strong trapezes, his hair comes to a point at the base of his skull. He’s got these thick, luscious tresses of red hair, but when he has his helmet on and I can only see the base of his skull, the back of his neck, I see those fine hairs there, tangerine and lemon, coming to a perfect point at the center of the first knob of his spine. 

His neck, like the rest of him, is freckled, little cafe au lait spots smattered across his skin, and he has something kind of like a mole, but it’s pale. Not a skin tag, but something else. I don’t know what it is, I just know it’s on the right side of the back of his neck, it’s only very slightly risen like a mole might be, and I like it like I like all of his body and skin. 

Sometimes I’ll look at the back of his neck while he rides, and I’ll think, ‘I may die on this contraption. It could be any second now. Some semi won’t check their blindspot, some drunk asshole that got behind the wheel will veer, someone looking at their stupid fuckin’ phone will round a corner too fast and not see us, someone will run a light, a stop sign, we’ll hit gravel or sand and it will send the wheels into a tizzy, we’ll hit a puddle that’s covering a deep pothole, we’ll run over glass from a prior crash that wasn’t cleaned up, and we’ll spin out, and I’ll go tens of feet into the air, and I’ll break every bone in my body when I land, or I’ll die on impact, or we both will, but if it’s now, if it’s like this, okay.’ 

Every time I get on that bike, I think, ‘I am agreeing to the terms; this may be the last thing I ever do, this activity is particularly dangerous, the drivers near here are maniacs on good days, anything could go wrong. I understand the terms, and I agree to them.’ 

Maybe it’s that I’m with my husband, and I tell him how grateful for him I am all the time, how much I love him, I wax poetic about him every chance he gives me, I tell him every day how handsome he is, to drive safely, that I love him so much, that I miss him when he’s gone from me, and so I can be okay with the last thing I ever see being the back of his neck, because everything that I absolutely need to say has already been said.

Sometimes, when we ride, I’ll pretend I’m back in time. As if I’m very old, dying in a bed somewhere else, and I’m time-traveling back to wherever, whenever it is I’m with him, and I think, ‘oh, right, we used to do this - we would go on his motorcycle, and it felt just like this.’

It’s sort of how I romanticize the present. I treat it like it may already be gone, like it’s a fond memory I’m revisiting, and I’m getting to experience my youth again, the crazy things I did, how absolutely insane I was about my husband, how much fun I had with my friends - I do this when I’m off the bike too, but I do it consistently on the bike.

Maybe because I’m scared I’ll die on it.

I’ve devoted my husband’s likeness to memory as much as I can because the nature of dissociation is that it steals my memories and emotions from me, even when I want them back very badly, and so I can see in my mind’s eye very clearly what the back of my husband’s neck looks like.

The elegant lines that make up the strong column shape of it, how it slopes into his broad shoulders, the delicate, sensitive, freckled skin of it, the pale mole on the right side, the fine point his hair comes to at the base of his skull, all sunset colors on white sand.

Maybe when I do die, someday, I’ll shut my eyes and see that. I’ll see the back of his neck, I’ll hear music thrumming around my head, I’ll feel the wind whipping all around me, and I’ll take flight, and I’ll think to myself, ‘oh, this isn’t so scary after all. I know this feeling. I remember how this felt,’ and I’ll be calm and feel loved and safe, even when, by all rights, I shouldn’t.

sorry i can’t make eye contact i’m looking for my thought, it’s around here somewhere

I wish I knew of a place to share my art (non-fandom stuff) where people would actually give a shit about it. Been trying for years on many many platforms. I'm not really even looking for compliments or praise, because altho it feels nice to get compliments, I also feel awkward about it, too. What I really fucking want is connection with other people. I want to talk to them about things they're thinking or feeling. When I make art, one of my main motivations is to just get people to talk to me, I want to hear what provokes and inspires them, what matters to them, etc. -- art-adjacent conversations. I wanna hear about what OTHERS create, too, and WHY. Want to share experiences.

My art is me screaming into the universe. And if it doesn't reach anyone, do I even fucking exist? It's ultimately the only real way I have of connecting with the world.

Why am I so unreasonably angry about this at 2:32 in the goddamn AM.

okay real talk i feel like im forgetting what it’s like to have friends. and im losing the urge/need to have them(if i ever had the urge). i have friends but only in places far away so i don’t hang out with people in person and it’s been like that for years, with like one exception. and even people ive met through work and school the past few years it’s like ??ok i dont necessarily have the urge to go out of my way and hang out with you?? i just feel like with everyone i meet and get to know im just polite and nice and funny enough but i don’t get anything out of it and i don’t feel particularly joyful from the exchange. im just like meh. (except ex crush guy but i cant be friends with him anymore. its a whole thing.) and its also a habitual thing like im so used to not hanging out with friends these days i kind of wouldn’t even know what to do or whatever and im so used to this life it’s like🤷🏻‍♀️. and the thing is i’ve always been introverted and preferred being on my own but idk… i think back to like different schools when i had my different irl friend groups and i think i genuinely felt joy and whatever from those friendships, but that’s so out of reach for me now. and maybe i should rekindle those friendships but then again i feel like ive gotten nowhere and done nothing since we grew apart and i keep waiting for my life to like pick up before i can associate with old friends again or even new friends. and that’s probably so fucking stupid but. i do envy people with real close irl friends and i wish i could be that person with friends who are like family idk

HAPPY STARBING SATURDAY!

⭐️🔪⭐️🔪⭐️🔪⭐️🔪⭐️🔪⭐️🔪⭐️🔪⭐️🔪⭐️🔪⭐️🔪⭐️🔪⭐️🔪⭐️🔪

am I the only one who's just. not feeling it today? I'm not able to celebrate more than probably just lighting a candle and maybe buying myself flowers but I just feel like shit and like crying and like curling up into a ball even though nothing is really wrong. is it depression or is it spiritual burnout, the world may never know

I realize Tumblr is a great place to just scream into the void, so expect spammed random ramblings from me in the middle of the night when I have all sorts of scattered thoughts. Might be better to spam HERE than bother my friends and accidentally wake them up at 2 in the morning, yaknow?

So often I feel the need to follow my jokes up with "laugh damn it"

It might be because I spend so much time online, in chats where there's no immediate feedback like in real life where you can see someone smile, shake their head, hear them snort or chuckle. Where you know you were heard instead of typing and typing just to send it into a void with the mad hope the void speaks back.

The internet is simultaneously the most connecting and isolating place there is.

We're all adrift in a sea of strangers with a mess of lines cast out promising land, but here more than anywhere connection is the most terrifying thing there is.

Yet we take it anyway because even a comforting lie is better than being alone.

he hates when I'm outside without him

don’t you think it’s odd how the mind can separate itself and become an entity on its own? make us feel like there is something or someone else.

“wish my my mind would believe it” someone said— like they have forgotten that they ARE the mind. what is with “belief” how do we know what we are believing in is real? is that the belief? Reality? And when we don’t anymore— how do we kill that belief? a belief that haunts us. Or how do we embrace this belief.

my mom said if you have resentments, pray for the person for two weeks straight. Hmm. Prayer. — am I praying to that part of my mind that separated itself? The part that feels like I have no say in?

is the brain a liar by natural instincts?

sticking to the code, i am going to keep believing in myself with steady motions, exclusivity, and divine faith. the universe is always in my favor— my favorite truth.

i call no one or nothing a liar, i call it divine intervention.

-x

I can't decide if I over-reacted today.

We had a PLC where we had to identify situations based on a scale of 'cultural proficiency' - from Cultural Destructiveness (actively trying to destroy other cultures) to Cultural Proficiency (actively including other cultures in our classrooms/lessons and celebrating our students' diversity).

There was a statement: "During Christmas, I always have a menorah up in my classroom."

It was supposed to be under "Cultural Pre-Competence" - which is about seeing the difference in cultures, not really knowing much about them, but being willing to learn.

But I couldn't stop seeing it as "Cultural Blindness" - seeing the difference but dismissing it.

Christmas and Hanukkah are not the same. They don't always occur at the same time, and they in no way celebrate the same thing. I feel it willfully ignorant to believe that putting a menorah in your classroom during Christmas is 'celebrating diversity' or 'understanding Jewish culture' when even a quick Google search can tell you of a hundred differences between the two celebrations.

Heck, more than half the time by the time Christmas comes around, Hanukkah is already over, so your menorah means nothing.

I didn't cause a fuss, but I did bring it up with the person coordinating the PLC, and she felt kind of dismissive (though I don't know that she was trying to be). "I didn't make the card sort." - Okay, well, you still used it, I'm trying to provide feedback about my culture and how the card sort is dismissing it. But I just smiled and said thank you for listening and returned to my classroom.

But now I'm sitting here kind of steaming, because I feel dismissed. The whole PLC was about culture and celebrating students' culture and making them feel welcome and as if they belong by having a place for their culture in our school and classrooms.

But there's never a place for my culture. There never has been one. Christmas subsumes everything about Hanukkah to the point that most people wouldn't even be able to say they knew Hanukkah and Christmas don't always come at the same time. In too many minds, the two are synonymous: Hanukkah is just 'the Jewish Christmas'.

And I'm just exhausted about it.

Don't lecture me on including other cultures in my classroom (which I try very hard to do) when you're dismissing my culture to my face.

/endrant

“See, holding two incompatible ideas in your head at the same time, and accepting both of them… well, that’s the best of being human.”

— Russian Doll