#the last time i drank liquor i scared some children by sobbing in public and went to the ER only | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

svgarpic · 3 years

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𝐈 𝐃 𝐄 𝐍 𝐓 𝐈 𝐅 𝐈 𝐂 𝐀 𝐓 𝐈 𝐎 𝐍 / 𝐂 𝐀 𝐑 𝐃

when sour patch hands over his identification card , his smile is as bright as ever . he doesn’t hesitate to hold onto idle chatter , however the student pauses . ❝ oh , your emergency contact is THE ssǝsʎln estate ? ❞ he avoids answering & dismisses the question entirely .

H I S T O R Y

chanhee was born in los angeles, california. as bright as the sun that’s constantly shining, he was such an exuberant child. his father was the head butler of a wealthy family while his mother was the head nanny. his mother was so compassionate & wise, always watching over the kids with a sense of bubbly grace. his father was so unlike both chanhee and his mother. he was serious & deadpan. he had no patience for riffraff but was also rather good-humoured; just because he was grumpy didn’t mean that he was mad at the world per se.

because his parents were live-in help, chanhee grew up on this estate that seemed to stretch as far as the eye can see. he grew up in lavish kitchens and big laundry rooms. he grew up tidying up after kids his own age, mirroring his parents’ actions of doing the same thing. he was quick to pick up on the chores & routine that needed to be done. oh, it was such an endearing sight to see little chanhee attempt to carry a laundry basket that was twice his size.

his best friend growing up was a girl just a year younger than him. the daughter of the wealthy man & woman. she was rambunctious, always messing up the perfect scene that his father always tried so hard to orchestrate. chanhee was enchanted her & always wanted to be by her side. so when she hid from her father, he would hide with her. not that it would do any good because then they both would end up giggling loud enough to give their spot away.

chanhee went to public school, unlike the kids of the estate, who all had to move to private boarding academies upstate. he was so proud of his family’s line of work, he wouldn’t stop raving about it. he was so sure that he was going to grow up to be the head butler of this wealthy family. it was his destiny, just like it was his father’s before him. he would spend his life making sure that the estate was the best it could be. that’s what chanhee wanted.

tragedy struck when chanhee was 10. his father never visibly smiled. he would indicate he was happy through his tone of voice. his father only smiled when he was with his wife, or with chanhee, or watching a stage play. once a month, chanhee’s parents would make a date to a play that chanhee’s father has been wanting to see. that month, chanhee’s parents didn’t come home. it was an attempted robbery, they told the family. but when heroes came onto the scene, the robber panicked & killed their hostages.

chanhee had no other family. his grandparents have all passed & both his parents were only children. extended family were just about to be contacted when the wealthy wife, came into the staff’s living quarters, flung herself onto little chanhee & sobbed. she cried about how his parents were like family to her, about how they meant so much to her, how everything is going to be different now that they’re gone. she was mourning, chanhee realized, just as much as he was. so he sobbed with her. then, the wife had an epiphany.

the wife asked chanhee to come with her. they went to the wealthy husband, who was locked away in his study. he’s been in there since the funeral but chanhee wasn’t one to pry into matters he shouldn’t. the wife & the husband talked by themselves first. when chanhee was asked to come into the study, they both had such bright smiles. they were going to adopt chanhee as their own. so that he wouldn’t go into foster care & that he wouldn’t have to be far from what he knows. after all, the estate has been chanhee’s life. the family would always have a piece of chanhee’s parents with them if he stayed.

and so, he stayed. he was adopted into the family. his best friend started calling him sour patch soon after. the only thing chanhee craved for was sour patch kids, especially during the whole transition. not long after, even the help was calling him ‘master sour patch’. his newfound parents also lovingly called him so, but the expectations were that he was chanhee during lessons & gatherings.

the transition was strange. chanhee didn’t like being kept from chores. chanhee didn’t like cooking his own meals. instead of laundry & gardening, chanhee’s time was kept busy with tutors & extracurriculars. soon, he was also being sent away to private boarding schools upstate. it seemed the only thing that was constant was that his best friend was by his side most all the time.

sour patch realized he loved her when he was 15. sour patch was going to confess to her, even though they were adopted siblings, when they both came home for the summer. however, she also had a realization to tell him when she came home. she was a lesbian. she dreamt about girls, sang about girls, wrote girls sappy love letters that had a liquor-stained kiss mark on them. sour patch’s heart broke. but no one knows that it is. because, he never told her that he loved her, instead he decided to support her as her best friend. if he could never be her lover, then by the gods, he’ll be the best best friend he could ever be. this, however, sent them on a rocky path.

his best friend was a troublemaker. a party monster. that summer, she came home & begged sour patch to come with her to a party. sour patch was scared about it, to be honest. he’s not meant for such raucous behaviour. he’s a little meek & a little too sugary for that. but, because he loved her, he said he’d go. because he loved her, he’d get drunk & watch her make out with some other socialite.

at 15, he became a ladykiller, a maneater, a party monster himself. because if he could never kiss his best friend, then maybe he’d kiss the girl with sparkling pink lip gloss. maybe he’d kiss the boy who lingers a little longer any time the group would have a shot together. he became addicted to the parties, just as much as his best friend was, so much that they were both staples in the socialite scene.

his parents loved him just as much as they did their biological children. they allowed him to live this lavish lifestyle without any goal in life. because, as long as he was taken care of, they couldn’t be happier. so, sour patch never had a plan anymore. he drank his way through high school, making it just enough to be considered exceptional & with a lot of potential. he didn’t go to college, at least, not yet. he had a talent in music, so maybe he would pursue a career in that. for now, he was allowed to explore the world. which meant — party like there was no tomorrow but make it global.

it was a night where he was too drunk to see straight. it was a night he where he was about to throw up behind a dumpster on his way back to the hotel from the bar. someone was trying to rob another bar patron. he remembered she had glitter in her hair & the robber had a gun on him. before she could give him anything, sour patch got in the way. but with no training with his quirk, drunk as a skunk, his intervention really meant that instead of her being the victim, sour patch was going to be. he was on the ground, in his rock candy position, being shot at while the other patron ran out of the alley.

it was a real hero that saved sour patch that day. a real hero that helped him. in a drunken epiphany, he remembered his destiny. to help people. he was always meant to. before, it was just the family of the estate. now, it’s people who can be saved from villains. it’s people who can escape his parents’ fate. he can help those people, if he became a hero. however, old habits die hard. he can’t just give up the lifestyle he’s living. so for now, he’s attending u.a academy while also sneaking away to party until he can’t remember a thing. until he can let go of all these old feelings, he has to learn to balance both.

S T A T I S T I C S

POWER: ★★✰✰✰

SPEED: ★★★★✰

TECHNIQUE: ★★★✰✰

INTELLIGENCE: ★★★★✰

COOPERATIVENESS: ★★★★★

M O V E S

DROP POP CANDY: this is moreso a maneuver that he can use to de-escalate a situation or minimize damage. sour patch uses his gum form & stretches farther away, to either force his opponent to use long-range attacks or to follow him. he’ll then shoot himself into the air using the boosters on his sneakers & his gum state. he then he’ll come crashing down, turning into a jawbreaker to gain momentum. at the very last moment, he turns into his jelly state, bouncing so he doesn’t get hurt, as well as using the opportunity to disable his opponent, either by encasing his opponent while in his jelly state or sticking to them if they’re too big to be encased.

YUMMY GUMMY BEAR: sour patch becomes his jelly state. that’s it. that’s his move. because sour path is so affable, he’s often asked to participate in adverts & commercials by the hero company he interns in. so, he’ll often do a dance & sing a song while in his jelly state to support the company. because he can mold his jelly state to look like a gummy bear, this ‘move’ has been dubbed ‘yummy gummy bear’ by his peers.

ROCKIN’ THE JAWBREAKER: he has many addendums & revised versions of this move. basically, he attempts a flurry of punches & kicks, most often in capoeira martial arts style, changing from his rock candy & jawbreaker state back to back. both states have different levels of flexibility & sturdiness, so some attacks work better in the other state. because one fight can never be the same as the other, he often improvises this tactic to best suit the situation.

C O N N E C T I O N S

dirty little secret — sour patch likes to keep his partying on a need-to-know basis. either you’re honey, who can save him from his hangover, or you’re a partier like him. but when someone finds out that he’s been sneaking off-campus, sour patch begs them not to tell the dean. sour patch says that he’s in their debt & he’ll do anything so long as the secret doesn’t get out. OPEN ( 0/2 )

bass down low — sour patch is a lothario in shy boy’s clothing. he loves the idea of love & intimacy but has just enough commitment issues for him to be a mess when it comes to romantic relationships. so, instead, he turns to drunken one-night stands. magic moments underneath neon lights or hidden in the closets of flat parties. when someone likes their bass as low as sour patch does, sour patch is sure to eat that up. OPEN ( 0/3 )

catchin’ feels — sour patch thought he could move on. he thought he could stop being a slave to a childhood crush & actually be happy with someone who loves him for him. with them, it was almost attainable. it was almost there. but it was either the drinking, or the hiding, or the noncommittal issues about his future. now that he’s doing better for himself, maybe things will change. or maybe he’s hurt them too much. OPEN ( 0/1 )

banana brain — sour patch isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. he knows that. you can’t please everyone. but like hell, he’s going to try. of course, this seems to just set them off more. it seems like sour patch is crazy for trying so hard to be friends with this person but he believes everyone deserves a chance. if sour patch can’t give them that chance, then he’s done wrong by them. at least, that’s his thinking. OPEN ( 1/3 )

#uaintro.#murder tw #alcohol tw #that's all i rlly mention but trust me sour patch has done many a things o_o #also sorry this is so long once again i luv u guys <3 xo

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danithebookaholic-blog · 5 years

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SPOTLIGHT!

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In the Key of Be

By Lena Hubin

Publisher: Chatnoir Press Publication Date: April 2, 2018 Genre: Non-Fiction, Memoir

Synopsis:

Lena Hubin is a straight-A college senior when she lands in a psych ward. After her release, psychotherapy, illicit drugs, and sex distract her from her chronic anxiety--but none yields lasting relief. Despite teaching abroad, marrying, earning a masters and adopting two children, she remains haunted by anxiety. In her fifties, Lena returns with her family to the U.S., anticipating peace of mind. But when her son struggles with alcoholism, she feels her sanity swirling down the drain like the liquor she would dump--if she could find it. In a quest to help him, the author starts a journey that will change her life for good.

Goodreads

Excerpt:

The Loony Bin

“…I saw the words just crawl up off the page like they were alive!”

I sat in Dr. Rubin’s small office on the fourth floor of Luther Hospital, reliving for him the incident in my apartment two nights earlier, when I hadn’t been able to wrestle meaning from a sociology text paragraph. The little black words had rebelled, marching into the air like a trail of ants. I shuddered. “I’ve just started the school year, and I think I’m going insane!”

“What else happened?” the doctor asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what else’? Isn’t that enough? I saw the words parade off the page in front of me. I’m seeing things. There’s something wrong with my mind!”

This hospital psychiatrist was my last hope. Back in school, I’d begun sinking like a leaky rowboat. No one could bale me out of my sudden madness: not my old boyfriend Andy; not John, the campus minister with UCM; not Dr. White, the college shrink. I’d panicked.

But Dr. Rubin wasn’t helping. He sat like a bent scarecrow, studying the papers scattered over his desk. “Your admittance info mentions another incident.” His small eyes squinted at me through wire-rimmed glasses.

“Well, if it’s there, why do I have to tell it again? I’ve already explained all this to two people here.”

“I’d like you to describe it for me personally, if you don’t mind.” The doc opened a desk drawer and took out a pipe.

His equanimity set me on edge. “Please, can’t you just read it in the report?”

His bony old hand shook as he struck a match and lit the pipe. “Tell me what else happened, Eileen.” He leaned back with a lop-sided smile and puffed. “Take your time.”

“Too much time’s already been taken! You must have the results of all those tests I took. What else do you need?” I’d waded through the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, the Thematic Apperception Test, some muddy Rorschachs where I saw Jesus throwing stones. Shouldn’t this top-of-the-line shrink know what to do with me by now? I was frantic.

But I was trapped, nowhere to turn. As smoke from his pipe swirled, I droned out the rest: “Yesterday at the end of conducting lab, Dr. Byrne put on a record of this Mozart music and made us stand and direct it. The jumpy beat scared me. I wanted to cover my ears and run away.” My voice quavered. “And the others were taking it so damn seriously, everybody holding up the stupid little sticks in their hands like puppets, and I felt so out of it, I could hardly hold the stick up. It scared me.”

“And then?” The doddering doctor’s head leaned back, his lips pursed around the pipe stem.

“Dr Byrne came up behind me and took hold of my elbow and said, ‘It’s simple 4/4 time,’ like I was some idiot, and he started pushing my arm back and forth….” Anxiety rose in my stomach. “Him touching my arm like that, it made me feel nauseous, like I was gonna pass out. I sat back and hung my head down so I wouldn’t faint.”

More puffs on the pipe. “And you didn’t faint.”

“No…, the bell rang, and I went out to the hallway and found Andy—that’s my old boyfriend. He felt my forehead and said, ‘You’re prob’ly coming down with something.’ Then he just picked up his French horn and went into his practice room.”

“But you continued to feel anxious.” His eyes followed the smoke drifting upward. I was sick of his pipe, of the smell. I was also dying for a cigarette, but having been told smoking was only allowed in the day room, I’d left my pack in my room.

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“I couldn’t stand it any more. I knew something was wrong. I rushed over to see John, that’s the UCM minister, and told him what was happening to my mind. And about Roger, this strange guy I spent the summer with—then he asked me if Roger could’ve slipped me a drug, but I know he didn’t; we just drank beer. Then John got me an appointment with Dr. White, this campus shrink, and—”

“I know Dr. White. He’s a good psychologist.” Puff, puff on the pipe.

“Well, he didn’t help me. He just gave me tissues and told me to cry it out.”

“So you were frustrated.”

“And then he said maybe I was overtired. He told me to go home and sleep as long as I could, and I slept sixteen hours straight—but it didn’t help. Nothing helps!”

“But you went back to Dr. White….” Dr. Rubin peered at a paper in front of him, his pipe poised in a quaking hand.

“Yeah, yesterday afternoon. There was nothing else to do! He said if I felt that bad, I could come here. So I went home and packed my suitcase and took a taxi, and here I am.” I drew in a sharp breath. “I committed myself!” I sagged into the back of my chair.

“And here you are.” His voice was dead-calm. “How do you feel right now?”

“I’m just sick of all this. I want it to go away!” I wrestled back tears.

“What are you sick of, exactly? What do you want to go away?” He still sucked at the pipe.

I sat up straight and leveled it at him: “All those other people out there, normal people, I feel like they’re in a different world, and I’m set apart—I can’t connect. It’s like I’m trapped in some kind of bubble, looking at everything from the inside out, stuck in here like one of those paperweight bugs in acrylic. Nothing outside makes sense!” I leaned back, and my voice pitch rose with a finale: “I had a 3.94 grade point last semester, for Godsake, and now I can’t even read! I can’t play piano. I can’t do anything! I’m just floating inside this damned, eerie bubble and I can’t get out!”

Tears stung my eyes. I began to sniffle; then I was gasping out faltering breaths. I let my head fall into my arms on Dr. Rubin’s desk and dissolved into racking sobs.

When I felt the doctor’s light touch on the back of my shoulder, I stopped crying. “You will get through this, Eileen. It will take some time and effort, but we’ll help you, and you’ll get well.”

I could have been a little kid with her parent telling her the monsters weren’t real. The doctor’s pipe bowl rapped against the glass ashtray. I opened my bleary eyes to see him shaking where he stood, bent like a question mark, beside his desk. He smiled gently at me and beckoned with his pipe stem toward the open door.

*****

Dr. Rubin lied. I’d been in the fourth-floor loony bin for over a week and was not getting better. In fact, I felt worse: anxious, bored, and useless, incapable of any normal thought or action. My mother came to visit. “We’re worried. We don’t really understand why you’re here.” I didn’t either; I couldn’t explain. I didn’t want to talk to her. Her teachers’ insurance was footing the bill, but I just wanted her to go away.

“Do you ever think of killing yourself?” Dr. Goldberg asked one day. He was the psychologist of my “team,” the team of him and Dr. Rubin.

“Why should I? I’m dead already.”

“You are clinically depressed,” he said. “Your test results are clear. And these are not unusual feelings for depression. Try to be patient. With some weeks of therapy and medication you’ll feel much better.”

“Some weeks! I can’t stand this for weeks. Send me to Mendota if you want. I might as well sit there in the state asylum in a rocking chair for the rest of my life.”

Dr. Goldberg jotted something on his clipboard. Then he smiled at me. “Let’s meet again in a couple of days, shall we? It must be almost time for dinner.”

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*****

Days on the fourth floor comprised a tedious litany. At 7 a.m. a breakfast cart rattled in, jarring me awake. I pulled myself up in bed and downed the orange juice, sloppy oatmeal, and limp toast. I pulled on clothes and sidled into the dayroom for a smoke, avoiding the eyes of a couple of loonies in there already playing cards. I trudged down the hall to a padded bench by the wall in a cavernous waiting area with a nurses’ station as the hub. I sat there fidgeting, hoping for a shrink to summon me for a session; meetings with the docs were haphazard, as far as I could tell. When I finally did get called I felt as if I’d won the lottery. I popped off the bench, salivating for the boredom displacement that was in store, an hour of attention focused on the hapless blob that was me.

Mostly I sat idle, staring at the dull green walls, at patients and nurses and doctors and orderlies who drifted through and chatted with folks for a spell and then moved on.

Back in my room at noon for lunch, alone by my request, I’d maw down whatever amorphous vegetables, starch, meat, and pudding or jello they served up, then dread the arrival of the prim, gray-haired lady at the door with her perky voice: “Coming to OT today?” Under doctors’ orders to take part in Occupational Therapy, I’d drag myself off my bed and trail her to a room with other patients at a long table, where I strung hundreds of beads, length after length, into necklaces no one would ever wear.

Group therapy met after OT, but I begged off. “I don’t want to talk with other crazy people,” I told Dr. Goldberg. “What’s the point? The problem’s in my head.” He didn’t make me go. Except to smoke, I avoided the dayroom, too, where the TV blared soap operas and people sat around playing gin rummy. Instead, I lay on my bed and stared at nothing for as long as I could stand it. Then I returned to the nurses’ station, and like a dog anticipating its master’s return, awaited a doctor’s call which rarely came.

In my room again at 5:00, I ate the entire crappy supper; feeding my face was something to do. Then I shuffled back to the waiting room.

The tedium-drenched days were as leaden as the skies outside my window, which threatened to drop their heavy load of winter any day. But after supper, as dusk fell into darkness, I perked up. In this best part of my day, I could revel in the anticipation of escape into hours of sweet, dead unconsciousness: sleep, my bosom buddy, the only prolonged relief from the anxious, aching dullness of my waking days.

One afternoon the orderlies herded squirmy patients across a road to a gaping public gymnasium, where they lined us up in teams on the slick wood floor. I stood where they planted me. A large rubber ball was suddenly in motion, people racing around me in pursuit. An orderly had barked out an explanation of the game—but I couldn’t concentrate enough to get it, and this filled me with terror. I kicked at the ball when it came near me—but I just wanted to vanish. A blur of patients scuffled past and shoved at me; sides changed up and an orderly snapped, “Eileen! Other side!” I winced, loped past where he was pointing, slunk down by a wall, and sat there in a shriveled heap until the game was over and I could shamble back to safety in the psych ward.

The next day when the nurse came in with my meds in the little white paper cup, I whined, “The afternoons are killing me. I just lie around waiting for dinner. It’s pointless. Can’t you give me something after lunch to let me sleep?”

Besides the Thorazine and whatever other pills they dished out to me three times a day, Dr. Rubin prescribed an afternoon sleeping pill. I sank into blissful nothingness, dead again, for a few more hours each day.

Purchase:

Amazon

Author Bio:

Lena Hubin has been writing since she was a young kid growing up on a small Wisconsin dairy farm. She has had essays and articles published in ISS Newslinks, The International Educator, Midwest Living, and The Sun. For four years she wrote quarterly book reviews for In Recovery Magazine. She has a masters degree in Creative Writing from California State University, Fresno. Lena writes, plays piano, teaches, and works for social justice in Prescott, Arizona, where she lives with her husband, dog, and cat.

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From one bookaholic to another, I hope I’ve helped you find your next fix. —Dani

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