#their hair is much curlier than mine so better to learn on
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Spouse’s hair is finally long enough to put in a ponytail for the first time in their life and now comes the next stage of my long game… they want it braided so I will teach them to do it themselves
So that they will finally be able to braid my hair
I have been waiting for this for THIRTEEN YEARS
#this post brought to you by petting the needy cat on my lap every three words#their hair is much curlier than mine so better to learn on#and then I will have the ultimate luxury#spouse who can braid my hair
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The Green-eyed Monster
Hello, my name is Noelle. This is my very first post on Tumblr. I decided that for this post, I would share one of the short stories I wrote for my creative writing class that was focused on fiction that I took during my junior year of college. I would appreciate any feedback that you have. The story is below.
Noelle Texidor
12/14/2023
The Green-Eyed Monster
Bella was so different from me. I learned this over the years from going to school with her, attending family gatherings, and going to church together. She was bold and outgoing. Funny, yet sarcastic and cunning. Incredibly intelligent. Brilliant. Unbelievably beautiful. Talented in so many disciplines. Of course, I was jealous. How could I not be?
We always got into fights about something stupid. I told her she was the petty one --even though I often started those arguments over something trivial like my missing sweater--. Bella was not completely innocent though. I remember she told Mom I broke her favorite flower vase when it was Bella. I was so angry that day that I wanted to rip out Bella’s hair and shove it down her throat. Instead, I took the blame. I knew it would be pointless to try and argue with Mom over who broke the vase. Mom would have naturally assumed it was me anyway. I was the eldest sister. I had to set an example. And I tried to. I really did.
***
I often felt less than adequate compared to my sister. I was not as intelligent as her. I struggled all throughout high school, while she breezed by with straight As in all of her classes for all four years. I failed two classes freshman year. My parents ripped me apart when they got my report card for the first semester. I could not stop crying whenever I was alone in my room; I was disappointed in myself for letting them down. From then on, I worked my ass off to pass all my classes so I could go to a good college. Yet it seemed like Bella did not have to put in half the work that I did when we were in high school. Everything came so easily to her. I told myself that I was the dumb older sister, and she was the smarter, prettier, younger sister.
Our parents told us we were beautiful young women all the time. I could see it in Bella. She had beautiful light blue eyes with streaks of green and what was yellow in her irises. She had the prettiest light brown hair that was so much curlier and longer than mine. Her face was that of an angel’s. Full plump lips and high cheekbones. Eyebrows that were practically perfect; symmetric and thick, but not too thick. A round face and the cutest button nose. She had a beautiful figure too, very womanly, mom would tell her. She was gorgeous. I did not want to hurt her--her self-esteem, I mean-- so I told her she was beautiful too. Strangely enough, she did not believe me when I did.
“My eyebrows are too bushy,” she said after I complimented her. I groaned because I knew, or I thought she was only saying that to make herself seem humbler.
“No, they’re not. Your eyebrows are really pretty, Bella. They look better than mine anyway…” She gave me a sideways glance as if I were ridiculous. Perhaps at that time, I was. Looking back at it now, I was insecure about my appearance. I thought I was okay, but not stunningly beautiful like Bella.
My own self-esteem plummeted when I heard that Josh MacEntire asked Bella to prom at the beginning of the spring semester that year when she was a sophomore, and I was a senior. Josh was the captain of the basketball team at our high school, and he always got whatever his heart desired, this time it was my dear little sister. Josh was that one guy every girl swooned over, and even some guys swooned over him. We were in the same year, and I noticed that in the classroom, he did well enough to get by, but he certainly wasn’t an academic weapon like Bella. He was charming though. He could talk his way out of assignments with our teachers if he had a big game that night. On the court though, that’s where he really soared. He would weave in and out between the other players and dunk the ball into the basket during the last two minutes of nearly every game. I think that was when Bella started to develop feelings for him. We were at one of the home games, and she saw him do his signature move that night. She looked over at me with eyes that screamed infatuation.
No one had ever asked me to be their prom date throughout high school, but I went anyways with a couple of my friends. I tried to be happy for Bella after she told me Josh sang her favorite song--Jessie’s Girl-- to her during his promposal. After I drove us back home that afternoon, I sprinted straight to my room and cried all night.
I knew I should have supported Bella. I understood it was petty of me to feel sorry for myself at that moment. Nevertheless, I cried myself to sleep because I could not shake the feeling that I would be alone for the rest of my life.
***
The next morning, I woke up feeling different. I did not have this longing to be kind and compassionate anymore, at least not to Bella. I decided to drive myself to school without waiting for Bella to get in the car. Of course, Mom called me asking me where I was and why I did not wait for my sister. I told her I just forgot.
When Bella was dropped off at school by mom thirty minutes after the first bell rang, her face turned into a snarl when she passed me in the hallway. I smiled to myself once I walked into my English class. How does it feel? I thought.
Throughout that day, Bella avoided talking to me. I felt bad at first, but I realized that she always got what she wanted but today was different. Today, things were going to change from now on. I would make sure Bella felt the way I had for so many years: less than.
I found it easy to get on her nerves. All I had to do was talk to Josh in the hallway during our breaks between classes. I would see him grabbing a textbook from his locker, and I would try as innocently as possible to grab his attention while Bella passed by.
“Hey Josh. What class do you have next?”
“Chemistry. Why?”
“Well, I took chemistry last year, so if you ever need any help, let me know,” I said.
“Thanks, I’ll take you up on your offer.”
It was not as if I was flirting with him, just asking what homework he had that night or how he was doing. Bella did not see it like that. She accused me of trying to steal him from her one day, a couple of weeks after the spring semester started.
“Why do you keep talking to him?! You know he asked me out, not you,” Bella said. Her words were venomous, and they stung when she emphasized I had not been asked out by Josh.
“I’m allowed to talk to guys Bella. Even if he asked you out, I could still talk to him.” She rolled her eyes, stomped into her room, and promptly slammed the door. Perfect. Just Perfect.
When Mom asked me why Bella was so upset the next day during breakfast when Bella was still in the shower, I told her I had no idea. Of course, I knew the reason, but I was not going to confess my plans of making my sister feel inferior. I was not willing to tell Mom that I had made Bella sour that week. That I was the source of Bella’s frustration. What surprised me though, was that Bella had not told Mom that I was talking to Josh. Bella had not told Mom about Josh at all, and I certainly did not tell her. It was not my place to go as far as to tattletale on my sister to our mother. I wanted this so-called revenge to be between the two of us.
Whenever I would talk to Josh, he would often tell me that he was lucky Bella even looked his way. He would make sure I knew how much he liked and admired my sister. I was not shocked to hear how he thought Bella was the hottest chick at this school. I was annoyed that he continued to talk about my sister in front of me, as if I was not there. One day, he said,
“Yeah, I can’t believe you two are sisters. You’re all right. But Bella. Damn. She’s amazing.” I wished he had not said that. I was already aware that my sister was better than me in every feasible way. My emotions overtook me in that moment.
“You’re right, Josh. Bella is amazing. I don’t know why she even wastes her time with an asshole like you.” Time stood still after those last three words left my mouth. I wanted the earth to swallow me whole once I realized I had just insulted the captain of the basketball team.
Josh instantly looked down, his eyes began to well up with tears, and his lips were downturned into the most pathetic frown I had ever seen. I could not believe what I was witnessing. This seventeen-year-old guy who let the world know that he was the best of the best every time he was on the court, was crying in front of me. Sobbing. How could my words cut down someone whom I perceived as Hercules? Me --the quiet shy girl in the back of the classroom who in freshman year accidentally wet her pants during a presentation in her American History class, where Josh and all his teammates were present-- was able to make the most popular boy at school cry? What kind of power did my words hold?
I did not see Bella coming from around the corner of the hallway after the last bell of the day rang. She must have seen Josh crying and, me, standing right next to him, because the next words she spoke were ones I would never forget,
“What did you do to Josh! Get away from him you BITCH!” Those words tore through my chest and stabbed my heart.
“She called me an asshole, Bella. All I said was that you were ‘amazing.’” He was such a coward. I wanted to throw him out the window into oncoming traffic and watch his painful and sudden death.
“What did Josh ever do to you, Santos? What’s wrong with you?”
Everything was wrong with me. I wanted what I could not have.
“Don’t you ever call me a bitch again, Bella. Josh, you’re a poor excuse for a man. You can get a ride home from Josh, Bella.”
I decided to drive straight home after our argument. I did not have time to deal with either one of them, and I did not want to explain myself.
***
Mom was waiting for me when I got home. I figured Bella would have called her; she was cowardly too. “Santos Catalina Hernández, you have a lot explaining to do, young lady,” she said after I opened the door.
All my anger and jealousy erupted into tears of pain and sadness. I knew I was in trouble and there was nothing I could do to get out of it.
“What’s wrong mi vida? Why are you crying,” Mom whispered as she pulled me into her arms.
“Because I am so stupid, mama. I am the worst person to have ever lived,” I sobbed out. Mom tried to shush me as she gently rubbed my shoulders.
“Where is all of this coming from, Santos?”
I knew that it was the result of years of comparison between myself and Bella. I knew that. However, I did not have the courage nor the maturity to tell mom at the time. Thus, I was a coward too.
“I don’t know mama. I don’t know,” was all I could say as I sniffled and pathetically wiped away my tears.
“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
I should have taken this opportunity when mom offered it to me, but I was stupid enough not to.
“Yeah, I know mama. Thank you,” I said. She smiled and tried to cheer me up by making me my favorite drink.
“Why don’t I make you a cup of Mexican hot chocolate? You always feel better after you drink it.” She kissed my cheek, went into the kitchen, and pulled out the copper pot from the cupboard. As she set to work, I heard someone pulling into the driveway.
My curiosity to find out who would be at the door won over my feelings of self-pity. I crept over to the front door and stood up on my toes to look through the peephole. Much to my annoyance and frustration, it was Josh and Bella walking up the path leading to the house from the garage. This would be interesting.
“Mama, Bella and Josh are here,” I shouted into the kitchen. I could hear mom stop everything she was doing.
“Who’s Josh, Santos,” she asked as she walked into the front hallway. I considered telling her about him, but I chose to let Bella do that herself.
“You’ll find out in just a moment.”
As soon as Bella opened the door her eyes widened when she saw me standing next to mom. Mom seemed confused as she saw this teenage boy who was at least two feet taller than every woman in our house. Josh was smirking to himself, for whatever reason.
“Mom, hi. This is, uh, Josh. He’s my boyfriend,” Bella stuttered out as her face steadily turned red.
“Really? Well, it’s nice to meet you, Josh.”
I could not wait to hear his response. If I ever had to describe mom, I would tell my friends she was old-fashioned. She expected any guests who were brought home to bring something with them for our family. Whether that be a gift like wine, small trinkets for everyone, or simply an act of gratitude such as helping our family clean up after dinner. Mom also expected guests to treat her with respect and kindness, as this was her home. Mom was a retired physician, and she supported our family with her income all throughout my childhood and she did not allow people to disrespect her, especially not cocky boys who thought they were hot shit like Josh.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Mrs. Hernández,” Josh said. I found it strange that Bella had not told mom in advance about Josh coming home with her. I suspected this was my doing, but I did not expect Josh to walk Bella to our front door.
“I’m Dr. Kirstina Ramierz. My husband and I divorced five years ago.”
It was evident Mom was angry with Bella, just as I was. I did not know until then that they were officially dating. How bizarre.
“I’m sure you know my other daughter, Santos. Right, Josh?” I knew it, this was going to be interesting.
“Well, yes, of course. We are both seniors, and we took an American History class together our freshman year. Santos and has been very helpful with my chemistry homework this semester,” he said as he looked over at me with a crooked smile. I wondered when he would finally shut up.
“You know Josh, I find it peculiar that neither of my daughters told me about you until now. You seem like a lovely young man, and I would have preferred if Bella would have told me that you were coming home with her tonight.”
“That’s why I called you, mom,” Bella said, trying to justify herself.
“Is it now? Well, Bella, would you come upstairs with me. You too Santos. I need to speak with both of you. Please make yourself comfortable, Josh.”
Oh lord, she scared me. Whenever mom told Bella and I she needed to speak with us, it was terrifying.
As we strode up the stairs behind mom, Bella gave me another scowl. It was obvious she wanted to kill me after everything that went down between us today. Frankly, I wanted to slowly torture her and Josh till death did them part. Before we both tore each other’s heads clean off, mom spoke up.
“Girls, I’m confused about something, and I think you two could help me figure this out.” Oh no. I had it in my mind that she would accuse me first for not telling her about Josh, and Bella would get away with a slap on the wrist, like usual.
“What the hell has been going these past couple of weeks? Bella, you get a boyfriend out of the blue and I don’t even find out about this cabrón until he shows up at my door.” Mom tried to keep her voice down, but her anger got the best of her when she turned to look at me.
“Santos. I don’t know where to begin with you. Your behavior has been inexcusable. You’ve decided twice now not to drive your sister to and from school. You’ve got me thinking that this family is no longer important to you.”
That hurt. I could not admit it to myself then, but I was being selfish by trying to get my revenge.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourselves?”
“Mom,” Bella started.
That was different. I often tried to stand up for Bella, or at least say my piece before she got me into deeper shit.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you by bringing Josh home. I really didn’t. But Santos and I had a fight at school today. I said something I shouldn’t have said to her, and she got angry with me. Rightfully, so, I might add.”
It was shocking to see my sister take accountability for her actions, even if she was being vague. I was disappointed in myself for not doing so before her, like I should have.
“Thank you, Bella. I suppose that explains the call I got from your principal earlier this afternoon.”
My ears perked up at the mention of our principal calling mom. I began to wonder who the subject of that call was. Perhaps it was me, maybe it was both of us.
“Do you have anything to say, Santos?”
No. Well, I did not particularly care to say anything that would make me look even worse than I already did.
“I suppose I do. I have too much to say to both of you, but mostly Bella.” Mom crooked an eyebrow at me and nodded her head like she could read my mind by just staring at me.
“Fine. You can start by explaining to your sister. I’m going downstairs to tell Josh to go home if he hasn’t already.”
As mom began to walk down the stairs, she mouthed out to me, you better talk. There was no way out of this now. I would not be able to cry in front of Bella and gain her sympathy, nor would she comfort me.
“I’m waiting, Santos. What is that you have too much to say to me?” What was it? Well, for starters, it was my insecurity. It was my envy and possibly hatred that I held for my sister. All things I had too much of.
“Listen, it’s not easy for me to say this, Bella. I don’t know how to say this without turning into a monster.”
Bella mumbled something under her breath, and I thought she said I was already a monster.
“Well, it’s not like you’re an angel yourself. Sure, I’ve been pretty shitty to you these past two weeks, and that was immature, but I’ve tried to be kind to you all our lives Bella. I really have.”
Her lips were quivered after I said that.
“Oh, really? Then why is it that you’ve suddenly decided to be a bitch?”
“I thought I told you to never call me that again.”
This was turning into another fight, and I did not know what to do to stop it.
“Maybe I wouldn’t have to call you one if you never acted like one. What did I ever do to you,” Bella said as tears began to form in the corners of her eyes.
“I don’t know Bella. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve always been perfect. Maybe it’s because Mom and dad always liked you more than me. Maybe it’s that you don’t even have to try to get attention from guys. Maybe it’s because you’re just better than me,”
I could not believe the things I had just said. What did I let slip from deep within my heart?
Bella stayed quiet, understandably. How could she respond to something like that?
Before either of us could process everything that had been said, Mom sprinted up the stairs. She looked like she had just seen a ghost. Mom had never looked so scared before, and I felt myself beginning to worry.
“What’s wrong mama? Did something happen,” I asked. She clutched her chest and looked at both of us before she spoke.
“When I told Josh he should go home, he said that you all had gotten into a huge fight at school. He told me that Santos said she was going to kill Bella and him, whenever she got the chance.” She didn’t seem to believe anything that she had just said, yet her face had pinched into one of frustration.
“I also heard you girls fighting up here, and I knew I had to tell that punk to leave before it got worse.”
I let out a sigh of relief. Why would Josh say that? I was again reminded that he was an asshole. A little boy who always needed attention from everyone, and it did not seem to matter how he got it.
“You didn’t actually listen to him, did you mama?” She rolled her eyes at me.
“Of course not. But I knew I would have to look like Christ had come down from heaven again for you two to listen to me when I came up here,” she chuckled.
“Now, Santos, what’s this I heard about your dad and I liking Bella more than you. You two weren’t exactly quiet.”
“Nothing mama, I was just saying something out of anger,” I said.
She shook her head, knowing that I would not say anything right away.
“Well, it’s not true. Your dad and I love both of you girls equally. Maybe you think I’m lying, but I’m not. You girls are the light in my life in all this darkness. I love you both wholeheartedly and unconditionally.”
That was sweet of her to say, but at the time it felt too cliched. I thought, of course, a mother would say something like that to her daughters who were fighting.
“We love you too Mom,” Bella finally spoke up.
I nodded my head in agreement.
“Yeah, I love you, mama. Bella, I apologize for everything I did to you today and these past two weeks. I hope you can forgive me,” I said.
***
Bella did forgive me six months after she broke up with Josh. However, I could not forgive myself when I heard Josh had been pressuring Bella to have sex with him during prom. I was not at the dance that night. I was at home using my scholarship essays as an excuse to skip prom because I didn’t want to see Josh and Bella together, having the time of their lives. Or so I thought. Bella told me about all of this when I was in the first semester freshman year of college. Thankfully, she didn’t let Josh do anything to her, even though she told me he kissed her too many times without asking her, and then he kept asking her for more and more. She broke up with him the next day. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I should’ve been there to defend her. I should have watched my sister’s back, but instead, I allowed myself to wallow in a pool of self-pity.
By the midsemester of my sophomore year of college, I had decided to go to therapy. It was then that I realized how envious I had been all my life of my dear little sister.
I was reminded nearly every time I went home that I turned into the Green-eyed Monster because I was obsessing over my sister’s toxic relationship with Josh. I was focused on something I had no insight into. I hardly had any kind of knowledge about what Bella was going through that year, and it was all because I let that monster take over me.
Yet I knew that monster had always been inside me. It had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to come out and consume me, and it would be back, I knew it would.
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hi! could you tell me who your biases are and what makes them stand out to you? love ur works btw :))
Hello!! Thanks for loving my writing! Ooh ok I never pass up an opportunity to talk about my biases!!! I’m not totally sure if you mean just NCT/WayV biases, or just biases in general, so I think I’m gonna just ramble and talk about all the biases I have that I can think of!
YUTA: NCT
Yuta is my ultimate bias, and this man has my full heart! I will be frank in saying that what originally got me into seeing NCT was seeing Yuta for the first time. There is just something so magnetic about Yuta without even knowing who he is, and he just gets better and better the more you learn about him. He’s kind, he’s woke, he’s gentle. He speaks his mind and isn’t afraid. His voice is angelic and his dancing has this slightly huddled frame to it that makes his distinct when he’s dancing that you can immediately pick him out of the crowd, even with 17 other people dancing around him in Black on Black. He’s funny, he’s charismatic and has the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. He has such a beautiful mind and I genuinely enjoy everything that he has to say. And he is one of the most chaotic people but also can be very subdued and blend into the scene if he feels like he needs to. There’s just so many layers to this man that makes me love him but that’s just some of the ways.
TEN: NCT/WayV
Ten is another bias of mine. He is HILARIOUS while also being very open-minded and intelligent, and let me just say I love his random little British accent. His dancing is ethereal and magnetic and there’s just something about him that draws your eye to him and there’s not really much of a way to look away. His drawing skills are pretty unreal and I love how he can go from serious to crackhead in an instant. Also he has these nice, dainty features that are just so pretty. There’s just something about him that’s distinctly Ten.
JENO: NCT Dream
Jeno is just a gentle soul. He has a very strong stage presence in seeming super fierce in stages like Boom, but he’s really just a big softie. The way his eyes scrunch when he smiles is just so cute and adorable, and it really explains his entire personality in one look. He’s just so soft and cute all the time and I love him, ok?
If you were just referencing NCT, then those are my biases! If you meant of all the groups I stan, more under the cut. :)
Minhyuk: Monsta X
Minhyuk is so unique. His mind works in a way that’s very much his own and I love getting glimpses into it. The way that he jams out to BigBang and G-Dragon never fail to put a smile on my face. He has this uneven blink where one eye closes and opens at a different speed than the other eye, and it’s so cute and unique and something that is distinct to him. His voice is soft and light and pretty but then we hear it on Misbehave and you see just how much range he has to switch from a low range that we never hear from him to a falsetto high range in the second prechorus that is his signature. There’s just so much range in this man, and he was one of the first ones to stick out to me when I got into him with his white Shine Forever hair.
SUGA: BTS
Yoongi is one of the smartest idols out there, and I truly believe that. He has so many layers to him and honestly it's pretty amazing. I love his softness that contrasts with his hard exterior, and I love that it's something that blends over into his daily life and it's not just a stage persona. He puts so much thought in everything he creates but also doesn't see it as a burden and does it all with a smile on his face and with McDonalds to fuel him while he holes up in his studio. There's something so precious about him, and his gummy smile is everything.
JENNIE: BLACKPINK
First of all, she's just gorgeous. Let's start there. But Jennie is so cute and soft and it contrasts her stage prescence in the perfect way, but not in a way of that she's putting on a show. You can see the true Jennie shine through in stages like As If It's Your Last, where she's all smiley and cheery and happy, and then she just adds a layer of fierceness on top of that when she does songs like Kill This Love or How You Like That. It's just this package that she has that makes me really love her and feel like she's straight up authentic. And also i love her voice, whether singing or rapping or just talking her voice is super pretty to listen to.
YEJI: ITZY
I'll be honest in not knowing much about Itzy as a whole in terms of their personalities, but something about Yeji really drew me in. She has this amazing dance style and you can really tell that she's just in her element whenever she's on stage. Everything about her just screams that it was made to perform and I think that's hella sexy lol. Also she has the most beautiful eyes and a smile that can light up an entire room, plus gorgeous hair that she really should wear out more lol.
YUQI: (G)I-DLE
Yuqi is just sort of perfect, I feel like. She holds this balance between adorable and badass at the same time, and she just exudes so much confidence. She has this mischievous energy to her, and she's chaotic which I love. She has these big bright eyes that are just amazing that I love and I love the curlier texture of her hair. Plus, her dancing is super amazing and her lower voice is SEXY AS ALL HELL.
SOLAR: MAMAMOO
As a whole, I love how unapologetically themselves Mamamoo always is, but Solar in particular is someone who stands out to me. She's small and has a tiny frame but such a huge and powerful voice and I love that. She's always super smiley and the life of the party that I feel like Mamamoo would not be the same without her. She's the type of person who will get up and start kickboxing Eric Nam in the middle of her K:CONTACT interview, and who will post a video showing off different razors, and will DO A POLE DANCE AT MAMA, and I just love that. There's no one she's trying to be but herself, and she doesn't care if that leaves you a little scandalized, because it's her and you're gonna take it or leave it.
I do have other biases (like Astro, ACE, Day6, Seventeen etc), but these are my main ones and the ones that I find myself going feral over the most lol. Thank you for this question I really really loved it!
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I Would Totally Kick Jiraiya’s Butt Chapter 14
Chorono: I really, really like the way you think, but there's kind of only one Ketsuryugan and a whole complicated mess of the timeline around that, so unfortunately Kouki will not be able to get it any time soon, if at all.
That one guest: Yeah I totally get where you're coming from, and that's a bit of a worry of mine too. Luckily I was already going to do something that's a solution for that problem: nobody'll think Kouki's particularly broken if everyone's broken! Unfortunately I won't be able to show that much of that in this and probably the next few chapters, but let's just say that there will be so many irons in tons of fires by the time of the Uchiha massacre. ;P
kukukuku~
Hinata's palm struck me in the jaw, causing me to grunt. "Kick his ass, Hina-chan!" Kurama cheered from the sidelines. It was nice seeing how well those two were getting along, even if it meant him encouraging her to beat me up. The two of them actually helped each other a lot. Hinata warmed Kurama up to humankind and got him to be slightly less angry, while Kurama made sure to rub some of his "I'm better than you lousy humans" pride off on her, causing her to be a bit more confident. Plus he liked imparting little bits of arcane knowledge upon his favorite human, meaning...
I just barely noticed with my chakra sense that Hinata was leaking a small amount of chakra out of her fingertips, so I jumped back. Unfortunately, I'd determined with my eyes that expressing too much interest in obtaining the Byakugan with my chakra assimilation would only cause most of the clan to grow wary of me, so I didn't have the ability to actually see her jutsu, but at least I knew to stay away. I made a few seals, but had to stop when the barely-there chakra rushed me. Even though I moved my arms the chakra swerved faster than I thought it would, causing my left arm to go completely numb. "Ow," I said despite the fact that the problem was that I couldn't feel any pain in my arm. "You're getting faster with that, aren't you?"
"Yeah," Hina-chan said. "Kurama-chan helped me figure it out."
I tried to move my arm, but couldn't. Eight Trigrams Heavenly Will as it was called by most of the family, or much less pretentiously Tenketsu Puppetry Jutsu by Hinata, was a jutsu Hinata invented by combining the basics of Jūken that she was learning with the chakra threads I'd showed her how to make and then some sort of advice from Kurama. In addition to acting like a ranged, though technically much less potent, version of Jūken, the threads stayed inside the tenketsu of the victim meaning that not only was any recovery from the attack blocked until they were removed but she could also, as her name for it suggested, puppeteer my arm. "Impressive, sis, but you know that that doesn't exactly work on me." I raised my right pointer finger, causing a single link of yellow chain to form on it. With a bit of concentration, I changed the yellow Adamantine Sealing Chain to a purple permutation, Adamantine Destruction Chain. I swiped at roughly where I felt the chakra threads with it, managing to snap all of them and suck the foreign chakra from my body.
I'd figured out that my assimilation could also adapt powers that were compatible enough together. I was already working under the assumption that I couldn't just make new elements by combining people's affinities because that would be broken, but I did alchemize Ai's Adamantine Sealing Chain together with the Kikaichū's Parasitic Destruction to make chains that could drain chakra as well as disrupt it for some extra chakra cost. Plus, the disruption and absorption effects synergized, enhancing each other's performance. And there was also the || combination, Parasitic Sealing, which allowed me to cover my body in an aura that disrupts and absorbs chakra. But I digress. I pointed the chain link at Hinata, shooting an entire chain at her. The general consensus of anyone who I used my special chains on was that if I got a grab in the fight was over. Sure, I could still only have more than a few links out for a few seconds without any boost, but between the draining and the throw I could easily pull off with with the chains I only needed one good grab to wear down even adults. At least enough to jump in with a few cheap hits to finish them off. Hinata obviously knew this by now, so she ducked under my chain, then rolled out of the way when I tried to pin her to the ground. I was expecting her to do that, though, and had already prepped my next jutsu. Metal marbles, designed so I could hurt but not kill with my magnet release, scored hits on her side. I charged, and she blocked my foot with her hand. I winced, realizing my mistake when my leg turned numb from the near-instantaneous point-blank Heavenly Will. I used my core-based flight to try to kick her with my other foot, but she got it before I could.
"Full body takeover, eh?" I asked as the rest of my body below my neck was wrested from my control. Really, having a relatively non-draining jutsu that might as well be an automatic win to anyone in melee distance is even more broken than I am...
"Sorry, but can I practice this for a bit?"
I tried to shrug, but remembered the futility. "Go ahead. I still have control over my sage cores, so I can catch myself if you slip up." Hinata spent the rest of the sparring session finding stupid dances to make me do, egged on by Kurama. I did get her to work on her proxy chakra control a bit, though. She could almost make me do Jūken by the end.
kukukuku~
Tenten said something, probably about how much it stank that we had to go to school, as we walked ourselves to school. Well, they walked and I floated because I actually may or may not have a bit of trouble matching other people's walking paces, especially if I'm not paying too much attention. I don't know what she was saying, though. I was thinking. I mumbled something in response and pulled out my sealing notebook and note-taking pencil, which I used to write down the formula I thought of. I tuned out their conversation as I sketched the complex seal down as best I could. "You messed up a little there," Tenten said as I was finishing off the last strokes.
"Hm?" I asked.
She pointed to one of the runes and oh my that was very wrong. "I'm not sure, but I think it'll just tear a hole in the fabric of space if you don't fix that stabilizing rune." I thanked her and hurriedly fixed it.
"I feel like maybe you should not write down a seal that could potentially tear a hole in the fabric of space itself until you're absolutely sure it won't do that?" Neji said with more than a little concern.
To be honest, I didn't blame him, but... "Graphite's pretty much the worst for making seals," I explained, "which means that it's really good for practicing making seals because it's almost impossible to activate it without noticing."
"Well why didn't you have me use a pencil when you were trying to teach me seals, then?"
Finished, I stowed the notebook. "Okay in my defense I wasn't expecting you to screw up the easiest seal in the book when given detailed instructions, much less screwed up enough to accidentally make an incredibly simplified explosive seal. And with the last seal I had you do, I think we both know that you should always assume that there will be an explosion when making a paper bomb." I tried to teach Neji fuinjutsu once. Turns out he's literally the worst at it. He somehow managed to turn a basic light seal into a thankfully tiny bomb with only a big enough blast radius to burn itself off of whatever it's written on, which apparently was a theme with him. No matter what, he would always make bombs out of whatever seal I gave him. And then, when I tried to have him purposefully make a bomb, hoping that maybe he was just some sort of bomb savant, he somehow managed to make a seal tag that teleported itself and whatever it was touching to a random place within a fifty meter radius. Which, okay, free spacetime ninjutsu, but how? "I'm still scratching my head on how you managed to make a short-range teleport out of a bomb. Speaking of, what's your mom make of it, Tenten?"
"She's still on that high from the wedding, so she's been more concentrated with being all lovey-dovey with Mommy than looking over the seal, but she did say to never let Neji near a seal again when I told her it was supposed to be a paper bomb."
"It wasn't really that bad, was it?" Neji asked.
Tenten laughed and shook her head. "Not at all, Neji..."
"...It's much worse," I finished her sentence with a slight grin. We high-fived. "When I looked at the seal you were making with my eyes, I saw a lot of different possibilities. Random teleportation was one of the better ones. You don't want to know what the worse ones were."
"Right." He didn't believe me. To be fair, I did tend to mess with him... And was messing with him. "So what's the seal you were working on supposed to do? I'm assuming it's somehow related to spacetime."
"Yeah, normally when people screw up seals that have nothing to do with spacetime, the result doesn't do anything to the fabric of reality," Tenten said, elbowing Neji.
"Shut it."
I shrugged. "You're right, though. It was most certainly a spacetime seal."
"Yeah, it looked a bit like an object summoning seal, but a little different," Tenten said. "Was it meant to swap objects between two paired seals?"
"Close. My hope is that it'll form a portal between two locations when chakra's input on both ends, and that it's compatible with demon sage chakra. It's still a little rough around the edges, though."
"Let me guess, secret base," Tenten said.
I brushed my hand through my hair. I was combing it less now, so it was a bit curlier and fluffier. "Obviously. In fact, I have an agent working on finding the location right now. Haven't found anything good yet, though."
"How do you have an agent?" Neji asked me.
"Magic." I noticed a certain building and pointed at it. "Hey, isn't that the school? That looks like a school."
"Yup, that's the school," Tenten said. "Mommy took me here a lot. Mama's job is a little less kid-friendly, plus the teachers looked after me when I didn't want to sit through Mommy's classes."
"Oh right," I said. "Your mom's a teacher."
"Yeah, I said that earlier, weren't you paying attention?"
Something about that sentence felt a little doomy, though I couldn't tell why. "No, I was thinking about how to breach through spacetime to reach another location without accidentally summoning Mega Neo Beqthulhuzillaon, Destroyer of Souls and Eater of Worlds."
"Is that an actual concern?" Neji asked. "Are you messing with us or could you have actually summoned some sort of eldritch horror monster?"
I smirked. "You should know the answer to that question by now. I'm assuming you know the way, Tenten?"
"Duh."
kukukuku~
I tried very hard not to groan. "My name is Uzumaki Tenko," our teacher for the next few years said, writing it on the chalkboard. God I hate chalkboards. If I were Hokage I'd make chalkboards illegal. "I look forward to teaching you." I slumped in my seat. It's not that I didn't like her. Tenko was really nice. No, the problem was that she knew I was a literal genius relative to my age level, and with that comes... expectations... Before, my plan was to just rest on my near-complete high school-level education to put the bare minimum amount of work into the actual academic parts of ninja school, which considering what grades I got with how little effort I put into school before would've made me best in class or thereabouts already. But Tenko already saw me put actual effort into something, meaning she might have been able to tell when I didn't put in the work. So if I didn't want to hear about it from her and Tenten both I'd have to at least half-ass it. Ugh...
I sound like Shikamaru, don't I?
"Didn't I tell you she was going to be our teacher earlier?" Tenten muttered to me. I guess that was what I missed... "And why are you so annoyed Mommy's your teacher?"
"Because she'll actually care if I don't put any effort into my work," I whispered back.
"How terrible," Neji snarked. I flicked him with natural energy. Using natural energy without sage mode may have been a lot weaker, but I could at least flick someone sitting right next to me hard enough to feel. He flicked me back, though. My Neji may have been completely seal-illiterate, but he was just as much of a ninjutsu genius as in canon, and figured out how to feel and manipulate natural energy just by watching me do it, though he hadn't quite managed sage mode yet. We proceeded to engage in invisible and incredibly petty warfare that Tenko would probably have stopped if she were a sensor. Luckily, Tenten was too amused to turn us in. She almost gave us away with her giggling, though.
"Now, why don't you introduce yourselves?" I'm not saying that I completely tuned everyone's introductions out, but I am saying that the only names that I retained aside from Hyūga Neji, Uzumaki Tenten, and Rock Lee was someone whose family name started with something in the ka line and whose given name was Kaede. Kaede is a pretty awesome name. Why couldn't I have been a Kaede?
"Hello. My name is Hyūga Kouki," I said when it was my turn. "The reason why I don't look like Neji despite us having the same family name is because he's adopted."
"What!?" Neji spluttered. "No! You're the adopted one!"
"It's nice to meet you," I halfheartedly finished, pretending Neji said nothing. He flicked me for my troubles when I sat down. I flicked back, and as if someone assassinated a duke or something, Flick War II began.
kukukuku~
"Just remember that these are friendly matches," Tenko said when we were all sitting on the ground by the sparring ring. "If I feel like someone is being hurt too badly, I'll stop it there. And once more, it's taijutsu only."
"Why'd you look at me when you said that?" I asked. Her glare turned a little more accusatory. I shrugged. "I wasn't gonna do it anyway..."
"Right," she said, turning away from me. "You may now look at the slips of paper I gave you. Who has one?" Tenten and a boy I should probably have known the name of raised their hands. "You two are first. And Tenten, try not to rough him up too badly, okay, sweetie?"
The unnamed kid grinned maliciously. "I hope teach doesn't get too angry after I beat up her precious daughter." Neji and I exchanged a look and snickered. Right, like that kid stood a chance. When they were told to start, the kid jumped in for a punch. Tenten dodged easily and shoved him to the side. He stumbled and fell.
"Get him with your Uzumaki strength, Tenten," I cheered dully.
She scowled at me. "For the last time!" Tenten shouted, then picked up the nearest object. Namely the unnamed kid. "I'm not!" She hoisted her hapless victim above her head. "Freakishly strong!" She threw Hapless Victim at me. Without even blinking, I deployed the demon sage cores hanging from my earlobes. One formed a springy barrier in front of me that safely absorbed the impact of the collision without too much damage to Hapless, while the other formed a barrier under him to cushion his fall.
"I have no idea why I would think that," I said as I recalled my cores. "Truly, your ability to lift over your body weight in small child despite being yourself a small child is totally unremarkable." She blushed and growled at me.
"Kouki, please stop antagonizing Tenten," Tenko said. "The match is over, Tenten wins."
"How did you do that?" another small child I probably should've known the name of asked me.
"Magic."
Hapless (I was now trying to commit his face and chakra signature to memory so I could keep calling him that) groaned and sat up. "I thought we weren't allowed to use jutsu!" he complained.
"You weren't," I said. "The Uzumaki bloodline manifests itself passively in the form of enhanced vitality and strength, something that Tenten definitely has even if she doesn't quite have the traditional looks."
"HEY!"
"So really, you didn't stand a chance." Hapless stomped off to his seat and the rounds began again. After a few, it was my turn, as well as, "coincidentally" enough, a young Rock Lee.
"Remember, no jutsu," Tenko reminded me.
"Yeah, yeah," I said, then got into my fighting stan- "Ah, crud," I muttered. I had not been doing regular old sparring enough. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd actually practiced fighting someone without ninjutsu or genjutsu.
"Start."
I dodged a really shoddy punch. To be honest, it was pretty weird seeing Lee suck at taijutsu. I leaned away from another punch, then caught his arm. "Stop," I commanded. I uncurled his fist, removed his thumb from his palm, and then forced his hand into a proper fist. "It's a common mistake," I assured him. "If you punch someone with your fingers around your thumb, you'll probably break it. Oh, and hit me with those two big knuckles, not the entire fist." When I released him, he cautiously punched me. "Good," I said after catching his hand with mine. "However, I'm afraid that now I have to..." I twisted around and slung his arm over my shoulder in an attempt to suplex him or something. "Finish you!" Key word being attempt... I may or may not have only lifted him onto my back...
"I don't think you did what you were attempting to do..." he said.
"Stupid physics. I always hated that subject..." I shrugged and just dropped backwards in what I hoped looked like a planned move. I really needed to work on my taijutsu.
"Okay, that was not at all what I was expecting..." Tenko sighed. "Kouki wins, I guess..."
"You okay?" I asked as I got off Lee.
He sighed. "I am fine..."
The third noteworthy match was Neji versus a hotblooded Yamanaka girl with orange hair like that one Fū guy and red eyes. While Neji was technically a pseudo jinchuriki by now from my experiments, his powers were weird and technically even his "passive" strength would be considered an active jutsu, especially because he could turn it off. The Yamanaka, on the other hand, was surprisingly strong for a Yamanaka. Maybe she was part Uzumaki? She did have red hair. At any rate, while Neji was almost overpowered at one point, he beat her. He was a genius after all.
kukukuku~
"Hey," I said, then sat down on the floor next to Lee. Okay, I actually floated just a bit off the ground, but the sentiment was there... "Sorry about beating you so bad."
He sighed. "No, it's okay... I already knew I would not do well here. I cannot use ninjutsu or genjutsu, and you saw how my taijutsu is."
"Can you channel chakra into things?" I asked. I really wanted to know what would happen if I started him off early.
"I can, but no matter how hard I try, I will not be able to use a jutsu. The doctor said that there is a problem with my chakra coils, so I am incapable of moulding my chakra into jutsu..."
I shrugged. "Not exactly a dealbreaker, if you're willing to work extra hard."
"What do you mean?"
I summoned my crystal ball. Yeah, I know it's kind of a stereotype, but I'd made the jutsu from that crystal ball jutsu Sarutobi used to see Naruto in the first episode, so blame Kishimoto. "Watch this." I waved my hands over the floating crystal ball, casting the jutsu. Despite not activating my Shōraigan, the crystal ball changed to show another location. By using a physical medium, I could show my vision to others and didn't have the same backlash, though with the downside that it wasn't private and I didn't get nearly enough information. "See that man?" I said, pointing to Gai training. "He used to be about where you are, but now he's one of the most dangerous shinobi in Konoha through taijutsu alone. Do you want to know how?" I put away the ball and looked at Lee. His eyes said yes. "An insane amount of practice, training, and diligence, combined with challenging himself to do something even more difficult whenever he fails a training exercise. You should probably take time to rest every once in a while, especially at first to keep from permanently damaging your body, but I see a fire in you. There's no reason why you couldn't become as good as or perhaps even better than him one day."
There were stars in his eyes, and he was almost crying. "Do you think so?"
I gave him a small grin. "I know so. Also..." I pulled out the other thing I had for him. "This is a bit of a beginner's fuinjutsu kit, at least my version of it. Try and see if you have some aptitude for it. You may not be able to inscribe seals with chakra alone, but if you pick up enough you could work wonders with seals." Imagine Rock Lee with the ability to make and use seals. To be honest I have no clue what would happen but I do know it would be amazing.
He stood up, energized, and gave me a deep bow. "Thank you very much! I will make sure to become a splendid ninja!"
My grin was genuine. "I'm sure you will."
kukukuku~
Usagi
I lurched along the dirt path. My new body of stone was not suitable for travel in the slightest, but I had no other alternatives. It seemed that compatibility with myself was not quite as common outside of Konoha as I assumed it was at first, and the rabbit was either a stroke of luck on my part or perhaps somehow related to how Kurama was present in End Valley at one point. Perhaps his chakra acted as a primer. Still, I did sense a few scattered people in small villages who had compatibility, though I couldn't in good conscience simply abduct and kill an innocent person. I needed to find a bandit with compatibility.
"Well well well, what do we have here?" a source of malicious intent jeered as two men appeared from behind trees. Speak of the devil. The two bandits, however, were nowhere near compatible.
"There's a toll to use this road," the other bandit said, brandishing his sickle. They had yet to realize my anomalous existence on account of the cloak, gloves, and mask I had fashioned for myself.
"Oh," I said. "I do apologize. I was not made aware of the toll. You really should put up a sign."
"You gettin' smart with us?" the first bandit asked. "We'll rough you up!" I probably didn't look like much of a threat either. The body I'd formed for myself was rather on the short side, to save energy. It was still definitely in the adult range, but not by much.
"You two are bandits, aren't you?" I asked. I already knew the answer, of course.
"Of course we're bandits, now give us all your loot!" The sickle-wielding bandit rushed me. That was a mistake. My body became fluid, the eyeholes of my mask gained two red lights where my eyes should have been, and I dodged effortlessly. I removed one of my gloves, then placed my hand on his face.
"Do you take chakra instead?" I asked, then infused his body with demon sage chakra. He dropped his weapon as his brain itself was altered in such a way that, while he didn't technically die, he certainly couldn't have been said to have been truly alive anymore. I removed my hand, revealing red markings across his face.
"What the hell!?" the other bandit shrieked. Without turning to him, I sent a signal to my new thrall. The bandit that I had just "killed" snarled like a beast and rushed at him. The... I suppose the best word for it would have been "zombie" bit the man on his arm with partially crystallized teeth. The man shrieked, throwing the zombie away and running in terror. I nodded to myself and split my attention in two, one half of my mind focusing on breaking the zombie down into more demon sage cores and the other tending to the bandit. When my zombie bit him, it infected him with my chakra, causing the cells in his arm to start to transform into the demon sage core-like material that I'd used to zombify his partner. I altered the rate at which the infection spread, causing it to slow near the surface while speeding up within his blood and bones. My hope was that he'd notice the infection, cut his arm off and assume he got it all, then hurry back to his leader while carrying the infection. That would be fun. When I was done with the carrier, I turned my full attention to the zombie, which was almost prepared. With a final command, the corpse disintegrated into red powder. Some of it scattered to the wind, where it would be carried elsewhere. The rest came to me. About half of it went behind my mask, where it bolstered my existing core. The other half I formed into another core that I hid within my cloak. With that done, I placed all of his belongings into a bag I had tied to my makeshift body under the cloak. I wasn't to know fuinjutsu, after all. I continued down the lonely road, ever-so-slightly quicker than I had before.
kukukuku~
A/N: Just FYI, the ka line is any of the hiragana/katakana sounds that start with a k- noise (ka, ki, ku, ke, ko).
I thought of a power for Tenten to have, but it's kind of even more out there than usual. Like, technically it has a slight basis in canon, but exaggerated far beyond what that canon basis is, even more than what I have planned for and alluded to with Neji. Figured I'd say that cryptically now so I can tell if I need to make changes if too many people object. I think it's cool, though, so I'm probably going to do it unless literally everyone tells me not to. And possibly even not then.
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A Question of Identity
Title: A Question of Identity
For: @concretegrrl
Rating: G
Word Count: 4370
Warnings: None
Summary: While on the run after the events of Civil War, Wanda begins to feel like she’s losing herself. Luckily, she has a wonderful boyfriend who can try to help her feel better. Written for the prompt “I would love a fic that focuses on Vision learning more about Wanda’s Sokovian/Romani heritage, either from Wanda or on his own. Bonus points for fluff!”
AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16045862
Message for recipient: Hi, Kait! I loved the prompt, I thought it was so interesting and I really hope I did it justice. It was really fun to write, so thank you! I tried my best to do research, and based the food on Czech cuisine because in one of the movies Sokovia is shown to border the Czech Republic. I hope I get the fluff bonus points, and I hope you like it!
A Question of Identity
Vision tied off the end of Wanda’s braid and passed it over her shoulder to indicate that he was finished with it.
Wanda moved out of her spot between his legs and turned to face him on the bed, curling her feet under her. “Thanks, babe.” She pressed a kiss onto his lips, fingers worrying distractedly at the bleach-damaged ends of her hair.
“You are quite welcome.” Vision smiled at her, but Wanda wasn’t looking at him anymore. Instead she was gazing pensively at one of the hotel room’s four large mirrors. She’d seemed preoccupied ever since she asked him to braid her hair, and at first, he hadn’t been sure, but now he thought he might know what was bothering her.
“Is everything alright, Wanda?” Vision asked, cocking his head to the side and studying her further.
“Yeah, why?” Wanda didn’t turn her head, but she did make eye contact with him in the mirror.
“You continue to seem . . . dissatisfied with your hair,” Vision said carefully.
Wanda snorted, shoving the unnaturally orange braid over her shoulder where she couldn’t play with it. “Nat said I’ll get used to the color.”
“It’s been six months.”
Wanda finally faced him, wearing that small, slightly-annoyed smile that she got whenever he pointed out any of her logical fallacies. “But I wasn’t a redhead for all of that time.”
That was true enough. She cycled between various shades of blonde and red—never anything too dark, nothing too close to her natural brown. He thought they were all beautiful, of course, but Wanda only got more and more frustrated with each new look.
“I miss my hair.” Wanda sighed. She’d gone back to staring at the mirror. “Maybe it’s vain, I don’t know, but I always loved my hair.” She chuckled a little. “When I was a girl, I wanted it to be so long. As long as I could grow it. Long, and dark, and curly, like my mother’s. Hers was beautiful—curlier than mine, and I’m probably remembering it longer than it actually was, but I thought she had more hair than I’d ever seen in my life.”
Vision felt his chest constrict at the thought of just how much she was sharing with him. She’d shared so much over the course of their relationship, but he always selfishly wanted to know more. “And your father? Was his similar?”
Wanda shook her head, blinking, and part of Vision felt guilty for her tears, but another part of him recognized that this was just the way she remembered, with small details and glistening eyes.
“No,” she answered finally. “Well, sort of. His was dark—we all had dark hair—me, my parents, Pietro when he didn’t dye it, even my grandparents from the pictures I remember. But my father’s wasn’t curly like—” her voice broke, signaling to Vision that this was enough, the conversation had gone too far.
He reached out, drew her into his arms, and held her. She cried quietly into his chest. The tears for her parents were usually silent, like these, tamed by years of hiding them from her ever-present twin. The ones for Pietro were wild and forceful and found her in the middle of the night, so strong that she’d wake the next morning more physically exhausted than the night before.
Vision had seen many kinds of Wanda’s tears, and he hated—hated, something he’d once thought himself incapable of—he hated them more than almost anything.
Wanda sniffed and sat up, shaking her head and wiping her eyes. Vision recognized this as well. It was her ‘get ahold of yourself’ face. He kissed her cheek.
She stood, facing the mirror once more, hands crossed over her chest. “I understand why dyeing it is necessary. I can’t look like me because I can’t be me, especially since we’re already taking a risk meeting like we do.” Wanda took a deep breath, waving one hand in a sweeping gesture. “I just miss feeling like myself.”
Vision reached forward and gently grabbed the arm that wasn’t pressed against her stomach. He took her hand, still unused to the feeling of her bare, ringless fingers. “Is there anything I can do to help in that regard?”
Wanda smiled, leaning forward to kiss him. “You’re doing it, Vizh. Being with you is about the only thing that keeps me from completely losing myself.”
Still, as Vision embarked on the long journey back to the United States the next day, he wished there was something more he could do for her.
Vision sat stock still, the way that unnerved most people with its inhumanness. He could’ve gone through the motions of breathing, shifting in his seat, blinking, and glancing around, but he was alone, here in Wanda’s old room, so there wasn’t anyone else to consider.
He usually tried to stay away from Wanda’s bedroom, both because he wished to ensure his connection to her remained as inconspicuous as possible, and because something about it felt oddly invasive. He could still hear the echoes of “Knock, Vizh!” and though he knew he no longer had to worry about walking in on her naked, being alone somewhere so intrinsically tied to Wanda without her knowledge or consent didn’t appeal to his sense of propriety.
Today, however, that essence of Wanda was exactly what he was trying to capture. He’d given a lot of thought to her feelings of losing herself and had come to the conclusion that he had to do something about it.
It was honestly no wonder Wanda was feeling frustrated. On the run like she was, she couldn’t look like herself, she couldn’t sound like herself, she couldn’t dress like herself, she couldn’t be herself. One’s identity is tied to one’s appearance, as Vision himself learned when he set about developing his human disguise.
But this wasn’t about him. It was about Wanda.
The first step, naturally, was to figure out exactly what made Wanda feel like herself. After that, he could attempt to integrate those elements into her fugitive life in a way that wouldn’t put her in danger.
Vision closed his eyes and thought about Wanda. He thought about her smile, her laugh, the many different looks in her eyes. He visualized her fingers dancing through the air, the light of her own scarlet power glinting off her rings. The way she hummed when she was preoccupied, and the slight furrowing of her brow whenever Mr. Stark said something obnoxious.
The way she talked of her home, of the years before the bomb, of her mother teaching her to cook and her father teaching her to dance, of Pietro impish pranks and her grandmother's pet cat.
The flash of scarlet in her eyes when she mentions the Sokovian civil war, or the communists, or the Nazis. How civil unrest stole her grandfather from her long before it took her parents. Living on the streets, stealing to survive, barely feeling any shame for it, and the shame she feels now, years later. The sad fondness that overtakes her whenever Pietro's overprotectiveness would come up, and the fierce anger at any implication that Sokovia wasn't worth the effort, that rebuilding it was a waste, that maybe this would teach that backward nation a lesson.
Wanda loved her country, despite everything, and ultimately, she'd given up everything for it. The struggle to make Sokovia a better place had taken her parents, her home, then her freedom, her humanity, and if that wasn't enough, it took her brother, too.
And she still loved her country, and she still saw it as part of her identity, inseparable from herself.
Vision opened his eyes.
He knew what he needed to do.
Vision walked the streets of Novi Grad, clad in his human disguise, doing his best to blend in. He hadn’t seen Novi Grad before Ultron, so he had no firsthand knowledge of the city as Wanda had known it, however before this trip he did as much researching as he could. He wanted to be able to recognize the differences as Wanda would see them, if she was ever able to come back here.
A part of him felt bad for coming without her. She occasionally spoke about bringing him, to show him a place from her childhood, only to remember that it had probably been destroyed along with everything else. Unfortunately, however, if he wanted to get the information he needed, a trip to Novi Grad was the only way, short of asking Wanda herself, which would of course ruin the surprise.
Vision headed away from the city center. According to his research, the best place to glimpse true Sokovian culture was on the outskirts of the city where the damage had been lighter. After the Ultron crisis, nations from all over the world had banded together to rebuild Sokovia, and so far, things were looking up for its citizens. They even had a budding tourist economy based around the battle with Ultron.
That was all well and good, but Vision wasn’t sure Wanda would appreciate a Tony Stark bobblehead that was likely made in China.
After only twenty minutes of walking, he found himself in a much more residential area. There was a bakery to his right, flanked by a brewery on one side and a pharmacy on the other. People were out and about—not as many as he’d seen in other part of the city, but enough to imply that this was a well-traveled area.
He supposed there was nothing else for it except to attempt to strike up a conversation with someone. That was why he was here, after all, but he was suddenly rather nervous.
He scanned the people he saw, deciding eventually to approach one of the men, aware that a strange, foreign man walking up to a woman on the street usually indicated sinister motives. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten someone.
“Excuse me, sir?” he said in accented Sokovian. He was capable of speaking the language perfectly, but for the part he was playing, he needed to seem like an outsider.
The man looked up, distrust evident in his eyes. It appeared that there really weren’t many visitors in this part of town. “Yes?”
“I was wondering about Sokovian culture,” Vision said as smoothly as he could in his accented voice. “Do you know where I could get that information?”
The man’s eyes widened. He clearly hadn’t been expecting that kind of query. “That’s a broad topic.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Vision conceded.
“Are you a professor or something?” the man asked, still carefully appraising him.
“No, nothing like that.” Vision shook his head, belatedly realizing that would have been an excellent cover story. “See, my girlfriend is from Novi Grad, she had to move after the incident, and—” he explained the predicament, and exactly what he was trying to accomplish.
“Oh.” The man paused. “Huh. Well, I’d check out the bakery. Katinka, the girl who works there, she can tell you a lot, and if she can’t, then her grandmother will be able to.” He looked Vision up and down a final time. “Just don’t interfere with business, and I’m sure they will help you.”
Vision looked in the direction the man indicated. “Thank you very much, sir. Have a nice day.”
“You too.” The man walked off, shaking his head.
Vision entered the bakery hesitantly. He didn’t want to detract from business, but generally avoided buying or eating food, as a rule. The bakery was currently empty, however, so he didn’t feel quite as bad about taking up the woman’s time.
She was behind the counter, busy wrapping up various pastries and breads. “Can I help you?” she asked, glancing up.
Vision briefly explained his goals once again. The woman put down her parcels of food.
“Wow. That’s so sweet.” She smiled. “I’d be happy to help! My name is Katinka.”
“Victor,” Vision said smoothly, using the alias he’d adopted for visiting Wanda.
“Nice to meet you, Victor.” Katinka leaned in conspiringly. “I’m really not supposed to do this—my grandmother would kill me if she found out—but I can give you our family recipes, if you want.”
Vision nodded so enthusiastically he began to feel dizzy. “That would be wonderful!”
“Okay, well, the first thing you do is—” Katinka stopped. “Oh, do you need to write this down?”
“I will remember,” Vision said confidently.
Katinka looked skeptical, but didn’t argue with him. “All right. The first thing you do is . . .”
Vision did remember Katinka’s instructions. He remembered them in the same vivid detail that he remembered everything else that had ever happened to him. That wouldn’t be of any help to him, however, if the dough continued to be uncooperative.
He should’ve practiced.
After leaving Katinka’s bakery full of confidence and gratitude, he’d managed to track down the other people she’d suggested, her grandmother and uncle. They were all very helpful, and Vision had thought that everything was going wonderfully. The cabbage soup was simmering, he’d successfully fried the topinky bread (though he was concerned about the large amount of garlic Katinka had told him to use), and the schnitzel was far easier than he’d expected after Katinka’s grandmother’s demonstration.
The trouble came, however, when he tried to make the buchty for dessert. The sweet dumpling, as Katinka had explained, was usually filled with a fruit confit, but he hadn’t even gotten started on that yet, because the dough was just not working!
The consistency was all wrong. Perhaps it needed some more flour? Vision turned, grabbing the bag of flour with one hand, but his other hand was covered in sticky bits of dough. He tried to gently shake it off, and when that didn’t work, scraped his fingers on the edge of the bowl. It only occurred to him later that if he’d simply phased his hand and let the dough fall off, he could’ve avoided what happened next.
In his frustration with the dough, he involuntarily squeezed the open bag of flour in his other hand, causing a puff of the white powder to envelop his face. This in turn, surprised him so much that the bag slipped from his fingers and hit the ground, spilling flour all over the floor. Vision stood frozen in the mess, filled with the overwhelming urge to laugh at his misfortune. Before he could decide on the appropriate response, however, he heard the sounds of the front door opening.
Wanda was home.
"Vizh?" Wanda opened the door to her small Edinburgh apartment, trying to push down her budding excitement. "Is that you?" She knew it was him, she could sense his mind from blocks away, but he wasn't supposed to be here for another week.
"Wanda?" Vision's voice came from around the corner, and the slight panic in his mind made her pause in the door. "You're back earlier than—” He appeared in front of her, phasing through part of the wall. He took a deep breath like he was steading himself and smiled at her. "Hello.”
"Hi." Wanda held back a giggle and threw her arms around his neck. "What are you doing here?" she murmured into the fabric of his sweater. She pulled back, her brain finally registering the rest of his attire. "And why are you wearing an apron? Are you cooking?"
"I—well," Vision rubbed the back of his neck. "I was trying to—"
"To cook for me?" Wanda interrupted excitedly, beaming.
Vision nodded, looking down. "Certain things didn't work the way I anticipated, plus you arrived early, so—"
"Can I help?" Wanda interrupted again. "Or not, if you would rather this be one of those things you do for me by yourself."
"Your aid would be much appreciated."
Wanda grinned, throwing her arms around him again. "You're the best, you know that?"
"You’ve yet to see the kitchen," Vision deflected.
"What did you do to the kitchen?" Wanda pushed past him into the other room, grabbing his hand and pulling him with her.
She froze in the door, staring, her mouth falling open.
There was flour all over the place, the floor, the cabinets, the counter, plus a glob of some kind of dough on the wall that Vision had phased through. She figured that the mess was one of the things that Vision hadn't anticipated, but she barely noticed any of it. She was too caught up in what assaulted the rest of her senses.
Vision shifted uncomfortably, misinterpreting her silence. He stepped forward to pick up the bag of flour. "I apologize for the mess. I was—"
"What’s that smell, Vizh?" Wanda's shoulders were tense, and she knew Vision could see it, and she knew she should reassure him that she wasn't upset, but the scent of those spices and the sight of those ingredients were bringing tears to her eyes and the last thing she wanted was for him to think he made her cry when he was such a sweetheart for attempting to do this in the first place.
Vision clearly didn't know what to do, eyes flicking from Wanda to the kitchen and back again. “Uh, well, I made topinky, cabbage soup, and schnitzel. I was attempting buchty, but as you can see, that didn’t go according to plan.”
Wanda whirled around to face him, throwing herself in his arms for the third time. "I love you," she breathed, unable to come up with any other coherent thought. “I love you so much.”
Vision stiffened, arms still around Wanda, but there was no hesitation in his words. "I love you, too, Wanda."
Wanda kissed him, staying in his arms for as long as she could before she had to pull away. "Why—I mean, what made you decide to—" she waved her hand helplessly at the counter.
Vision looked uncomfortable again. "You seemed like you could use a taste of home."
Wanda smiled, tears pricking her eyes again. "Thank you, Vizh."
“Of course.”
Wanda examined Vision’s first batch of dough. “I hate to say it, babe, but this seems unsalvageable.”
Vision nodded. “I figured as much.” He crouched down and began sweeping the spilled flour into piles with his hands.
“You know that I can get all of that?” Wanda snapped her fingers, letting out a spark of red. “If you’d like.”
“Be my guest.” Vision stood, giving her a ‘go ahead’ gesture.
She smiled, setting down the bowl. This would be harder than most things she manipulated, but if she could extract a cloud of gas from a building, she could clean up a little flour.
A sweep of her hands and few flicks of her fingers, and delicate wisps of red were plucking at the grains of flour, gathering them together into a dust-cloud in the middle of the room. When she was sure she had it all, she sent it flying into the trash can, closing the lid with a satisfying clang.
Wanda turned to Vision, grinning. “Nothing to it.”
“It would appear not.” Vision smiled back at her, and then hesitated like there was something else he wanted to say.
“Yes?” Wanda asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I was going to wait to give these to you,” Vision reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small bag. Wanda recognized it instantly, and her eyes widened. “I thought that there wouldn’t be any harm in rescuing a few of your belongings from the compound. These seemed small enough to go unnoticed.”
Wanda stumbled forward and took the bag from him, fingers trembling as she undid the drawstring and let the contents tumble into her hand. It was her rings, all of them, the ones she’d been wearing when she’d been arrested and the ones she’d left in her room. She put them on immediately, and then laughed, pulling them off again.
“Is everything all right?” Vision asked nervously.
“Yes, don’t worry.” Wanda pressed a kiss onto his lips. “I just can’t cook with all the rings on.”
“Oh, right.” Vision looked embarrassed, and Wanda giggled. He gestured to the ingredients on the counter. “Shall we?”
“Absolutely.”
Cooking was much more enjoyable when Wanda was there to help. It frustrated Vision no end that he couldn't seem to master it, but Wanda's assurances that even many humans are terrible cooks did somewhat mollify him. The food turned out delicious, according to Wanda. He declined to have any so that Wanda would have plenty of leftovers for the rest of the week, but she did make him try a taste of each dish, and he had to admit that the palate was unlike anything he’d tried before.
Vision dried the last of the dishes as Wanda arranged the leftovers in the fridge, humming to herself. Vision figured this was as good a time as any to bring up the next item on his agenda.
"Wanda?"
"Hmm?" Her head was still in the tiny fridge, shoving things around.
"What song is that? You hum it often."
"Oh." Wanda straightened, letting the fridge door swing shut. "Uh, just something my dad used to listen to. An old Sokovian folk song. I don't really remember the words."
"Would you like to hear it?" Vision asked, producing a small CD player from where he’d stashed it in the cabinet.
"What?" Wanda cocked her head to the side. "There's no way that you—"
Vision pressed play.
The familiar melody filled the air. Vision was impressed at how well Wanda had been reproducing it after all these years.
She was silent while the song played, but she didn't try to stop the tears from falling this time.
Vision paused the CD before the next track could play, the anxious knot in his stomach now a familiar sensation.
"How did you do that?" Wanda breathed, "Where did you—"
"There was an old street performer in Novi Grad. He claimed to play nearly forgotten music, so I asked him about the song you always sing. It took some time, but he finally figured out which one I meant. He made a CD with that song, and others he thought you might know, and—" Vision reached into the cabinet again, fumbling slightly. Wanda twirled her fingers, and took the CD player from him with a few curls of scarlet, freeing his hands. "And he wrote down the sheet music, so you can learn to play them, if you want. I would have gotten you an instrument—I know you used to play guitar—but I wasn't sure what would be the most appropriate—"
"Vizh." Wanda said quietly, still balancing the CD player with her powers. "I'm so confused. Why did—How—When did you go to Novi Grad?”
The frustration in her voice and the tears still lingering on her face made Vision rapidly rethink his plan. Unfortunately, it was far too late to turn back now.
"Well, I guess—" He stumbled over the words. "Can we go sit down, and I'll explain?"
Wanda nodded, pulling the CD player towards her and cradling it to her chest as she followed him to the couch.
Vision waited until she was sitting comfortably with her feet curled under her, facing him. She was still clutching the CD player, but Vision took that as a good sign. He templed his fingers in his lap, staring down at them.
"I guess the simplest explanation is that I wanted you to know that you didn't have to completely give up your identity—whether that's your culture, or your personality, or anything else about you—just because you're a fugitive. You can still interact with all of these aspects that make you feel like yourself," Vision explained quietly. “So, I took a trip to Novi Grad to see if I could find something to help you feel better. I met a very nice woman who taught me to bake. Her grandmother taught me to cook, and her uncle was the street performer I mentioned.”
Wanda let out a breath. "Vizh, that's—I—" She broke off helplessly, holding out a hand towards his head. "Can I—?”
"Of course." Vision leaned closer, always welcoming a stronger connection with her, especially when she was articulating complicated emotions.
A few drops of red crossed the distance between her fingertips and his forehead, and then he was hit with a wave of warmth, and love, and gratitude, and just a hint of unworthiness, all jumbled together with confusion that anyone would go to all this trouble for her.
"It's not silly," Vision said immediately, picking up on the errant thought that she had been making a fuss over nothing. "There's nothing silly or inconsequential about your feelings, Wanda." He could tell she didn't quite believe him, or thought he didn't quite understand what she meant, so he persisted. "You think that your feelings of losing your identity were unfounded and ridiculous, and that's simply not the case."
Wanda shrugged, looking away. "I guess, but they certainly weren't worth all this."
"Of course they were," Vision insisted, grabbing her hands and bringing them to his lips. "Darling, you're the one who's always telling me that my feelings are valid, no matter what they are, and I want to show you that yours are as well."
Wanda was crying again. She pulled one of her hands back to swipe at her cheeks, and Vision reached out to cradle her face between his hands, wiping the tears away for her. "I apologize if this was too much. I don't think I've quite got the hang of what is an appropriate gesture. I just want you to know that—as you always tell me—whatever you're feeling is important to me. I want to do what I can to make you happy. Always."
Wanda bit her lip, nodding, and then pulled him close for a kiss. She didn't have the words to thank him, but she made sure that, through both her thoughts and her kisses, Vision knew exactly what he meant to her.
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Snippet of the gay story I’m currently writing
JACOB
Mr. Landry is doing his usual introductory, first day back to school speech, reviewing the class’ syllabus and expectations for “any of those who have forgotten.” I must have dozed off because by the time that I’ve woken up to the sound of students scraping their desks and chairs into small groups for a peer discussion about the spring reading of The Alchemy of Mankind, everyone has assigned themselves in groups of three or four and are delving into conversation, analyzing characters and the potential themes of the story.
I’m not at all surprised that nobody has made a single move to be paired up with me, and how everyone - and I mean all 21 students - in the classroom are avoiding to look in my general direction, like they’re afraid that once they do, I might try and join them.
I sigh, reaching down to dig out my own copy from my bag so it’ll at least look like I’m doing something, when I catch a pair of grey and battered running shoes approaching my desk. I pull my bag out of the way, sure that whoever it is is only trying to make their way past me and I’m in their way, muttering a “sorry” as I continue searching my bag for a pencil.
But the shoes just stay there, not moving. Instead, I hear another scrape of a chair pulled towards my desk mixed in with a “hi.”
I glance up, and it’s him.
The guy who I saw on the other side of the window outside the music room this morning. The guy who’d given me a lopsided grin and an enthusiastic thumbs-up when he’d seen me play a single, stretched note on the piano as if he’d just heard an orchestra play a full song rather than just me playing the A key on the piano for just a few seconds. He’s wearing the same crooked grin on his face, and his auburn hair looks somehow curlier, partially covering his right eye and he’s wearing black-rimmed glasses now as he twirls a pen in his hand, fidgeting endlessly as he sits down.
“Hi,” he says again. I kind of like his voice; it kind of sounds like how I would imagine silk would sound like if it could talk, and there’s a slight hint of an accent, though I can’t really identify what it is. It’s a little more high-pitched than the other guys in the ninth grade, who sometimes pretend to have lower and gruffer voice to sound cool.
“Hi.” I respond, completely, fully aware that a lot of the other kids are now staring in our direction with confusion and fascination that someone would even think to come and sit with me, much less talk and smile like this at me.
“I saw you this morning,” he says, as if he doesn’t care, or doesn’t even notice how the room has quieted down to murmurs as people watch us. “In the music room playing the piano.”
And that immediately sends an electric shock up and down my body, and definitely not in a good way as I can practically hear everyone raising their eyebrows at me. They’re thinking what they can’t say without attracting my attention or Mr. Landry’s, who’s just walked back into the room with a stack of papers in hand.
Jacob? Playing the piano?
Is he getting back into music?
Did his parents get back together?
And immediately, I feel like I’m on one side of a large door made out of steel and the other guys is on the other side, and I imagine myself shutting the door, separating myself from him and his other prying questions that are sure to come; and I’m locking it with two - no, three padlocks and a chain.
“I didn’t really play anything,” I mutter back, opening up my book and staring down at it, but I can’t read the words as they are. Instead, it’s just like always; the words swirl into music notes, and they only play one single note all throughout the pages. No melody, no harmony, no nothing. Just a single, boring note all alone and monotone in nature. And it’s like I can hear the sound played, stretched and never ending in my head on the violin, twisting and turning in my mind, insistent and haunting me.
This has always been happening since I was young, even before I learned how to play the violin or figured out how to read sheet music and that the notes don’t go forever in alphabetical order; that it stops and repeats in the pattern of C, D, E, F, G, A, B.
But since the divorce four years go, the notes have only become one cacophany, and it’s not even really identifiable. It’s as if I’m a toddler again, unable to tell which note is which, because it’s just all seven keys merged into a messy and twisted sound similar to nails - no, a long, rusty knife scratching on metal.
And.
I.
Can’t.
Stand.
It.
“I’m Aaron.” The boy says to me. Why hasn’t he moved away yet? Why does he keep insisting on talking to me when I’m doing my absolute hardest to give him the sign that I don’t want to do anything with him?
I don’t.
I really, really, really don’t.
“What’s your name?”
I don’t.
And before I can move away, or raise my hand or even better, chuck myself out the window, the lights shut off as Mr. Landry projects something on the board. A chart. Five short columns of names in threes and fours and one at the end of two.
Jacob and Aaron.
No, no, you have to be kidding. Mr. Landry has got to be joking. That’s all that’s happening, right? Soon he’s just going to erase it and force us into different and separate groups, where we won’t be forced against our will, or at least mine to work together for who knows how long.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he announces a criteria for a project that will be due on the second week of June as a final project. Two months, two months.
Fucking fantastic.
I want to crumple the criteria sheet that Mr. Landry has handed out and chuck it out the window, following quickly after straight down onto the cement. But instead, I sigh and finally look at Aaron, forcing myself to make eye contact with him. I notice unconsciously that he has mismatched coloured eyes; I’m not entirely sure if it’s because of the light streaming from the windows, but his left eye is a lot lighter shade of brown, almost honey, and his right is hazel, with specks of green near the pupil.
He’s looking at me expectantly, the smile not having faltered even a fraction.
I purse my lips, accepting his outstretched hand across the desk reluctantly. “Jacob.”
#my gay love story#homosexual#my story#please do not steal or repost anywhere#my original story and idea#my writing
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Delayed Reaction
March 4, 2019
Have you ever been driving and when you get to your destination, you can’t remember the actual drive? Or sometimes during my morning workout I’ll complete a set of exercises and ten seconds later not remember that I’d actually done them. Well, I’m coming up on a year since I discovered that lump in my breast, and for the life of me (ha!) the past eleven months is a complete blur. And it seems that all the thoughts, feelings and experiences that I moved through, but didn’t have the time to process are now plowing over me like an avalanche.
A little catch up- Although my PET Scan in December came back clear, a few weeks later I found another lump in my breast. Having had a bilateral mastectomy, it shouldn’t be anything, right? Always wanting to avoid overreacting, I hesitated contacting my doctor. But after about two weeks of feeling the thing, I sent my Surgical Oncologist an email asking if it’s anything I should be concerned about. Her call the next morning requesting to see me right away answered that question.
An ultrasound could not determine what the lump is. Yes, it could be scar tissue or dead fat cells from the grafting that was done during my reconstruction, but the radiologist could not be conclusive. So they decided to ‘watch me very closely’ and follow this lump to make sure it’s not another tumor. I’ll go back for another ultrasound in a month or so.
Getting back to ‘normal’ also meant resuming my regular skin checks with my Dermatologist. Having had several skin cancers in the past, all treatable with a few snips and stitches, my Dermatologist and I are buddies. But at this appointment, he was different. Now that I’m post- breast cancer, he suddenly become over vigilant. He did a much more thorough skin check than before that resulted in discovering a lump at my lymph node by my pelvis. (Who knew we even had lymph nodes there?!!!) He had never even examined those lymph nodes before. So when he solemnly asked “So, uh… when’s the next time you’re going to see your Oncologist?” it’s was all I could do to avoid laughing. Not a humorous situation, but, are you kidding me? So yeh, I sent off another email to my Surgical Oncologist and we both decided this one could wait to be examined at my next check up in a month.
At this point in time, I’m kinda thinking that if we keep digging deep enough, we’re gonna find some stuff. And shit, I’m just kind of done.
Back to the avalanche.
I’m on my third month of taking hormone blockers and I think they’re messing with me. This shows up for me in a couple ways. First, my bones are really achy. When I go to stand after sitting for a while, I walk like an old lady. And second, I’m experiencing an exaggerated version of PMS, where I become overly irritable, followed by some deep sadness. It’s not really depression, but more a lack of joy…in everything.
Warning- rant to follow.
I am no longer bald- that’s something to celebrate, right? I should be grateful. And I am… but….My hair is coming back darker and curlier than it was before. And I’m not really enjoying the growing out process. And if one more person tells me how cute my hair style is, I may just scream. Yes, I know people are well-intentioned. And heck, I may have made the same kind of remark to someone I’d seen going through this process. But for me, it’s just a sad reminder of what I’ve just gone through. This is not a hairstyle I’ve chosen. I did not go to the salon and ask for a pixie haircut. This strawberry blonde, curly mess growing is not by choice. Some days I feel like Little Orphan Annie! And as much as I wanted to play Annie as a child, nowadays it just gets me angry. I miss my light blonde hair. I miss having longer hair. I miss having a warm head!
And then there’s my boobs. I miss them too. MY boobs. The ones I had before surgery. Because the ones I have now- they don’t feel like mine. They don’t look like mine. And honestly, they don’t even look that great. Don’t get me wrong, the plastic surgeon did a wonderful job. But because my boobs pre-surgery were kinda saggy, I would’ve had to go up several sizes to fill the skin and I just didn’t want to do that. As a result, my boobs have lots of dimples and indentations in them now and the shape just looks unnatural to me. And they don’t feel great. Sometimes they hurt. It’s just another reminder.
Piled on top of all this anger is a boatload of guilt. I’m reminded of how lucky I am. I have my life. The treatments worked. My health insurance, for the most part, was amazing at helping us handle the cost of the financial toll of this disease. And my body has mostly rebounded from the year’s events. So with all of that in mind, all these challenging feelings seem indulgent. There’s a voice always whispering, “Sarah, come on now. How dare you? You should be feeling unending gratitude.” So every experience of anger, sadness or frustration is followed by tremendous guilt. And there’s an aching thought that somehow I ’should’ be doing more with my life; that my life as a Mom to these amazing boys, running our household, it just isn’t enough. It’s not a positive whisper, one that encourages me to do more. It’s more of a very judgmental side of myself, criticizing and nagging; as if saying, “This is what your life was saved for?”
So yeh, there’s a lot going on in my head these days. And little things trigger me. Recently I saw a story on facebook about a guy who ‘cured’ his cancer by eating raw. First of all, yay for him. But secondly, shit. Really? Here’s my inner monologue reacting to this story: “Wow, so more evidence that eating raw is good for you and may even CURE cancer? I’m not eating raw. I’m not enjoying eating very much at all lately. But when I do eat, it’s not raw. Right now, it’s carb and sugar heavy because I’m f-ing sad all the time. Great. So now, I’m not only hurting my body by not sustaining it with healthy food choices, but I’m inviting cancer to come right back in. Way to go, Sarah.” And then it turns to: “F-ck that! If I fought so hard to stay alive, I should be able to eat whatever I want! And f that guy for implying that by not eating raw, I’m welcoming cancer back!” OK- I know that guy wasn’t really implying that. He was just sharing his story. Again, yay for him. But clearly, there’s still lots of anger and guilt present for me.
“Waaa, waaa, waaa. Quit your bitching and moaning. Stop indulging yourself and shake it off,” says my inner voice.
And then I learned that this whole thing I’m going through…it’s not uncommon. In fact, most cancer survivors experience a period of time when they process the trauma of, well, getting cancer and going through treatment and surviving. And for me, this part is much harder than the actual treatments. When I was going through treatments, there was a plan to follow and it kept me on track. Now, going through this, it’s ambiguous and wrought with traps, reminding me how I should be grateful, when all I’m feeling is sad. And I’m a bit angry that there wasn’t a warning about this part of recovery and no courses on how to navigate this post-cancer phase.
And if I’m being totally honest and transparent, which is all I know how to be, I’m a bit angry that the support that was so abundant during my treatments has all but disappeared. People congratulate me now, like the whole cancer thing is done, I’ve crossed the finish line, mission complete. Unlike the loving compassion I received from friends when I shared my cancer diagnosis, now when I share my sadness and difficult feelings, my friends just nod and suggest therapy, anti-depressants, or finding my passion. These are great ideas and ones that I’ve utilized in the past, but right now, they’re just not resonating. But I understand my well intentioned friends. Sitting with someone in sadness is not easy or something we’re taught. We naturally want to help someone feel better. I get it.
Another tactic is reminding myself that there are so many people who are experiencing so much worse than me. But this can be tricky because while I understand that notion intellectually, my own sad feelings remain the same and joylessness persists. And then guilt creeps back in and compounds the situation. So ultimately, my training has taught me that avoiding my feelings, or masking them with drugs or busyness, will not lead me to radiant health. Sometimes, you just have to go through it, you know?
So it seems I’m in mourning for my pre-cancer life. And It may just take a bit of time for me to adjust to this new life of mine. One with achy bones, strange, awkward boobs and cancer still dangling over my head.
So please bare with me, dear reader, as I go through my stuff. More rants may follow. And hopefully, as I continue to work through all of this, these feelings will lift.
I ask for grace, compassion and understanding. No need to solve this for me, but I welcome a hug, a loving nod, or a wink- you know, the kind that Samantha used to give to Carrie, reassuring her she had her back. And I hope…I really hope, I can find my joy again.
In loving,
Sarah
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I didn’t wash my hair for 5 weeks...
...in a lockdown-driven attempt at the No Poo Method.
Last year, tons of people decided to take advantage of the time with zero socialisation to try to begin the ‘No Poo’ Method - a haircare method that involves zero shampoo. Shampoo contains ingredients that strip all oil from your hair, not just the excess - all of it. The ‘No Poo’ Movement is a large group of people who wash their hair with alternative methods, such as apple cider vinegar and baking soda, or just water.
Forever, I’ve been frustrated by how often I needed to shampoo my hair - I just wanted to wake up and like how it looks without having to get it wet or fill it with product. I’ve tried to extend the time between washes before by wearing my hair up, or using dry shampoo, but I don’t like having my hair up and, too many days in a row, the constant pull of all your hair tugging on one section of your scalp causes headaches and dry shampoo leaves your hair feeling so much worse than just greasy hair.
During the in-and-out lockdowns of 2020, I continued to wash my hair every few days to maintain a sense of normalcy, but it was still frustrating, and having clean hair doesn’t do much to improve your mood when you’re stuck in the house all day doing online school.
The UK officially went into a national lockdown for the third time on January 5th, 2021, but schools broke up for the Christmas holidays on December 18th, so I began my first attempt at the ‘No Poo’ Method on the December 30th. At this point, I was under the impression I’d be back at school on January 4th, but then it was announced we’d be doing online learning at least until the 11th, then we went into lockdown, and, as of right now, the earliest we’ll be out is March 8th. So, I made my attempt.
I typically washed my hair every three days at the time - day one was lovely and clean and perfect, day two a little straggly but still clean, and day three the day I had to cope with a little grease, lest I lose my precious day two. I had recently been wearing it up when it became oily, however, so as of December 30th, it was more like every five days.
As per usual, by the morning of day three, my roots were too oily for me to be comfortable wearing my hair down as I usually would. As expected, over the next few days, the oil made its way down my hair, until day 10, where everything above the nape of my neck was absolutely slick. I caved, and I washed it. but decided to try again.
My true attempt at the ‘No Poo’ Method began on January 9th, 2021.
Day One - I washed my hair as I usually would. I don’t have particularly dry or oily hair, so I decided to use this as an experiment. I would have liked to go completely shampoo-free ultimately, but, I figured, worst case scenario, I have gross hair for a few weeks, which nobody will see, and probably get to fit a few more days in between washes when I went back to shampoo.
It’s really not good not to wash your hair at all because it lets bacteria and dead skin build up on your scalp, but I decided I would only rinse and/or condition it after two weeks.
Day Three - I woke up on the morning of day three to find my hair, which would usually be greasy by now, completely wearable. It looked as it usually would on day two, but was its typical day-three self by about 6pm.
Day Fifteen - Throughout the next two weeks, the grease made its way down my hair. Aside from that, however, nothing much had changed. My hair was slicker and clumpier than usual, but that was it. My oil slick was still a few inches from the ends, which were beginning to get a little dry having not been conditioned for two weeks. On day fourteen, I rinsed my hair with only water and conditioned it to save my precious ends. Running your fingers through your hair when wet becomes a lot more difficult without shampoo to act as a lubricant, but, I was only a third of the way through the average transition period of six weeks, so I sucked it up. I let my hair air-dry, and by the time I brushed it out, it was still oily, but no longer left my fingers feeling like I’d eaten a bag of crisps. It wasn’t quite okay to be worn down, but it was odd - when my hair did get greasy, I was used to it being concentrated at the roots, where, now it was spread more evenly. I was also left with flakes of my scalp in my hair, apparently from finally loosening the dead skin trapped there. Despite not being someone prone to dandruff, I knew this would probably happen, so I let it be and braided it back.
Throughout the week, it seemed to be getting more oily significantly more slowly than ever before, but, of course, was still just getting dirtier.
Day Twenty-Two - A week later, I rinsed my hair again, and it reverted to exactly how it looked on day fourteen, though now it was stiffer, losing its natural wave and my roots were sticking to themselves in a way that can only be described as ‘waxy’. Now halfway to the six-week mark, I was incredibly unsatisfied with what I was seeing. It was no longer just a matter of braiding it back and ignoring it; brushing it had become laborious and there was so much skin being left on my brush. I decided it was time to try something new - I bought a boar-bristle hair brush to see if it would make a difference, since it was meant to be better at distributing oil along the strands.
Day Twenty-Three - The very next day, I rinsed it again to see if it would make any extra difference. Double-shampooing your hair is meant to make it cleaner, so surely double-rinsing would do the same - right? Wrong. It made no difference whatsoever.
Day Twenty-Eight - I rinsed my hair without conditioner a night early, and was left with pretty much the same results. My hair was now completely waxy, and my new boar-bristle brush was covered in flakes of my dead skin. Only now, I noticed that my hair brush had begun to smell, and my hair smelt similar. I had only just noticed it, however, and it wasn’t that strong, so I braided it back, and left it be.
Day Twenty-Nine - My hair and brushes smelt so bad by morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I shampooed my brushes and washed my hair with only conditioner in an attempt to get rid of the smell. Thoroughly. As in, conditioner-scrubbed-into-the-roots twice-as-much-as-usual thoroughly. As usual, I left my hair to air-dry for the next few hours. About to go on a walk with my sister, I tried to twist it into the top-knot I had been donning those few times I was leaving the house (buns were more effective at disguising the grease, but I mainly wore it in a braid to avoid headaches) and I just couldn’t do it. I smoothed my hair as much as I could before pulling it up, but it just wouldn’t listen. I gave up, and wore it in a lovely weasel-braid out, which didn’t look so bad. However, I felt I had reached my limit. if I could no longer put my hair in a bun to leave the house, I didn’t know how I was going to survive any longer without shampoo.
This was essentially when I gave up. Having rinsed my hair both the night before and that morning, I decided to force myself to bear it for a few more days before shampooing it, but I had decided it was coming that week.
Day Thirty-Two - My hair hadn’t changed in days, but I started to really miss just having it down around my shoulders.
Day Thirty-Five - I tried to put my hair in a bun, which I hadn’t done for a few days, as an experiment. I literally couldn’t do it; when I changed my parting even a little, I suddenly became unable to detangle it, and trying to put it up was impossible. My hair had started to matt, and I decided it was officially time to wash it, which I planned to do the next morning, once I had officially hit the five week mark.
Day 35+1 - I’d been looking forward to finally washing it, and, honestly, getting the shampoo finally on my hair felt like some kind of betrayal. I made sure to use sulphate-free shampoo, because it seemed a little extreme to use my regular shampoo. My hair came out as usual, but it seemed curlier, more hydrated and less frizzy than it usually is when I initially wash my hair, but I can’t say whether that was because of the experiment or just because I used sulphate-free shampoo.
Day 35+2 - My hair felt as it usually does the day after washing it, and looked it, too, but since it had looked this way on Day One too, I was impressed, but not willing to jump to any conclusions as of yet.
By the end of the day, however, it wasn’t as greasy as it would usually be this long after washing. It felt healthier - it was pretty healthy to begin with, but even so - and seemed longer, though that was likely just due to the novelty of having it down for the first time in over a month.
Day 35+4 - It was now a little oilier than I’d typically be willing to wear it down, but I did anyway because we’re in lockdown and no-one’s going to see me.
In conclusion: I didn't wash my hair for another two weeks after that, and even though I'm now back to a regular hair wash schedule, it now takes an extra day for my hair to become too greasy to wear, which is a success.
Would I do this again? I'd say no, because I hated it. Thanks to your good friend and mine, the patriarchy, my self-worth is hugely based on my appearance! Which hair makes a big impact on! Which made me feel like crap for a long time! It was also itchy, it felt gross, and I hated the experience.
On the other hand, my hair is now healthier than it has ever been, and even though I failed at the no-poo method, I did succeed in slowing how quickly my hair gets greasy, so there's that.
#blog#blogging#blog post#blogger#hair#haircare#hair care#hair wash#hair washing#no poo#no poo method#no shampoo#shampoo free#hair experiment#hair blog
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Making My Hair Mine
Katie Klabusich
My adoptive mom’s hangups convinced me I was an ugly duckling with noticeable imperfections. Turns out, it was about her, not me, and certainly not about my hair, which isn't the enemy she -- or I -- thought it was, either.
I have a bit of an obsession with the Instagram feeds of my friends who parent. All those pics and videos of their kids being… well, kids! At 39, my inner child’s heart bursts with appreciation for all that praise of their uniqueness, the silly moments alongside them, and even encouragement for them to experiment with whatever clothing and hairstyles feel right to their personalities, genders, and whims.
A few years ago, my good friend and fellow writer Avital Norman Nathman wrote about why she “lets” her son — who inherited her whimsically curly, often multicolored locks — grow his hair past his shoulders. She’d fielded comments from self-professed, well-meaning bystanders who worried he’d be confused with a girl. As both a fierce feminist and loving mom, she rejected the false gender binary — which taught her son that he’s unique and valuable just as he is, however he is.
My own experience growing up was different.
Parents (and guardians of all titles) are people. They have their own emotional baggage, insecurities, habits, and idiosyncrasies that are part of their personalities. Because they have authority over us, it is naturally hard to see them that way when we’re growing up. Their words and actions have power long before we’re able to see themselves outside their role as the chief influencers in our lives.
Meanwhile, they incorporate those insecurities and habits into their relationships with us. In my house, my adoptive mom’s primary obsession was my hair — all of it: the length, the color, the style, and the amount of curl. And most importantly: how much it made us alike or different.
When a parent has and expresses a particular and constant attentiveness to your appearance — be it praise or criticism -- that constant feedback takes root. When I had light blond hair and soft baby ringlets through age four or five, she LOVED my hair. She played with it like I was a doll. I remember wanting to run around, but having to sit still while she brushed or braided it.
As I got older and let my hair grow, it got thicker, browner and straighter. I hit a couple of growth spurts and lost my chubby baby cheeks, too. Overall, I started looking less and less like her — triggering her insecurities about having had to adopt a child rather than being able to carry and give birth to one. At a glance, anyone who cared to take notice and didn’t know I was adopted would've simply assumed I was going through a phase where I just looked more like my darker, Hungarian father.
But people stopped commenting about how remarkably alike we looked. For her, every new trait pushed us further apart and made me less hers. I’m positive this would've been true even without a birthmark on my scalp for her to focus intently on.
Since reuniting with my birth mother last year I learned that my delivery was long. Like, so long she wasn’t particularly sure which date she’d given birth on. I was born after almost forty hours of labor, and that makes the birthmark — a dime-sized bald spot with a small bump in the middle — likely a result of the doctor using forceps to help me along. It’s always been there, just left of center midway down my skull in the back. My hair has always been thick, so it’s always been covered. But the fear that it could be seen — what if I did a cartwheel? or the wind blew at recess? — pushed my mom to cater hairstyles around it, narrating her thought-process as she did.
At some point she noticed that the hair around the bald spot was curlier than the rest of my hair. It was also darker (probably because it was covered and never got bleached by the sun like the top layer). With a furrowed brow, she sat me down in front of a movie and cut the curlier hair down to half an inch, creating — of course — a larger bald spot. Three times the size of the original, in fact. I couldn’t leave it alone because it was new and felt weird. And thus, an almost thirty-year-long tick was born. Beating it would take therapy, meds, and an intense desire to cast off all the insecurities I have that are tied to her.
In the ten or so years between the first time my mom excised the “extra” curly hair and when I won the battle to control what was done to my head just before my senior year of high school, she went through various phases — which meant I had to go through them with her. At one point she was so grossed out by this thing that made me weird and different and ugly (or at least that’s how it made me feel) that she leaned down and, in a giggle-whisper voice like we were both ten years old, said: “It’s almost like ya got pubic hair back here!”
What kid wouldn’t get a complex? I think that now, but I would never have asked a peer for validation or their opinion. I was terrified of just the idea that someone would see it.
She’d also been frosting my hair at home for what felt like forever. For those who don’t know, frosting was a do-it-yourself highlighting kit from the olden days (the 70’s). It was something my friend’s moms usually did for themselves while we kids played with less permanent homemade concoctions for our hair made from different Kool-Aid flavors.
Frosting first required brushing your hair to within an inch of your poor scalp’s life, and then squeezing a plastic cover, like a swimming cap, over your head, eyebrows, and ears. Then, a tool that should only be used for crocheting is poked through the cap 75-200 times, to pul a few hairs through at a time. Once you look like a potato that’s been allowed to sprout, all those pulled-through hairs are brushed again (OUCH!) and a packet of chemicals is mixed using a mask. Why a mask, you say? Because the fumes are f’ing toxic. My hair usually took half an hour to get tugged, completely stripped of color, super dry, and extra frizzy.
It is perhaps unsurprising that I did not undergo this process willingly.
By the time I got to middle school, I’d completely adopted my mom’s paranoia about the hair around the spot and the spot itself. The popular hairstyle in my peer group was “The Rachel” (from “Friends” — flat, straight, with just one or two playful layers in the front to fall in the face). My hair was never going to be flat, but it hadn’t totally transitioned to curly, so I was still trying to wrangle it smooth. That two-or-so-inch ring of trimmed down hair was making most of the hair near the crown of my head poof out noticeably. I was willing to do something more time and money intensive.
Lye had already gone out of fashion as a chemical in hair straighteners because it burns like hell. It feels like your scalp is being literally fried. I — voluntarily, this time — let my mom take me to a stylist who applied the old-school formula and brushed it in, dragging a comb over the skin of my bald spot. The back of my head hurt for days afterward. We repeated this every three or four months.
Eventually, I told her I was tired of messing with it. I’d never picked up her love of a two-hour morning make-up and hair routine. I was going to be taking a “zero-hour” class at 6:50am before the regular school day started the following Fall. I was smartly looking to cut out things I didn’t need (or want) to spend time on. I must have sounded sensible enough (I often cited my academic goals when I needed something), because I got to drop all the extras, and so I also got to see what my actual hair looked like. Luckily, the 90’s had loosened up a bit (or I had) and my curly hair was either a non-issue (better than being bullied!) or people liked it because it was different.
Even though it felt like a HUGE victory to have wrested control over my hair back from my mom at 17 (and without a fight!), it would be another two decades before I was truly comfortable with it. Appearance is about our features, and my often waist-length curly hair was my most distinguishing one. I’d let Mom talk me into cutting it the month before I went to college and it’s the only decision I regret. So I let it grow. And grow. And the more I heard how cute it was short, the more I grew it out of spite.
More than seven years after disowning me the first time (just before Christmas in 2011), when I looked in the mirror I still saw the result of choices that have been about defiance.
Why was anything this toxic person had ever said about my hair to me or anyone else still defining what I did with it?
I think about my hair every day, even if it’s just to pull it back out of my face. So every day a tiny piece of that trauma plays out in the back of my head — right underneath that damn spot causing all the trouble, LOLsob — even if I don’t consciously notice.
Then I thought: what if I just cut it?
I realized I didn’t care if it was perfectly even (a big step for someone with even my mild form of obsessive-compulsive disorder). I didn’t care if my current partners would like it. I popped by a drug store and grabbed decent scissors. I flipped my head upside down over a towel and started chopping!
I didn’t expect to feel so lightweight and fancy free.
I brushed it. I washed it. I ran my fingers through it. I posted a selfie three full days after washing it, sleeping on it, putting it up and taking it down for work, and otherwise playing with it because it was new. As people popped up to say how great it looks, I didn’t feel my typical trepidation and immediately launch into rejecting or mitigating the compliments. I thought, “Yeah. It does!” By the next day, it’d been elevated to my favorite haircut EVER.
I had a date with my primary partner/boyfriend who I’d been with for almost two years. This is someone who has seen my body at various weights and shapes as my health fluctuated, different versions of my hair, with and without makeup. I've never been perfectly comfortable naked in front of a partner; like most of us, I have an insecurity or two. But I believe him when he says he loves my body — including my hair, which I always wear up when we have sex.
Every time my hair got in the way during a sexual situation and a partner groaned (not in the good way, but usually not intentionally) I had a jolt of mood-killing insecurity. Which lead to me automatically pulling it back. I didn’t realize it until very recently, but those unintentional disapproving sounds definitely triggered memories of my Mom’s judgemental noises as she snipped the tight curls around my birthmark.
Even though my current boyfriend has said it isn’t/wouldn’t be in the way, and I believe him about that too, I never wanted my hair down. I just didn’t want to have to manage it — or be distracted by it, or think about it at all — during an enjoyable, but admittedly often messy, activity. Even though wearing it up was a long-standing habit, it hadn’t ever occurred to me that it was affecting my overall body image.
Well. Two weeks ago I found myself unconsciously taking my hair tie OUT OF MY HAIR as things were heating up with Current BF! When I realized it — I realized it felt GOOD. That I felt good! I didn’t feel any kind of insecurity. An hour later when I was all blissed-out I didn’t even try and picture what I looked like — what my hair might look like. I didn’t care. It was just part of the rest of me.
Of course it was. It is! IT’S MY HAIR. It always has been, but now it feels like it is.
body image
self image
self esteem
family
growing up
identity
comfort
hair
appearance
parents
adoption
sex
relationships
working it out
empowerment
Bodies
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10/16/17 – No Contact: The Third Wall
This new chapter is twice the length of the old chapter. It’s not even finished. I need to add a beginning to it as well as an end. The end will be easy, I’ll just use the original chapter for that. The beginning… Well, a lot has to happen.
I think I said I hated writing for Atlas but at the same time I love it. My problem is that he’s Scottish and is subject to a lot of slang. It’s not as good as it sounds, trust me. I had Eleanor read through a lot of what I wrote to confirm how Scottish it sounds. It sounded fine by her words. This chapter is… incredibly action pact. The battle just unfolded that way. A lot happened. I’m glad I didn’t have to read the previous chapter to see what happened. This way is far better.
One problem is that now I keep trying to hit tab with these entries. Every paragraph gets hit with a tab. It’s not that great. I’ll get over it. But I got SO much done and I need to get SO much done tomorrow. I’m starting to yawn now. So, I guess I’m running out of second wind. It’s almost 1 in the morning.
I slept better than usual. Of course, it’s currently 6:44. Best case scenario, I slept 6 hours. I could live off this, but more than likely I’ll be taking a nap when I get home. It’s so dark.
When I get back, I’ll definitely take a shower. Get ready for the day and walk over soon. I can’t remember my dream but I think it involved Swedes. So, the chapter weighed heavily on me last night. :3
I’m back. Adela is exhausting because she’s stressing out. Then she was projecting her stress onto me. She had to meet with a coworker earlier than usual today and I guess she doesn’t do mornings well, surprisingly. I know I wouldn’t.
I’m totally fine, mind you. I don’t need more sleep, though I might take a nap for later. More than likely, though, I’ll end up going to bed early today. Finally, I fixed my sleeping schedule the night I have to actually need it. ;)
I’ll leave at about 10. Adela wants me to do something around the house. Just gotta spray the base with an anti-insect blocker or whatever. After that, I’ll start getting ready and will try to head out at 10. I’ll try to leave EXACTLY at 10 so I know for sure what time I’d have to leave in order to get there. Or at least the estimated time. As you can imagine, walking doesn’t get caught up in traffic so even though I have two lights to walk through, it shouldn’t slow me down significantly. I probably won’t rush, either. Just a cool, calm walk. And if I leave at about 10, it should be after the morning rush. Of course, I haven’t considered Houston being the 4th largest city. Considering the brand, it should be pretty busy at all times. I’d be surprised if it weren’t.
My funds are getting pretty low. Well… not low. Like, I pay 65 a week for food basically. 260 a month at that rate. So, to survive a year I need 3120 at least for food. I could survive on less, I’m sure, but this is how much my current calorie intake is. Of course, my cousin will charge me more at the end of the month. That’s how it works. ;)
Working at Texan minimum wage at full time, I’ll make 290 a week. For a month, that’d be 1160. After a full year, that’d be 13,920. Of course, that’s all BEFORE taxes and assuming I’m constantly getting hours and don’t get overtime (which I’ll never get, because low-paying jobs are asses when it comes to overtime). At this rate… I could maybe afford a legitimate editor. Of course, some editors would charge about $4,000 to edit a book of my size (about the size of the first Harry Potter, a bit bigger).
However, there might be a cheaper editor who offers critique as well. Of course, I SHOULD finish a second book at least before I publish the first. So, I might not contact her unless I truly need it. Then again, I’m pretty reckless. We’ll see, of course as my book has a lot of problems. I’m going to use your notes as a jumping point. If I do get this editor, I should make sure it’s my near final draft. Because when I get it back, I’ll have to read through it. It’s imperative that any edits I make after she’s finished are correct and fit the rest. I won’t get a second chance at that point.
Should be fine though. My biggest problem is I switch from past to future, I guess.
Oof. Monkey Rag came on. A lot of things remind me of you here. That song reminds me of you, too. My one problem with that song is halfway through, the lyrics end. Ah, well. I shouldn’t be getting moppy right now. I have a lot to do today and not as much time to do it.
Anyways… when I get back, I want to rant about All Lives Matter on Facebook. Most people who claim All Lives Matter tend to be pro-police. That’s fine, mind you. To each their own. However, the ALM thing began as anti-cop. Weird, I know, but it’ll make sense in that post. It’s currently 9. I’ll get started on my chores.
Later.
Current time 10...06. I missed my mark, but that’s okay. I’ll use a stopwatch on my phone. Not a problem. I’ll have to charge it some, so I’ll leave at 10:30. So long as I’m there by noon, I should be fine because people tend to get off then for lunch. Starbucks doesn’t strike me as a great place for a meal, but people still need coffee.
Ugh… Tried another banana. This one smelled weird. Threw THAT away. Really, HEB? Really? I learned spots on a banana doesn’t mean the inside is bad but THESE MUTHAFUCKAS managed to screw that up. They turn brown from the inside out. Really? I found one that was acceptable, cut out the brown, and ate it. Ah, well. At least I smell nice.
My hair needs to dry. And, to keep the curls from curling, I need to comb it as it dries. Or brush. I have a brush upstairs and a comb on me. Humidity leads to chaos. I’m sure you’re aware of this as your hair is curlier than mine.
Btw, the NationStates thing. I basically set vacation mode on and turned it off at 12. Meaning I get my issues at 12 and 6 on the hour everyday. No longer do I have to check to see where the time is to do my issues. I can just be aware now. I wish there were an option to set it to that time automatically, but whatever. I did it without automatic aid.
Speaking of aid, I did put gel in my hair. Not sure if it’s helping. I hope it is. Judging from my reflection, it seems like it… give it time, though.
Anyways, I checked the nation count in our region. Yeah, ours. I know you left it but it’s still ours. Deal with it.
Not the point.
The point is, I’m the most pacifist nation in the region. My motto is Spanish for “They won’t pass because fuck them; they’re assholes” and my military is second largest in the region (behind a relatively inactive nation who never speaks or interacts with anyone because I’m fairly sure the guy who runs it has MULTIPLE nations).
Oof. It’s 10:20. I have ten minutes. I’m starting to get hit by exhaustion. I could totally nap right now. It’d probably do me some good.
Just did the math for taxes. Seems it wouldn’t matter too much. I’d lose like 2k in taxes but there is this thing called Tax Returns which are great. You’ll never see a poor man charged for tax evasion.
Alright, time to go. Currently have a 30% charge. Should be fine. Later.
Back. Took a little under 15 minutes. I ordered an iced tea (green). It wasn’t that bad. I was so parched. Should have hydrated first. The woman who served me was an older gal but she seemed nice. No supervisors were there, unfortunately. And everyone there was a woman.
I don’t think I’ll get the job.
That’s fine. I’ll wait until Friday and start going out again. This time, I’ll do it by the books and apply all over at once. In the mean time, I’ll post that post.
Hrm… my NationStates issue is off by 40 seconds. Still, that’s really good all things considered. Within a minute of noon, I’ll have an issue. So, it’s still at noon. :D
Current time is 6:15. We just walked Max. Adela is depressed. She says it’s because of what happened with Max at the groomer. I suspect there is more to it than that.
Let me fill you in. Max got so anxious and was so stressed, he wouldn’t let the groomers finished. Max’s body is shaved. His ears are shaved. His head? The back of his head? Every part of his head except his ears and front of his neck? Unshaven. He looks… ridiculous.
That said, I was certain Adela’s work was getting to her but looking into further proved fruitless. I’ll be doing the dishes tonight. A never ending story… for dishes. Whatever. Adela asked me to do them and to be fair, we only have so many pans for eggs. Guess what I’ve been eating a lot of.
Speaking of which, I haven’t eaten dinner yet. Not sure if I’ll write more on the chapter. I’ll just take it easy tonight. Tomorrow, I have some things to do. I’ll be sure to finish my chapter, though.
Right now, I’m listening to this dude who supposedly destroyed Eminem. That title was brought about by Republicans, so of course they’d say he was destroyed by this guy. The page is on Facebook, called “The Red Elephants.” Bullshit name, whatever. Their twitter handle is “TheRealRedElephants.” They sell a shirt for $26 that says, “Fuck Antifa” with brass knuckles on it. They wouldn’t happen to have a shirt that says, “Fuck Nazis” would they?
Of course not. They say both sides are to blame yet only attack one side.
I commented on that shirt saying, “Golly gosh, that sure is cool! You guys going to release a shirt that says, ‘Fuck Nazis’ on it? :D” This is a loaded question. I’m not sure if I discussed what a loaded question is to you while I was teaching you about politics.
A loaded question is a question where every answer is bad. They get asked A LOT to make someone look bad. An example of a loaded question is “Have you stopped beating your wife?” If you say no because you don’t beat your wife, that’s bad because it implies you still beat your wife. If you say yes because sarcasm even, that means you beat your wife and they will quote you and not even suggest you were using a sarcastic tone. If you say, “I’ve never beat my wife” then they’ll brand you as a liar because you had to defend yourself from that bullshit.
My question is loaded because it relies heavily on the context. If they tell me, “No” then they’ll imply that conservatives are Nazis. If they say “Yes” then I’ll ask why it wasn’t released with the shirt in the first place and turn it into a cluster fuck.
Not that it’ll matter, mind you. They’ll probably just panic-ban me. Where they panic and then ban me. In case you didn’t know.
Reminds me of that one Christian Warrior page who banned me because I said Aztecs were cool and they are. They banned me and said I’m dumb and my parents are probably dumb. Probably. I took a screen shot. Like, really… why do they get offended so easily? I wasn’t even TRYING to offend them.
Oh, mind you. They were talking about how Columbus Day was getting replaced by indigenous people’s day and how we’d start sacrificing people to the sun. I pointed out how there were no Aztecs in the United States. That’s probably the real reason why because I followed that up with Aztecs are cool.
Some people are rude. I tried calling them out but my friends who actually liked the page didn’t tag them for me. Scoundrels!
Daniel and I are chatting. Told him about Starbucks. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if you tried getting with him for a night or something. Honestly, I wouldn’t care. Not that I’d give Daniel permission to sleep with my girlfriend but you’re not my girlfriend and he didn’t try to end my relationship. Nor did he start spreading rumors and started telling people falsehoods and flat out lying.
If we don’t get together but you and Daniel have a thing going, good for you guys. He has a great work ethic and a sensitive heart. Of course, his relationship with Canelo is conflicted… obviously… but I think it’s because of his time with juvy. Not sure how to spell the slang.
Anyways, the Red Elephants are really into conspiracy theories. Like… really. Misleading, misinformation, partial truths. Yeah, these guys are totally pushing an agenda. Typical propaganda. I know because I used to write that shit. Of course, I was generally more honest. I tend to focus on building up the people before letting loose political theories. Turns out, people like to be flattered before they rise up.
Look at Obama. “Yes we can!” Because you’re a part of something and YOU can do it! You can do it with us! We can do ANYTHING!!!
Mind you, I’m not fond of Obama or Trump. In a two party system, you’ll find that it’s great for staying unbiased. Someone says, “If Obama did this, you’d support it!” you’d say, “No, I wouldn’t.” It deflates their argument real quick and helps for keeping the debate rational or for skipping straight to ad hominem. One problem, however, is that the people you sling mud with tend to switch sides every 4 or 8 years.
I used to shit on Obama with Conservatives. For different reasons, of course. I didn’t like how he liked to drone strike children and they didn’t like that he was black and on the other team. Now I shit on Trump with Liberals. For different reasons, of course.
I’m reminded that I might be posting this on Tumblr. One of my least favorite things about Tumblr are the people who claim to be Communist without really knowing what it entails. Like, to them? Marxism is a trend. Kind of disappointing. I’m sure if this ever goes on Tumblr (which might happen considering it’d be what I’d do in the event of you telling me no) people would just consistently shit on my for everything. -,-
Ah, well. I’ll try to get that thought out of my mind. Brb, food
Had a salad. Was far better than the one from yesterday. Used honey mustard and avocado. Nothing else. Super simple. The salad itself was quite simple too. For some reason, it was fresher than the one from yesterday. I wonder if they have dates on them.
To be fair, salads can be kind of fattening due to all the added bullshit. I don’t think yesterdays was fattening. Maybe a little because of the cottage cheese. Can’t imagine that’d be healthy. But, of course, it was a shitty salad. You’d think they’d make a salad out of something that isn’t lettuce. It’d be healthier. And lettuce just… is boring.
I miss you. I’m missing you. I regret what happened between us. I wish we could just… talk. Not about us, just talk. I want to hear your opinion, even if I don’t care for the subject. You don’t know how this situation has made me feel. I guess I don’t know how it’s made you feel, either.
Anyways, since I went vegetarian I noticed my poop has been super green. It’s a good thing. :D
Yeah, I know. I can’t get too serious. Except I was sort of serious. With both. My poop has been super green. But still, I’m missing you right now. I don’t know why. Just… with Adela and Max, I feel like you could really help out and they’d appreciate it. I know Max would. He loved you.
I feel… terrible. I can’t help but think of you. Something is going on. I feel like I’m reliving our entire relationship in a single second every second. A lot on my mind.
Oh… would you look at that? They added two stages to the five stages of grief. Placing a lot of faith in older psychological models tends to lead to failure. These stages often have their own twists and biases, leading to heavy criticism and debate. Maybe… all this. All I’ve done was just bargaining. Assuming the model is true. I’m not sure I’ve accepted everything, but I’ve felt the depression. I tried moving on. Perhaps the journal isn’t helping. Perhaps I can’t move on while I’m still writing in this dumb little word document.
It’s helped me though. It gives me a chance to talk about how I feel, though I think I’ve just been using it for food updates lately. I can work on expressing my own feelings. So what if I haven’t accepted the end? It’s wrong of me to try to force emotions. I’m not going to fake how I feel just to satisfy you or anyone else. Especially not myself.
I love you, Esther. I really do. I sincerely doubt we’ll ever get back together, but I hope we do.
That said… I intend to delete the letter I wrote you. That was early on. Before I even began this journal. That contract? Delete that two. Why bother with it? You’re not coming back and that sucks. Right now, it’s just a waste of memory. And if you DO come back? Well, I wouldn’t agree to it.
The thing is, I’ve learned to respect myself a bit more. I’m not going to give you everything just because you say, “I want it” if it’ll hurt our relationship. So, if we got back together? The contract would favor me more. You said it yourself. The contract I wrote was hard on me.
Who knows? Maybe you’ll break up with me again when you discover the contract is no longer valid and you won’t get half the things I would have agreed to. You had your chance to exploit me but you didn’t. If you manage to overcome your distaste for me and we begin to talk more and somehow decide to give it a second chance but you ask for the contact I’d written a month or two ago and hear no, maybe you’ll be fine with it. Maybe you’ll be willing to give it a chance despite no guarantees.
Ugh… if this is on Tumblr, I’ll have to explain the contract. Gross. If I don’t, people will think we had a financial agreement or something. I’d rather not right now. If this is on Tumblr and someone who isn’t Esther is reading this, then know that the contract wasn’t good or bad. It was fun and more an educational tool to get Esther to read the fine print and notice specific wording and shady legal practices. The contract I wrote was something that’d ensure the integrity of our relationship in the event that we got back together. It was mostly to show I had yielded and I’d do anything to get her back, regardless of my personal feelings.
I disregarded myself. It was easy to. Easier then, at least. Now? I may be moody now, but I feel more confident (on average, at least). I’ll overcome this feeling and get back on my feet.
One of Esther’s problems was that I was always on my computer. Admittedly, it wasn’t only when I was miserable. I was on it a lot and I neglected her. That’s one of the things I regret, not only because Dennis filled her head with the idea that I HATED her as well as himself and Daniel but because it was wrong of me to do. Shitty move on my part.
I wasn’t the best boyfriend. I should have been. Esther deserves the world. She’s such a sweet, caring soul. But now… I know better.
I wanted to prove to her when she moved out that I would change. I uninstalled ALL my games. All of them except for Town of Salem. It was more symbolic than anything else. I offered to destroy my computer later on if that’d make her happy but that just annoyed her. At that point, I was very low. Not as confident.
Now, I wouldn’t make that offer. If I ever write a book, then I’ll need the computer for writing. I could potentially make money off through this old laptop. However, I’d uninstall ALL my games again. It really doesn’t matter to me. They’re material goods and bring me only amusement but not happiness. With the exception of rewriting the naval battle in my book, I haven’t played very many games as of late anyways. I guess since I stopped talking to Esther and started talking to… future Tumblr, I guess? Whatever. Since I started talking to future Tumblr, let me confirm this now.
The Naval Battle in my book is from Napoleon Total War. It was unscripted, a match between five people with myself being among them. If my book takes off, maybe I’ll show the battle sometime. But, that’s not very likely. I know my odds and they’re stacked against me.
Then again, I had a one in 400 trillion chance in being born. Not sure how accurate that estimate is but if there is any truth to it, then I’ve already finished the hard part. ;)
Honestly, my chances are pretty good all things considered. If I need a source, my existence is proof enough.
Back to you, Esther. You’re beautiful. I just wish you could see me now. You’ll see the difference. You’ll see how I changed and how I’ve rebuilt myself. I still get the odd fit of depression, but it doesn’t linger. I don’t hurt anymore.
Anyways, it’s almost 10 and I promised Adela I’d do the dishes. I love you, Esther. I hope you’re safe.
Esther!!! I discovered something called a poet’s collar. It’s longer, pointed collar. Like a regular shirt collar… but longer. That’s it. The keyword is “poet” though. It’s perfect! I have some ideas for it and I’m super stoked. I know just the shirt that’d work with it but it’s in California.
DAMMIT!!!
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Making My Hair Mine
Katie Klabusich
My adoptive mom’s hangups convinced me I was an ugly duckling with noticeable imperfections. Turns out, it was about her, not me, and certainly not about my hair, which isn't the enemy she -- or I -- thought it was, either.
I have a bit of an obsession with the Instagram feeds of my friends who parent. All those pics and videos of their kids being… well, kids! At 39, my inner child’s heart bursts with appreciation for all that praise of their uniqueness, the silly moments alongside them, and even encouragement for them to experiment with whatever clothing and hairstyles feel right to their personalities, genders, and whims.
A few years ago, my good friend and fellow writer Avital Norman Nathman wrote about why she “lets” her son — who inherited her whimsically curly, often multicolored locks — grow his hair past his shoulders. She’d fielded comments from self-professed, well-meaning bystanders who worried he’d be confused with a girl. As both a fierce feminist and loving mom, she rejected the false gender binary — which taught her son that he’s unique and valuable just as he is, however he is.
My own experience growing up was different.
Parents (and guardians of all titles) are people. They have their own emotional baggage, insecurities, habits, and idiosyncrasies that are part of their personalities. Because they have authority over us, it is naturally hard to see them that way when we’re growing up. Their words and actions have power long before we’re able to see themselves outside their role as the chief influencers in our lives.
Meanwhile, they incorporate those insecurities and habits into their relationships with us. In my house, my adoptive mom’s primary obsession was my hair — all of it: the length, the color, the style, and the amount of curl. And most importantly: how much it made us alike or different.
When a parent has and expresses a particular and constant attentiveness to your appearance — be it praise or criticism -- that constant feedback takes root. When I had light blond hair and soft baby ringlets through age four or five, she LOVED my hair. She played with it like I was a doll. I remember wanting to run around, but having to sit still while she brushed or braided it.
As I got older and let my hair grow, it got thicker, browner and straighter. I hit a couple of growth spurts and lost my chubby baby cheeks, too. Overall, I started looking less and less like her — triggering her insecurities about having had to adopt a child rather than being able to carry and give birth to one. At a glance, anyone who cared to take notice and didn’t know I was adopted would've simply assumed I was going through a phase where I just looked more like my darker, Hungarian father.
But people stopped commenting about how remarkably alike we looked. For her, every new trait pushed us further apart and made me less hers. I’m positive this would've been true even without a birthmark on my scalp for her to focus intently on.
Since reuniting with my birth mother last year I learned that my delivery was long. Like, so long she wasn’t particularly sure which date she’d given birth on. I was born after almost forty hours of labor, and that makes the birthmark — a dime-sized bald spot with a small bump in the middle — likely a result of the doctor using forceps to help me along. It’s always been there, just left of center midway down my skull in the back. My hair has always been thick, so it’s always been covered. But the fear that it could be seen — what if I did a cartwheel? or the wind blew at recess? — pushed my mom to cater hairstyles around it, narrating her thought-process as she did.
At some point she noticed that the hair around the bald spot was curlier than the rest of my hair. It was also darker (probably because it was covered and never got bleached by the sun like the top layer). With a furrowed brow, she sat me down in front of a movie and cut the curlier hair down to half an inch, creating — of course — a larger bald spot. Three times the size of the original, in fact. I couldn’t leave it alone because it was new and felt weird. And thus, an almost thirty-year-long tick was born. Beating it would take therapy, meds, and an intense desire to cast off all the insecurities I have that are tied to her.
In the ten or so years between the first time my mom excised the “extra” curly hair and when I won the battle to control what was done to my head just before my senior year of high school, she went through various phases — which meant I had to go through them with her. At one point she was so grossed out by this thing that made me weird and different and ugly (or at least that’s how it made me feel) that she leaned down and, in a giggle-whisper voice like we were both ten years old, said: “It’s almost like ya got pubic hair back here!”
What kid wouldn’t get a complex? I think that now, but I would never have asked a peer for validation or their opinion. I was terrified of just the idea that someone would see it.
She’d also been frosting my hair at home for what felt like forever. For those who don’t know, frosting was a do-it-yourself highlighting kit from the olden days (the 70’s). It was something my friend’s moms usually did for themselves while we kids played with less permanent homemade concoctions for our hair made from different Kool-Aid flavors.
Frosting first required brushing your hair to within an inch of your poor scalp’s life, and then squeezing a plastic cover, like a swimming cap, over your head, eyebrows, and ears. Then, a tool that should only be used for crocheting is poked through the cap 75-200 times, to pul a few hairs through at a time. Once you look like a potato that’s been allowed to sprout, all those pulled-through hairs are brushed again (OUCH!) and a packet of chemicals is mixed using a mask. Why a mask, you say? Because the fumes are f’ing toxic. My hair usually took half an hour to get tugged, completely stripped of color, super dry, and extra frizzy.
It is perhaps unsurprising that I did not undergo this process willingly.
By the time I got to middle school, I’d completely adopted my mom’s paranoia about the hair around the spot and the spot itself. The popular hairstyle in my peer group was “The Rachel” (from “Friends” — flat, straight, with just one or two playful layers in the front to fall in the face). My hair was never going to be flat, but it hadn’t totally transitioned to curly, so I was still trying to wrangle it smooth. That two-or-so-inch ring of trimmed down hair was making most of the hair near the crown of my head poof out noticeably. I was willing to do something more time and money intensive.
Lye had already gone out of fashion as a chemical in hair straighteners because it burns like hell. It feels like your scalp is being literally fried. I — voluntarily, this time — let my mom take me to a stylist who applied the old-school formula and brushed it in, dragging a comb over the skin of my bald spot. The back of my head hurt for days afterward. We repeated this every three or four months.
Eventually, I told her I was tired of messing with it. I’d never picked up her love of a two-hour morning make-up and hair routine. I was going to be taking a “zero-hour” class at 6:50am before the regular school day started the following Fall. I was smartly looking to cut out things I didn’t need (or want) to spend time on. I must have sounded sensible enough (I often cited my academic goals when I needed something), because I got to drop all the extras, and so I also got to see what my actual hair looked like. Luckily, the 90’s had loosened up a bit (or I had) and my curly hair was either a non-issue (better than being bullied!) or people liked it because it was different.
Even though it felt like a HUGE victory to have wrested control over my hair back from my mom at 17 (and without a fight!), it would be another two decades before I was truly comfortable with it. Appearance is about our features, and my often waist-length curly hair was my most distinguishing one. I’d let Mom talk me into cutting it the month before I went to college and it’s the only decision I regret. So I let it grow. And grow. And the more I heard how cute it was short, the more I grew it out of spite.
More than seven years after disowning me the first time (just before Christmas in 2011), when I looked in the mirror I still saw the result of choices that have been about defiance.
Why was anything this toxic person had ever said about my hair to me or anyone else still defining what I did with it?
I think about my hair every day, even if it’s just to pull it back out of my face. So every day a tiny piece of that trauma plays out in the back of my head — right underneath that damn spot causing all the trouble, LOLsob — even if I don’t consciously notice.
Then I thought: what if I just cut it?
I realized I didn’t care if it was perfectly even (a big step for someone with even my mild form of obsessive-compulsive disorder). I didn’t care if my current partners would like it. I popped by a drug store and grabbed decent scissors. I flipped my head upside down over a towel and started chopping!
I didn’t expect to feel so lightweight and fancy free.
I brushed it. I washed it. I ran my fingers through it. I posted a selfie three full days after washing it, sleeping on it, putting it up and taking it down for work, and otherwise playing with it because it was new. As people popped up to say how great it looks, I didn’t feel my typical trepidation and immediately launch into rejecting or mitigating the compliments. I thought, “Yeah. It does!” By the next day, it’d been elevated to my favorite haircut EVER.
I had a date with my primary partner/boyfriend who I’d been with for almost two years. This is someone who has seen my body at various weights and shapes as my health fluctuated, different versions of my hair, with and without makeup. I've never been perfectly comfortable naked in front of a partner; like most of us, I have an insecurity or two. But I believe him when he says he loves my body — including my hair, which I always wear up when we have sex.
Every time my hair got in the way during a sexual situation and a partner groaned (not in the good way, but usually not intentionally) I had a jolt of mood-killing insecurity. Which lead to me automatically pulling it back. I didn’t realize it until very recently, but those unintentional disapproving sounds definitely triggered memories of my Mom’s judgemental noises as she snipped the tight curls around my birthmark.
Even though my current boyfriend has said it isn’t/wouldn’t be in the way, and I believe him about that too, I never wanted my hair down. I just didn’t want to have to manage it — or be distracted by it, or think about it at all — during an enjoyable, but admittedly often messy, activity. Even though wearing it up was a long-standing habit, it hadn’t ever occurred to me that it was affecting my overall body image.
Well. Two weeks ago I found myself unconsciously taking my hair tie OUT OF MY HAIR as things were heating up with Current BF! When I realized it — I realized it felt GOOD. That I felt good! I didn’t feel any kind of insecurity. An hour later when I was all blissed-out I didn’t even try and picture what I looked like — what my hair might look like. I didn’t care. It was just part of the rest of me.
Of course it was. It is! IT’S MY HAIR. It always has been, but now it feels like it is.
body image
self image
self esteem
family
growing up
identity
comfort
hair
appearance
parents
adoption
sex
relationships
working it out
empowerment
Bodies
Pregnancy & Parenting
Etc
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