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sacredlettersspn · 4 years

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Letter #1: Fear (Pilot, 1x01)

Welcome to the first letter of The Sacred Letters of Supernatural. I’m glad to have you here with me on this journey. I want to take a moment to say thank you to those who have already shown their support for the project on Tumblr and Twitter. You gave this project the kickstart it needed to get off the ground. And for those who will be jumping on board now and in the future, thank you.

I also want to thank the people over at Harry Potter and the Sacred Text, the podcast which inspired this project. I hope to take the inspiration and love for Harry Potter that you show through your podcasts and channel that into my love for the show Supernatural. I also hope to take this project and make it my own while learning from the work put into Harry Potter and the Sacred Text.

As I begin my work on this project, I find myself wishing I had a text to hold. There is something special about holding a book in your hands as you read from it, something about feeling the physical object in my hands helps me learn. But Supernatural is primarily a visual and auditory experience and I think there’s something special about that, too. We can see more details, see how characters react in body language and tone of voice. The set design, lighting, and color choices can clue us into what’s happening on screen. We don’t get internal dialogue or exposition of a character’s introspection on television, but I think many of the visual and auditory aspects make up for that.

So with that being said, let’s begin the first Sacred Letter of Supernatural.

I want to start with a personal story. When I was a young child, I did not like Chinese food. I wouldn’t eat it. When my dad tried to convince me to try Chinese food as a child, it would usually result in tears. It wasn’t until years later as an adult that I learned that when I was about four years old, I had Chinese food for dinner and a stomach bug the same evening. You maybe can see where this is going? My parents’ bed sheets were ruined, let’s just say that. But that moment, the feeling of that memory, stayed with me many years even though I couldn’t remember the actual incident. This aversion was something my dad didn’t understand. I remember very vividly sitting in a Chinese buffet with my plain chicken, french fries, and a few vegetables. My dad is trying to make me try various different foods. I keep saying no and become so upset at the pressure to “just get over it,” I cry in the restaurant. To my dad, Chinese food was just chicken or pork with noodles, rice, and vegetables. It was delicious. To me, Chinese food was the reason I had become violently ill, and my body couldn’t forget that. The body’s memory of fear can be a powerful force in our day-to-day lives.

By now, you may have guessed our theme for today’s letter: fear. The Merriam Webster dictionary defines fear as “an unpleasant, often strong emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger.” I also like the definition given by Google which defines fear as “an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat.” I like how the second definition highlights the idea that fear is tied to our own beliefs that something is dangerous. This says to me that some people can believe that something is scary and experience fear, while others do not see the same danger. Like in my story about having this fear of Chinese food, I expected it to be dangerous while those around me did not. They couldn’t understand my fear.

But I think we can understand the fear that’s happening in the pilot episode of Supernatural. For the fandom, this episode is iconic. We will likely never forget the visuals and lines of dialogue, many of which are echoed in episodes fifteen years later, but I’ll still give you a quick recap of what happens in this episode.

The year is 1982, and we are introduced to the Winchester family on the night that their mother, Mary Winchester, dies. She is murdered by a mysterious figure who breaks into baby Sam’s nursery. When Mary goes to check on Sam, she interrupts this figure and is attacked. We see some of the ordeal, most poignantly the image of her stuck to the ceiling, stomach cut, and flames igniting around her. Her husband, John Winchester, sees her on the ceiling as well. John knows something is not normal about the way she dies.

When we fast forward twenty-two years, Sam has been in college and is living with his girlfriend. He seems to be enjoying life. But he hasn’t talked to his family in four years. Unexpectedly, Dean shows up, tells him that their father is missing on a hunting trip, and Sam agrees to help Dean find their father. To track his whereabouts, they listen to a voicemail in which John says something bigger is happening, something dangerous.

On the search for their father, they are led to a potential haunting where several men have been reported missing on a stretch of highway over the years. John had been on the case before he disappeared. The boys find out which motel John was staying at and find his room, but are caught by police and Dean is arrested. However, they are able to figure out that the ghost they’re hunting is a Woman in White and Dean’s arrest leads them to John’s journal where John has recorded everything he knows about the supernatural.

The boys end up getting rid of the Woman in White, and they find out where John wants them to go next. However, Sam insists on being back home for his law school interview the next morning, so Dean takes him home. When Sam goes inside, he lays down in bed, looks up, and finds Jessica on the ceiling like his mom. The ceiling catches on fire around her. She can’t be saved. The episode ends with Sam and Dean outside of their car, the 1967 Impala. Sam says, “We got work to do,” before slamming the trunk full of hunting supplies shut and leaving with Dean for the next case.

Moments of fear are littered throughout this pilot. Given that the genre of the show involves ghosts, monsters, and demons, it makes sense that fear would be an integral part of each episode. But I want to focus on a key scene of this episode and how fear plays a special role in defining the Winchesters’ lives.

The opening scene of the Winchester family tucking in for the night is heartwarming. Everyone smiles at least once, John and Mary are doting on their children, John appears to be an involved, helpful father as he helps tuck the boys in for the night. There is a lot of focus on Sam. We get this shot of just Sam in his crib, laughing, playing with his feet, a shot of Mary kissing him goodnight, and a shot of John specifically saying, “Sweet Dreams, Sammy.” It sets up an expectation that Sam is the main focus, if not the main character, and it adds to the sweet feeling I get while watching this scene.

But there are hints that something isn’t right. The opening scene of this episode is an exterior shot of the house at night with shadows of tree limbs crawling up the side of the home. The limbs are moving unnaturally. There’s suspenseful music playing. You know something is wrong and your fears are confirmed when the mobile in Sam’s nursery begins moving on its own, the clock stops at 8:12pm, the nightlight flickers, and the baby monitor in the parents’ room makes odd, high frequency noises. When Mary wakes up, John is not in the room. Mary sees John standing in Sam’s nursery, with more lights flickering in the hall. While Mary does not seem to be afraid, the viewer by now knows that she should be afraid. And that moment comes soon enough when she hears the tv on downstairs, and sees John asleep in a chair. She runs back upstairs to Sam with who she now knows is an intruder. We don’t see what happens between Mary and this mysterious figure, but we hear the screams and we see what happens next. John runs upstairs, finds Sam alone in the crib, and thinks everything is fine until he notices the blood dripping from the ceiling. That’s when he looks up, sees his wife on the ceiling, a slash across her stomach. He falls to the ground, looking up at the ceiling with horror as fire bursts around his wife and Sam begins to wail.

What strikes me about this whole first scene is how much we don’t see, and we can only notice what’s missing after having watched this show for its many seasons. We don’t see what happens to Sam, so we don’t know the reason for the man visiting his nursery. We don’t see Mary’s interaction with this man. John doesn’t even see the man. He only sees his wife on the ceiling, dying. And that’s why this scene is so horrifying to me. It turns the world of the Winchesters upside down, ruins every good thing we saw in their warm, family interactions, and it leaves us with many more questions than answers.

The reason the scene works as being scary is because it leaves much unknown, and fear festers in the unknown. It seems that some of the most scary moments in life are when big, important questions are left unanswered. When you’re at the doctors waiting on potentially bad news, when your life plans are derailed because you didn’t get that job or that person left you, or when you see horrendous acts of violence on the news and you can’t fathom why humans would treat each other this way. When we are left to grapple with life’s big, important questions without anyone who can give us definitive answers, it can be terrifying.

I believe the person who is trying to handle the biggest questions in this episode is John Winchester. He sees and remembers the most from the night Mary died, and therefore he has the most questions and a lot of weight to carry. Sam will never remember this night and Dean was too young to realize what was happening. None of them saw Mary on the ceiling except John, and he alone carries that image, that burden. John had just experienced an unspeakable tragedy.

The thing with tragedies is that even though they can often be explained in some way, humans still have a hard time grappling with the aftermath. While some may move on, many others become stuck in grief for extended periods of time, possibly for the rest of their lives. This is what happened to John. He didn’t have a “natural tragedy” to deal with; there was no hope for a natural explanation. And now, the world was no longer safe to him. There were new, unexplainable threats that could take his family away from him at any moment. I can imagine he felt alone in his knowledge of these threats and I can imagine that he felt completely powerless in that situation. That feeling of powerlessness, coupled with fear of the unknown, can make humans do dramatic, unhealthy things. John Winchester was no different.

A sense of control is really important for humans. We all need to feel that on some level that we are able to choose a direction for our lives, and that our choices will directly affect our environment. So, I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that John’s actions after this night were an attempt to regain control after an event that shook his foundation. Thinking about John in this way helps me see his actions in the rest of the series as his way of trying to gain back a sense of control in his world. He wants to control the thing that scares him, much like I think we eventually see Dean doing. John’s fear led him to do many things that the fandom has deemed unforgivable. Whether or not you sympathize with John Winchester is entirely up to you and is influenced by your own personal experiences, but I think we can all relate to the feeling of fear in the face of the unknown, and the utter powerlessness we can feel in uncertain times.

Lectio Divina

The next segment of this letter is where we use a practice to analyze a part of the episode. We will be using “Lectio Divina,” a Christian spiritual practice for reading scriptures that involves interacting with the text on four different levels. I am following Harry Potter and the Sacred Text’s use of this practice and adapting it the best I can to the visual format. Normally, you pick a scripture or a line of text to analyze. I randomized numbers between 1 and 42 (the amount of minutes in the episode), and picked the first full line after the minute mark I was given.

Line: “That’s cus you’re out of practice… Or not.” -Dean Winchester (7:00)

Now we analyze this line on the four levels of Lectio Divina : literal (narrative), allegorical (metaphors and symbols), reflection (how do I connect to it), and invitational (what is the text asking of us or teaching us).

Literal: What’s happening on a literal level in this scene is that Dean has broken into Sam’s house, Sam has snuck up on him, and they’ve just fought because Sam didn’t know who was in his house. Dean ends up pinning Sam to the floor, saying that he was able to do so because Sam was out of practice. “That’s cus you’re out of practice.” But when Sam promptly flips him over, pinning Dean to the ground, Dean proudly but surprisingly says, “Or not.” The scene comes across as a little heartwarming, a little funny. The two seem like natural brothers.

Allegorical: To me, this is a scene about returning. Here we have the loyal child who has stayed with his father and continued the “family business” confronting what I think of as the prodigal son. You can see the tension between the brothers play out in the fighting. But this prodigal son story is not the same one that we’re used to. This isn’t the prodigal son coming back home because he realized he was wrong. Sam left something horrifying. He left for safety and found love, a career, and independence. But despite his reasons for leaving, there’s still tension when he returns. Stepping away from your family, a friend group, a job--that’s never easy even if you have strong convictions about your reasons for doing so. There are relationships there, shared experiences, and bonds. So, I think there’s a sense of betrayal from Dean’s perspective, an invisible contract that Sam broke. Then Sam and Dean have to confront all of these feelings and experiences again. I'm impressed with the way Sam and Dean handle it. Dean could have grilled Sam about why he left, made him feel bad, or approached with a hostile attitude, but he very much is happy to see Sam and wants his help. Sam ends up helping Dean even when there’s a possibility of Sam confronting his father, and Dean risks being rejected to ask for Sam’s help. They’re each risking the status quo of their lives and making themselves vulnerable to one another by reaching out and deciding to take on this task together.

Reflection: Watching this exchange between the two of them, it reminded me of when I used to play soccer as a kid. I played for about four or five years and like to think I developed a few skills. One year recently, I was playing soccer with my younger siblings on Father’s Day and I could tell that I was out of practice, but dribbling, kicking, stopping the ball -- those movements still felt natural. I was even able to give pointers to the kids. I hadn’t touched a soccer ball in years, but that knowledge is still stored in my brain.

I think that, in the same way, Sam was forced to play out his own muscle memory while fighting with Dean, and through that, is forced to acknowledge once again the reality of his childhood and his family, of what lives in the dark and why he ran. In one fell swoop, Dean shoves that all into the forefront for Sam. A few years of building walls of safety around him and now Sam is vulnerable again, using his fighting skills to protect himself when I imagine he had begun to settle into a “normal” life.

Invitational: There’s a question that jumps out at me after spending time contemplating this scene: how do you have the courage to confront burned bridges with other people? I don’t have a clear-cut answer but I think it takes some courage and understanding on both sides. There should be a realization from both parties that each person assumes some responsibility for what happened between them, and for this to happen, there needs to be a cool-down period and opportunity for forgiveness. Forgiveness is rarely easy. I can think of situations in my own life in which forgiveness seems impossible, and maybe it isn’t always an option. But for those situations in which time can heal, I think repairing a burnt bridge can be worth the effort. I see this play out between Sam and Dean. Dean has to overlook his feelings of abandonment by Sam, see the decision from Sam’s perspective, and practice some forgiveness. Sam has to have hope that he will be accepted by his family again and courage to face the people who feel hurt by his actions. I think there would be a lot of fear on both sides: fear of another fight, fear of rejection. But Sam and Dean are able to put aside their own fears and their own hurts for the sake of family and the bond they share. So maybe one thing this scene is asking us to do is to practice forgiveness despite our fears.

Thank you all for reading the first ever Sacred Letter of Supernatural. I hope you enjoyed our exploration of the theme this week. Before I finish this letter, I would like to end with a question for the audience. This question is for personal evaluation, but if you would like for your answer to be featured on the blog or to contribute to a discussion, please send your answers to my Tumblr inbox.

This Week’s Question:

How do you recognize when you’re afraid and how do you make decisions in the face of fear?

#pilot 1x01 #fear #season 1

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wistfulcynic · 5 years

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On What They Fall 2/4

So let me start by saying how much I hate @thisonesatellite. I mean obviously I don't hate her, I love her even though she has been HOGGING THE BRAIN, but I hate that EVERY TIME she says I’m going to need more chapters to tell my story I DO. I DO NEED THEM. Curse her.

The upside of her eerie genius is that there are now three chapters in this fic. ONLY THREE, DAMMIT.

I’d like to say that this one is less angsty than the first but that would be a LIE.

The first angsty chapter can be found here on Tumblr or here on AO3.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones is an angry young man. He has no family and few friends, and he’s stuck in a small town where everyone views him with fear and suspicion.

Everyone but Emma Swan.

She’s everything he wants in life and everything he can’t have. What he doesn’t know is that she wants him too.

Part 9 of Secret Things.

Rated: T

On AO3

Tagging some folks who might enjoy it: @kmomof4, @stahlop, @mariakov81, @teamhook, @resident-of-storybrooke, @darkcolinodonorgasm, @shireness-says, @thejollyroger-writer, @ohmightydevviepuu @jennjenn615 @superchocovian (Give me a shout if you’d like a tag for Chapter 3 THE REALLY VERY FINAL CHAPTER I MEAN IT THIS TIME)

Chapter 2:

Killian doesn’t write and he doesn’t call. He doesn’t contact anyone except Belle, and she gets nothing but the odd text message sent at irregular intervals. She never tells anyone what the messages say and Emma can’t bear to ask.

She googles him, though, in moments of weakness— when Graham pushes a bit too hard or when her parents smile at him too fondly, when Emma’s had a drink or two too many she gives in to the longing that is never not a part of her and searches for any scrap of information about him that she can find.

Her searches come up empty, at first. She expects little else —he’s off on a boat after all— but then one day about a year after he left she searches for his name and finds an Instagram account. She holds her breath as she clicks on it, wondering if after so long it could possibly, actually be him. All the pictures are of landscapes and cityscapes and food and people— so many people, and though none of them are him she knows instinctively that this account is his. These are photographs he’s taken of his travels.

She makes a second account for herself with a meaningless username and follows him. She checks his page daily, marking off all the places he visits on a globe she buys expressly for the purpose, charting his progress as he travels around the world. His photographs are gorgeous, full of colour and life, and they capture the spirit and the essence of each location. He’s a fantastic photographer, and it turns out an even better writer.

One day when she checks his Instagram she sees a link to a blog. With shaking hands she clicks on it and finds a single post—a story, complete with pictures, of a day he spent in Vietnam. It was a hot day, he recounted, edging towards 50 Celsius (122 Fahrenheit, Emma learns from Google, and her jaw drops) and Killian spent it in a place called Hoi An, visiting an elderly couple who breed silkworms for the local trade and taking photographs in their un-air-conditioned house. By the late afternoon he was bathed in sweat, thirsty and grumpy and wanting nothing more than to get back to his boat and have a beer, sail out to sea to catch a cool breeze. When he returned to where he’d moored her, however, he discovered that some local children had cut his line and set his boat adrift off the coast. The children thought this was a hilarious joke, and Killian, despite his mood and the sweat pouring off him, found himself laughing along with them. With no other practical options available, he put his camera bag on his head, secured the strap under his chin, and carefully swam out to his boat. The water was warm, he wrote, like a tepid bath, bright blue and gentle, and it washed the sweat away and refreshed him. When he reached the boat he tossed the camera bag aboard along with the wet clothes he simply stripped off and then floated in the water, watching a thunderstorm roll in over the mountains behind the town.

Emma devours the story eagerly, then goes back to the beginning and reads it again. His writing style is eloquent and engaging, his descriptions of the locations and people vivid and funny, and she feels like she’s there with him. She feels a pang at that realisation. If only she were there with him.

The story ends with a final photograph, clearly taken from the deck of his boat. A stormy grey sky lit up by a flash of lighting arcing down over the tops of lush green mountains. The brown roofs of houses dotted around the lower elevations and down to the white sandy beach fronted by clear azure water. The caption reads: I had never known such contentment or such peace.

That he had to go to the other side of the world to find those things breaks her heart.

She checks his blog daily and he updates it often, and soon she is only one of his regular readers. He gets dozens, then hundreds of comments on each post and he replies to them with charm and humour, and before too long advertisers begin to take notice. As do editors.

His first professional article appears in Wanderlust about two and a half years after his departure from Storybrooke. More soon follow, and his blog is updated with less and less frequency. And then, four years after he left, he makes the cover of National Geographic.

Emma cries as she reads it, huge, silent tears that leave tracks down her face, and with her fingertip she traces the small picture of him next to the article. His beard is thicker, she thinks, though he still hasn’t learned how to use a comb.

Six months later he announces that he’s shutting down his blog because he’s written a book, a novel that will be published the following year. Emma is thrilled, and so proud of him. He always was good with words, as his impressive career in travel journalism proves, and she’s delighted he’s found an even more creative way to use that talent. But then she thinks about how, once, he would have given her this news himself, and her tears fall again.

She thinks about how things were between them, so long ago now. How from the very beginning he fascinated her, that sullen, beautiful boy with his soft accent and his furious pain, the wary disbelief in his eyes when she brought him a blanket and the shock of intense connection when she shook his hand. Her persistent campaign to break through the bastion of his anger and discover the person beneath, her joy when she succeeded. The long, hot days of his first summer in Storybrooke, walking in the woods or sitting by the docks together, reading, listening to music, talking about everything. How in love with him she was and how she thought, in odd moments and snatches of glances that he might feel the same.

Then autumn came and Killian turned eighteen. The morning of his birthday he dropped out of school, telling Emma without looking at her that with the chaos of his parents’ deaths and the struggle to find someone to take custody of him he missed his exams in England and here in the US everything was too different. He wouldn’t be able to graduate in the spring and he didn’t see the point of staying in school when he should be earning money. Now that there were no more funds from the state to support him, he said, he couldn’t be a burden on Belle.

He got a job at the docks, working such long hours she barely ever saw him. When she did he was exhausted, worn in a way that worried her, though he always had a smile for her and a new book he discovered for her to read. His mind was so active, so curious, but when she tried to talk him into going back to school he refused to listen, withdrawing into himself if she even brought it up.

Emma thinks about how he began to pull away from her, subtly at first, allowing the circumstances of their lives to do most of the work. She thinks of the gossip she began to hear about him, stories of sleeping with older women who would buy him alcohol, drinking until he passed out. She confronted him about it and he stonewalled her, telling her to go back to her high school boys and leave him in peace.

Man whore, she hissed at him.

Princess, he snarled back, turning the word into an insult.

Emma cried herself to sleep that night, and the next day agreed to go to her senior prom with Neal Cassidy.

When word of Killian’s book gets out Storybrooke goes insane. Everyone seems to have forgotten the way they once treated him, the suspicion and distrust, the whispering behind his back, always waiting for him to explode in violence or do something that would get him locked up for good. All they remember now is that he’s a ‘local boy’—one born on a different continent, but that is also forgotten— and there is pride in their voices when they speak of him. There is speculation on when he’s going to ‘come home.’

Emma wants nothing more than for him to come home, but not like this, not into the clutches of these vultures, she thinks viciously, these people who made him feel like less than nothing and who now just want to trade on his acclaim. Yet she wants so badly to see him, to hear his voice again. He’s been gone five years and the wound is still open, still gaping and raw. By now she knows it will never heal, and if she lives to be a hundred she will never stop missing him.

Graham knows it too. They’re still dating, sort of, in the sense that they go out together sometimes and they sleep together sometimes but Emma has never been able to fully commit to the relationship. She loves Graham but she’s not in love with him, as the cliché goes, and when Killian becomes the focus of eager conversation throughout the town Graham thinks he may finally know the reason why.

“It’s Killian, isn’t it?” he asks her out of nowhere one day. They’re in the sheriff’s station where Emma now works alongside him, having graduated with her criminal justice degree and joined the force as a deputy. “You’re in love with him.”

“What? How do you know?” She stares at him, too astonished to dissemble.

“Emma, you should see your face whenever anyone mentions his name.” Graham smiles sadly. “I didn’t notice at first because— well, no one talked about him, but now his name’s getting thrown around all over the place and every time you hear it you look like your heart is breaking.”

“Graham.” She has no idea what to say to him.

“At least now I know why you couldn’t ever fall for me.”

“I’m so sorry.” Emma feels terrible. “I probably shouldn’t have— It’s just my dad was so—”

“I know. I probably shouldn’t have pushed so hard. With hindsight it’s always been pretty obvious your heart wasn’t in it.”

“I wish it could have been,” she says with a flare of anger. “Killian never wanted me, he left without even saying goodbye. I haven’t heard a word from him in five years, so why can’t I stop loving him?”

“What is it they say? True love never dies?”

“I’ll have to find a way to kill it then, because I can’t live the rest of my life like this.”

Graham stares at his hands for a long moment, and then he speaks. “You might not have to.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t think— I don’t think Killian didn’t want you.”

“What?” Emma glares at him but he doesn’t look up.

“It’s not something we ever spoke of, but looking back.. hindsight and all, I see some things now that I didn’t want to see back then. He was always so tense when you were around, and his face when anyone said your name— well, it was a lot like yours is now when someone says his.”

She shakes her head. “You’re imagining things, Graham. Projecting—”

“No, I don’t think I am,” he interrupts firmly, finally looking at her. “I think Killian loved you but thought he couldn’t give you what you needed and that’s why he left.”

“And what exactly did he think I needed?”

“Maybe you should ask him that.”

Emma throws up her hands. “I just told you he hasn’t spoken to me in half a decade. I’ve got no idea where he even is.”

“You’re a cop,” says Graham. “You have resources.”

“Graham Humbert, are you suggesting I misappropriate—”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Emma, other than that it seems you and Killian have a conversation that’s at least five years overdue, and maybe it’s time you finally had it.”

Two weeks later Killian’s book comes out. It’s an instant sensation, shooting to the top of the bestseller lists. All his Instagram followers and blog readers and travel magazine subscribers buy it and so do their friends and family. Emma buys a copy and stares for a long time at his name on the cover before she begins to read.

The book is not a love story. It’s a story of love frustrated by life. It’s the story of a boy and a girl, the classic star-crossed lovers, who end up not dying in each other’s arms or living happily ever after but just… living. Ever after.

It’s the story of bad timing and bad choices and circumstances that grind away at love until nothing remains but the ghost of it, and of two people who would once have done anything for each other but by the end barely speak. It’s beautifully written and it’s heartbreaking, and for Emma it hits her straight in her soul. Because she is the girl, and Killian is the boy, and she doesn’t even have to read the interview he gives to the New York Times Book Review, confessing that the woman he wrote about is based on a real person, to know that this is them. This is how Killian imagined the path their lives would take, if they got together all those years ago. This is why he left.

Emma takes the book with her everywhere, rereading it in every spare moment, searching for something to convince her she’s wrong, that she’s imagining what isn’t there. She forgets to eat and barely sleeps, and finally she goes to see Belle, knocking on her door with the book clutched tightly to her chest. Belle hugs her, the minute she opens it. She’s read the book too.

“He’s never coming back, is he?” Emma whispers.

Belle shakes her head. “No.”

She ushers Emma inside, sits her down on the sofa. Waits.

Emma stares at the book, ruffling its pages and toying with its dust jacket. “Isn’t there anything that might make him— any reason he might want to— to come to Storybrooke again? Doesn’t he at least want to see you?”

Belle chooses her words carefully. “I visited him last Christmas,” she says gently. “In his new place, at his request. He doesn’t want to come back here. I— believe there are some things he thinks would hurt too much to revisit.”

“The woman in his book.”

“Yes.”

Emma takes a deep breath, looks Belle straight in the eye. “Is it me?” She holds up the book. “Is she— me?”

Belle sighs, but there’s no point in lying. The woman in the book is so obviously Emma. She’s kept Killian’s secret as long as she could, but if he’s going to put his heart on display in the pages of an international bestseller there’s only so much that she can do to protect it for him.

“Yes,” she says. “It’s you.”

“Then he… he loved me?”

Belle nods, and Emma’s fingers grip the book tightly. “Did he leave town because of me?”

“He did. He loved you deeply, Emma, but he never acted on it because he believed you didn’t feel the same, and even if you did he couldn’t give you the life you deserved. Then you started dating Graham and couldn’t bear to watch you fall in love with someone else.”

“He’s such an idiot,” hisses Emma, and Belle does rather agree. Yet she’s not sorry Killian left Storybrooke; he’d never have made anything of himself had he stayed. He’s got the life he deserves now, and he’s stable, if not quite happy. He’s been seeing a therapist and working through the scars from his past. For the first time in all the years she’s known him anger isn’t his defining feature, and while she does think his book takes rather too pessimistic a view of the life they might have had together, she’s certain none of the progress he’s made would have been possible if he’d remained here in this town with Emma, however much he loved her.

“Tell me something, Emma,” she says. “If Killian had told you he loved you before he left, what would you have done?”

“Gone with him,” says Emma, without a second’s hesitation.

Belle gives her a hard look. “You would have given up everything —your education, your family, your home— to live with him on a boat, scraping by on his savings?”

“Yes.” Emma thinks about the picture from his first blog post, the calm and contentment he’d found floating off the coast of Vietnam. She would have given up anything to experience that with him. Just to be with him. “All I’ve ever really wanted is to have a life with him. The details of that life don’t really matter. I mean, they do, but— we could have worked them out together.”

Belle smiles and gives her head a little shake. One of these days, she thinks, she’ll stop underestimating Emma Swan. “He’s living in New York now,” she says casually. “In a neighbourhood called the Bowery. Bought himself a nice little flat there. Apparently the advance on his next book was a generous one.”

Emma swallows hard before she speaks. “Is he planning to stay there?” she asks.

“I think so,” says Belle. “I think he’s ready to stop wandering and find his place.”

Emma has been with the sheriff’s department for three years and she’s never once abused the power that comes with her position. She doesn’t speed or park where she shouldn’t, or even cut in line at Granny’s as even Graham has been known to do. She’s never even jaywalked. But when she learns where Killian lives, his very neighbourhood in fact, she busts out every cop trick she knows to find his address.

When she has it she sits for a long time, thinking. Then she opens Google Street View. She feels a bit like a stalker, looking online at the very building where he lives, but she can’t help herself. And if she goes through with her plan then she will quite literally be stalking him and via not-quite-legal means as well.

But she can’t get Graham’s words out of her head. A conversation at least five years overdue. She wants to know why he left, why he pushed her away even before that, why he didn’t trust her to love him enough to make everything else irrelevant. She needs to hear it from his own mouth, not from Graham’s or Belle’s or anyone else’s. She needs to know.

She doesn’t tell anyone where she’s going or what she intends to do. Her dad is surprised when she asks for two weeks off work— she’s not had so much as a sick day since she started— but when he and her mother ask about her plans she tells them she just needs some time away after her breakup with Graham. Her father’s mouth goes grim; he’s not happy about that breakup. But he says nothing and her mother hugs her and tells her to take all the time she needs.

The next morning finds her at Killian’s door, trying to calm her racing heartbeat as she stares at the number on it, gathers her courage, and rings the bell. When he appears her breath stops. Her world stops. He looks good, is all she can think. Older, of course, filled out and more solid, with thick scruff along his jaw and his hair neatly trimmed if less than neatly combed. He’s always been good looking, but in the past the anger and defiance that so often marred his features made it hard to see. But now… now the anger is nowhere to be seen and he is beautiful, his smile shining as brilliantly as she remembers until he recognises her and it fades away.

“Swan,” he gasps, staring at her with wide eyes. “What— why are you—”

“I read your book,” she says breathlessly.

“Ah.”

“I loved it. You’re an incredible writer.”

He drops his eyes and rubs his neck, a pink flush spreading over his cheekbones. Some things haven’t changed, she thinks. He never could handle praise.

“Erm, well, yes. Thank you,” he says. “Um. Come in, Swan.”

He steps back to allow her entrance and she feels breathless again as she takes in his apartment. It’s plainly furnished but everywhere there are things, all manner of them, clearly souvenirs of his travels. Sculptures and paintings and knickknacks and other little touches of the life he’s lived without her. She spins slowly around, wide-eyed.

“This is amazing.”

“Aye, well, I’ve done some travelling.”

“I know. I read your blog too, and your Instagram.”

“You— really?”

She turns to look at him. “Yeah. I’ve been following you for a while. On the internet at least.”

“That’s— well, I don’t really know. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t think you—” I didn’t think you cared. She hears the words he doesn’t say.

The urge to touch him is so strong she digs her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from reaching out, wrapping him in her arms and never letting go. She notices that he seems to be doing the same, one hand stuffed deep in his pocket and the other a tight fist at his side. The tension Graham spoke of is there as well. It radiates from him, belying his casual posture. He was always tense around her in those later years, she remembers. Now she has some new ideas about why.

She doesn’t know what to say, though, how to start the conversation she needs them to have.

He starts it for her. “Why are you here, Swan?” he asks.

“Belle told me where you live.”

“That’s a how, not a why,” he says, with a small smile.

“I just wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

She tries to sort through all the reasons: because she still loves him and always will, because she missed him every second he was gone and she’s so angry at him for leaving without even a goodbye but also she’s proud of him for what he’s accomplished, for pulling himself out of the life he hated and finding success through his talent and hard work and sheer stubbornness. She tries to sort through the chaos of her thoughts but before she can the door opens and a woman rushes in.

“Sorry I’m late, I— oh. I didn’t know you were expecting any visitors.”

“I wasn’t.” Killian smiles at the woman as she approaches them. She’s tall and elegant with dark hair that tumbles in wild curls down her back. Emma feels small and dowdy next to her, and when she kisses Killian in greeting Emma can’t suppress a flinch.

“This is Emma,” says Killian. “A friend from Storybrooke.”

The woman looks at her with sharp interest. “I thought you didn’t have any friends there.”

“I believe I said I didn’t have many,” Killian replies with a grin. “She’s one.” He turns back to Emma and the smile slips away. “This is Milah, my agent,” he tells her. “And, ah, my girlfriend.”

Emma doesn’t flinch this time, she’s frozen by the stab of pain through her heart, though she knew this was coming from the moment the woman came through his door. Of course he has a girlfriend, she thinks, he’s moved on with his life. He’s been moving on, for the past five years. She’s the one who can’t let go.

She feels like she’s watching herself from outside her body as she summons a smile from God knows where and shakes Milah’s hand. She says all the right things— nice to meet you and yes, here on vacation and just in the neighbourhood, thought I’d look him up. From the expression in Milah’s pale eyes she doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Well, I’m sorry to cut your reunion short, Emma, but I’m afraid Killian has an appointment and we’re already running late,” she says briskly.

“Yes, of course,” Emma, replies, leaping to her feet and grabbing her things. “I’ll just… it was nice to meet you Milah, and to see you Killian. I’ll, uh, find my way out.” She forces herself not to run.

Killian catches up to her as she’s waiting at the elevator. “Swan!” he calls, and Emma wills the elevator to come faster, wishes she’d just taken the stairs. She tries not to turn around, but he calls her name again she can’t resist the entreaty in his voice.

“Where are you staying?” he asks, all in a rush. “For how long? Can I— can we—” he takes a deep breath and tries again. “I’d love to see you before you go. If you like, that is. Can I take you for coffee or something?”

The elevator doors open and she steps inside, turns to look at him almost against her will.

“Swan,” he says again, and his voice is so soft.

She gives him the name of her hotel, forces herself not to be thrilled by the warmth of his smile. The first smile he’s directed at her in five years. “I’ll come by tomorrow morning,” he says, and she nods as the doors slide shut. It’s just a platitude, she tells herself, just something people say. She won’t get her hopes up.

She won’t.

Killian returns to his apartment where Milah is waiting, actually tapping her toe on the floor as she stares at her phone with a stony expression. He ignores her mood, grabs his jacket and his satchel and holds open the door.

“Are you coming?” he asks.

She sweeps by him without a word and he follows her downstairs to where a town car is waiting. There is no sign of Emma in the street.

They sit in silence as the car navigates the heavy traffic. Killian is lost in his thoughts, unnerved by the way his skin is tingling, his blood pounding hot in his veins. This reaction is insane, he thinks, they didn’t even touch. Just seeing Emma again has shaken him to his core and he can’t work out how he feels about it. He never expected to see her anywhere but in his dreams.

“That was her, wasn’t it?” says Milah, interrupting his reverie. “The woman from your book.”

“Aye.” He regrets Emma’s presence in his book, resents it a bit. He tried to write the woman differently but no matter what he did she refused to be anyone but Emma. In the end he gave in, hoping that writing about her might excise her from his heart. It didn’t. Nothing ever could.

Milah is silent for several streets. When she speaks again her voice is carefully neutral. “Are you going to tell her you’re still in love with her?” she asks. “That you’ve never stopped?”

“Milah—” he begins, but she cuts him off with a short, sharp gesture of her hand.

“It’s okay, Killian. Well, it’s not okay, but I’ve always known you didn’t love me the way you love her.” She gives a wry smile. “I just never imagined she’d show up at your door.”

“No, nor I.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

Milah pauses again, chooses her words carefully. “You know you’ll never be completely happy without her, right?”

He nods. “I know. But—” He hesitates, and she steps in.

“But you don’t think you deserve to be.” She gives him a probing look. “You do, you know.”

Killian stares at his hands, fighting against the memories that are starting to engulf him, things he hasn’t allowed himself to think about for years. Emma’s laugh, the way she smiled at him, the sunlight in her hair. Her father’s face whenever he saw them together. The way people in Storybrooke used to watch them, resentfully, as though his mere presence in her orbit would despoil their princess.

He shakes his head.“You don’t understand. Emma, she’s perfect—”

“She’s not,” snorts Milah, and meets his glare with a calm stare of her own. “She’s just a woman. A lovely one, yes, and by your account a remarkable one. But still just a woman. One who loves you.”

His heart squeezes at that thought, one his brain refuses to entertain. “She doesn’t,” he insists, “she’s just being—”

“Oh, stop it!” snaps Milah. “Stop making excuses. It’s fucking obvious to anyone with eyes. She’s as bad at hiding her feelings as you are. That woman is crazy in love with you and the only reason you can’t see it is because you think you don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t deserve her,” insists Killian, his jaw set stubbornly.

Milah rolls her eyes, huffs out a breath. “You know what, maybe this is for the best,” she says. “Your moods were driving me crazy anyway.”

“What, are you breaking up with me?”

“Yes. Yes I am. I can do better than a self-loathing nomad who’s in love with someone else.”

They glare at each other. “You probably can,” says Killian.

“Damn straight,” says Milah.

“You will still be my agent, right?”

“Of course I will. You’re my fucking cash cow, love.”

Their glares fade into grins and they laugh. “Maybe it is for the best,” he concedes. “I like you too much to impose myself on you.”

“Stop that,” says Milah. “That self deprecation gets really bloody tiresome. Just tell Blondie you love her, the rest will sort itself out. And quit holding her up in your mind like some sort of goddess. She’s just a woman.”

Killian doesn’t reply.

He calls Belle late that night. She answers after many rings with a sleepy “Hello?” He’s woken her up. He expects he should be sorry for that but he isn’t; he’s too mad at her for telling Emma where to find him. For destroying the peace he’s worked so hard to achieve.

“Why,” he chokes out. He’s been sitting alone for hours fighting the urge to drink, unable to sleep, thinking about Emma and remembering and trying not to tumble back into feelings he thought he’d escaped. “Why would you tell her where I was?”

“What?” says Belle, and there is genuine confusion in her voice. “Killian? Who did I tell what to?” She must be tired, thinks Killian, if she’s dangling prepositions.

“Emma,” he snarls. “You told her where I live. Why? Why, when you know how I—”

“Hold on,” Belle is awake now, and there’s a snap in her tone. “I told Emma you live in New York but I didn’t give her your address. Why? Is she there?”

“Aye.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “She appeared at my door this afternoon.”

“Ah.” Belle sounds satisfied.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Killian. Please think about this. She tracked you down. She went to a lot of trouble to find you. Why do you think she would do that?”

“I’ve no bloody clue.”

“You do,” says Belle sharply. “You’re just being obtuse. What did she say?”

“Not much. The timing was complicated.”

“Well, talk to her. Just talk. See what comes out.” There’s a pause as Belle sighs. “You’ve spent so long thinking you can’t have good things, Killian, I suppose it must be difficult to change that mindset. But you have to. You can have the things you want. You are allowed to be happy.”

“I—” He doesn’t know what to say.

“Get some sleep,” Belle tells him. “Talk to Emma in the morning. And keep me informed.”

“Aye.”

He hangs up the phone and drops onto his sofa, letting his head fall into his hands. Belle’s words ring in his ears.

You are allowed to be happy.

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan #angst #mutual pining #secret love #pining idiots #captain book brotp is strong #people aren't here for Killian's shit #on what they fall #profdanglaisstuff

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hopeenots · 4 years

Text

Ekphrastic Writing

I don’t have separate playlists for my different types of music as I imagine what people normally do, but I just have all the songs I like in one big playlist. I don’t really know how this assignment works, but it reminds me of something my math teacher made us do in seventh grade. She had all of us write for five minutes and we were told to not let our pencils stop moving even if we had to write “lalalala�� on the paper. That is what I get from this assignment. Going back to my playlist, there are so many different types of music that I listen to. Spotify usually gradually changes the genre of music so I hope that works for this assignment. Was even supposed to be our music that we are supposed to be listening to while we write? I am not sure, but I am anxious about getting these assignments done right.

My mind is going blank right now, I am getting distracted by the music a bit. I guess why the book says that soundtracks works better; because with soundtracks there are no lyrics to throw off your train of thought. Today was a good day for me I guess, I don’t really know what to talk about so I am going to talk about my day. Well first I want to talk about the fact that my brain is moving so much faster than my hands can type. I feel like my thoughts are skipping around because there is not specific prompt, just free writing. Even when there is a specific prompt, it is sometimes hard to not go on a random tangent. My brain is like two or three sentences ahead of my hands.

I am noticing that the more I get into the assignment, the more my music is going into the background, and my thoughts are not getting caught in the lyrics. Also I am not sure if it is showing in my writing, but I can feel the difference in the rhythm and speed of my typing as the music changes, even sometimes during the song.

I feel like I am thinking a bit too hard about this assignment, I am supposed to be free writing but my brain keeps going back to this class and the assignment. But I guess that is just who I am. I worry a lot about if I am doing things right. I feel like I am talking to a diary or journal. I tried to have one when I was a kid, but I found my brothers reading it one day and that was then end of that. I never kept any kind of diary again. When I was super upset, I would write down my thoughts and then light the piece of paper on fire so that no one could find it.

I think that this assignment is pretty cool, I am not really sure how much to wrote though, I just realized that I forgot to set a timer and I have not been checking the time. I guess I will just write until I run out of characters...How many characters does Tumblr allow you to have? What if I am writing forever? I’m laughing to myself a little bit. I am not sure what to do but I don’t want to stop writng and lose my mojo. I think I am going to stick to my first idea and write until I can’t anymore so if I cut off mid-sentence, you now know why.

Okay, I feel weird not writing to a prompt. I don’t know what to write and it is stressing me out, which I feel like is stopping my brain from getting to a place where I can just write. If you can’t tell by reading this so far, I overthink so many things to the point of stressing myself out. That probably isn’t a good thing, but I am not sure what to do about that so I guess overthinking it is. I feel kind of like I should do this more often...free writing. I feel like I am taking a break from my actual work right now. I think that is a good thing, hopefully I didn’t insult the assignment.

Writing...I haven’t written like this probably since seventh grade. I am losing my train of thought. I am going home this weekend. Not celebrating or anything. Just going to help out around the house. My brother is disabled from a skateboarding accident so I take care of him sometimes when my mom has to go work.

I know for this exercise we are not supposed to worry about our grammar mistakes and whatnot, but the red lines that appear under the words that are spelled incorrectly are very annoying and intimidating..........my room is cold right now. I wonder how long I have until tumblr makes me stop writing. I can’t believe tumblr doesn’t have its own name in its vocabulary. it right now has a red line under it and I even tried to capitalize it, but it still has a red line which is very annoying.

Umm I kind of running out of things to write about..well i guess there are a plethora of things I could talk about. oh I never talked about my day. well it was pretty uneventful, I just said my day was good becuase I didn’t know what else to say. I woke up and went to class and then I came back and ate a bunch of junk food while watching netflix and now I am doing my work.

I am getting vibes from the song that is playing right now. I had a friend during childhood and this song reminds me of her. She died during our senior year and it hurt because we were not on talking terms and it brought a lot of things into perspective.

okay its getting kind of sad up in here and I don’t like it. Oh look how that is working, writing is just making me talk about things that I usually don’t talk about. I am not sure how I feel about that. I am not gonna say it’s a bad thing though because I know it is not good to bottle things up. I still don’t really know how i feel about writing. I don’t like to do it, but I feel like I am good at it. I don’t think there are any downsides to writing, but I just ugh I don’t like to do it. Like I think the only reason this assignment isn’t absolutely horrible is because I am not writing about some topic that I am forced to write about, I am just typing the first things that come to my mind

I think I am getting stuck in between the song changes, especially if it is a drastic change, my brain shuffles up for a second and then I can go again. I feel like there has been a pause in my fingers everytime the songs have changed. i am not exactly sure. but I just noticed this time and it felt familiar. I don’t even know if I am making sense anymore. I am getting tired, but I am not sure when to stop writing. i am not even sure how long I have been writing, or how many songs have played. I feel like I made a mess out of this assignment. I kind of wish this was an exercise that is used more in school, maybe it wouldn’t be so weird for me right now. I really want to go until i can write anymore but I feel like I might be getting myself into writing for hours, but also I might be so close to meeting the character limit.

I shaved my head recently for the second time. The first time was in high school. the first time was a test of my confidence and a journey in building my self confidence. This time was because it was so hot outside and since we were quarantined, I wasn’t doing anything, I got laid off from my job. My hair was never getting done, it was always tangled and in a bun. I say it was because it was hot, but deep down I might have been slowly losing my mind from being locked up in the house for months. This time I forget that my head isi shaved most of the time. When I first shaved it I was always worried about what I looked like. Now, I just feel free.

Feeling free is a great feeling. I like doing things that make me feel free. Like driving...I like driving.

Okay I thought I had more to say about being free but i guess that was it. I am ready to stop typing at this point, but I am not a quitter. i might just have to be this time. My brain has been free for too long now, there are no more ideas that want to just bubble to the surface for my fingers to translate into words on this post. I am not sure...

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vipervisionsart · 4 years

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So here it begins...

I don't blog often anymore. Online journaling... and who's to know who's reading? Too many people say it's best to journal, or write, about ones daily life and activities. It can help some stay grounded or recollect what was once forgotten. I used to use Tumblr a lot. So much so to the point I got a good following on my personal blog. I got scared people I know would read it, so I deleted everything. I wish I didn't.

After I got hit with teargas canisters and flashbangs, I decided to quit healthcare, again. This would be the second time I've made this decision. There is a reason for it and I'm just not seeing it yet. I love healthcare and taking care of patients, however, I just don't believe that lifestyle is the right fit for me. The workload comparative to the pay is so trash and there are points where my depression gets in the way and nothing is fulfilling anymore.

Then I come out of a really bad depressive episode and I almost have to force myself to find something fulfilling in healthcare. I don't get the same adrenaline rush I used to get.

The performing arts and visual arts though, no matter how depressed I am, I can always participate in those kinds of activities and feel full. It doesn't matter what, who, when, where, or how. That's where my heart is...

I used to tell my ex all the time "just follow your heart and the money will come" because perusing your passions will earn you the greatest reward of all time. Everything is always what one makes of it, and if one is passionate about something all that hard work will never be for nothing. It just needs to be applied strategically. It's easier to do so when one's heart lies within it. I believe...

I really believed my heart was in healthcare... and maybe a good chunk of it is. That's why it will remain my backup plan... if pursing art, music, and dance doesn’t bring me success.

___________________________________________________________

I’ve been getting courted. There is one in particular I’m rather fond of. He’s not usually my type. Stepping out of my comfort zone has added on a different kind of happiness. I feel respected by him in a way, though his nature is possessive I understand that those tendencies are just signals of affection. I wouldn’t claim him to be different than most, though he does stand out slightly. There is a lot he has to offer. I appreciate that he listens, or at the very least pretends to, it makes me feel heard... but I also know that his “forgetful”ness will also cause a large downfall should important information--pertinent to my nature and dynamic--gets lost or thrown out of his ears and mind. He has made no mistakes thus far. It’s almost been 3 months.

There is another one who I am not so fond of. Though he seems almost obsessive towards me. This nature I can pinpoint as sort of a reoccurring act. I am not the only one, nor will it ever be so. He offers me financial support and gifts. In exchange he would like to believe he is the only person I focus on. Attachment issues. Narcissism. Ego. He doesn’t listen, nor respect the emotional and mental boundaries I have set forth. He is persistent; annoyingly so. It has been almost 4 months. The farthest he’s gotten is a hug.

I’ve been waiting for the first one to make a move at me romantically, but so far it seems his only prerogative is to have me as company and to boost his self-esteem towards women when he makes me cum. We still haven’t had sex. We did have a conversation last night, where he confessed to being nervous and probably a quick fuck. He didn’t have condoms, though Monday night I saw 6 in his nightstand and there was an attempt to use one, but the lack of exclusivity made me not so compelled to question anything. I told him “you can increase your sexual stamina by any means necessary and I wouldn’t mind a bit” to see if his mind would drift into seeing other people. He thought I was talking about jerking off. I repeated it again and added “and if you’re down, I’d like to watch” and I believe he got the point then.

There was no objections.

Men will do whatever they want to do. My main belief is to communicate ones wants and needs upfront and allow them to chose how to handle that information and what actions they feel they want to take. This has been my philosophy for quite some time. Though, admittedly, I did lapse and fall into a toxic frame of mind during my time with my ex. The worst of me was brought out, instead of the best, and at that point I knew it was something I had to distance myself from. I never want to be that kind of woman again.

I have a lot to offer and I am worth more than diamonds. It will take the right person to realize that.

_______________________________________________________________

I had a good day today. My morning started off extremely slow and confusing. I was lost and stuck and did not know what to do. My depression is in full fledge and I am doing my best to fight through it. I’ve been planning a head of time, because I’m starting to get the sense of when these episodes will happen, and in turn I’ve been creating schedules in my calendar app to plan my days when I get stuck as I did this morning. Now it’s a matter of having the willpower to stick to schedule or allow my depression to consume me. I will not allow my depression to consume me, but rather be a tool to my success. My depression is a tool to my success.

I went to dance practice and winged the combo we were meant to create and teach on the fly and I believe I did pretty well. The other trainee, did exceptional. I like him and I want to be his friend.

After dance, I felt invigorated. I was able to fold and put away my laundry and tidy up a bit. Off schedule but things were still done! All progress is good progress. Tomorrow, I am hoping to stay on schedule and perhaps get more things done. Towels need to be washed and the floors vacuumed and mopped and I need to get started on producing my music.

My ex’s friend, still hesitant to call him my friend when I speak of him to others, has been a great help in getting me started with my music. I am waiting for my second option to gift me a studio recording kit so I am able to finally get some tracks down. I want my music to be composed, produced, and so forth originally and solely by me. There is a specific sound I want and I don’t like sharing with others my internal feelings because that’s basically what my music is. This is part of my soul communicating with the world. She has been dying to.

_____________________________________________________________

I’m finally becoming tired enough now to sleep. Rest well, all. I love you.

I hate sleeping alone. I hate small beds. I hate sleeping on the couch.

I am ready for a place of my own. Somewhere I can call my home. I am ready. I am willing. I will have all that I wish for.

All the negative energy towards me and/or sent to me will be reflected back to it’s sender. I send the sender light energy to change their way of thinking. I wish ill on no one. Therefore no one should wish ill upon me. May the sender understand balance.

I miss skating.

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jennyferjones · 7 years

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October 18, 2017

Hey. It’s been a minute. I’m not sure why I am here. Not just on tumblr - but here in this moment, in this state of mind.. just here. I spent most of yesterday sobbing and well it got better and I felt okay again.. I woke up this morning, groggy from wine but I was stoked. Today is my last day off and I get to spend it exploring LA and treating myself to adventures because you always said self love is important but suddenly, the sadness took over, again. I have never had this much time to just hang out with myself and some days it is so refreshing and exciting and I keep learning so much about myself and other days I get stuck in a trance of overthinking to a point where I am constantly questioning my sanity and my purpose. Rewind - “why are you sad Jen?”I am sad because I lost the the greatest dad I could have ever dreamed of about a month ago. I am sad because I am going to a wedding in less than 3 weeks and weddings used to be one of my favorite events to attend but this time... i’m terrified. I want to feel happiness for the bride and congratulate her but deep inside I am screaming at the top of my lungs for him to come back because you promised me we would slow dance and then break out with our disco moves. This post is not for me. This post is me needing you, papa bear. You know I prefer to write in journals but my hands are shaky and you always told me that you loved my hand writing and that when I become a nurse or a teacher.. they would too. The other day, my car was making a funny noise and I immediately grabbed my phone to call you but it went to voicemail. I’m so confused. We made it through Maya, you were our strength.. OUR GLUE.. our king. You came out of nowhere and gave Natalie and I, a FATHER. Beyond the father we always dreamt of. You gave us 2 more siblings and those two rascals saved my life and continue to inspire me and motivate me every single day. Who is going to show Danny Jr. how to shave? What if he has questions? Remember when you would force me to sit in the garage to show me how to change a flat tire and check my brake liquid? I wasn’t always paying attention. You were my google. Remember when I decided to get into Buddhism and you started buying Buddhas for the house? && when you shaved your hair for Maya but low key said you can maybe also pull off being a monk. Remember when you used my Spotify to listen to meditation tracks? I laughed hysterically in the car picturing you sitting in your ridiculous Marvel t-shirts in the living room cross legged and humming. You know I’m no good at choosing the “right people” to date. I need your approval. I know I’ll always have it because you’ve always accepted me for me. I pray that I will be lucky enough to meet someone that was as noble and honest and youthful as you. I pray that when I have my own rascals, that he/ she will stay up playing ridiculous video games with them. I pray that they will be patient and present the way you were. Obviously no one will ever be as good at Legos as you.. but you promised me you would build me a house and for goodness sake, we both know that the “Noah’s” from the Notebook are extinct now. I remember when you first came into our lives - I constantly told you I hated you and that you would never be my dad. Boy were my pubescent hormones feisty. I remember when you picked me up from HS on your motorcycle and I was SO embarrassed because of your ridiculous grin when you saw me walking out because YOU KNEW how terrified I was of motorcycles but the next day of course, everyone started a rumor that a very handsome man picked silly emo me on a bike and right now, I would give and do anything to have you pick me up on that bike except the ridiculous grin would be on me. I cannot honestly say mom will ever find anyone as perfect as you because there will never exist a man that can replace you, but I pray that you give mom the strength to be okay. I pray that she will find happiness again. I promise your cubs will drown her in love and take turns bringing her flowers like you did. I miss you. I am going to buy the Bee-gees vinyl today and get a pack of our favorite beer and I will smile because you must be watching down on us right? I want to say I’m sorry I haven’t been on my best behavior but you KNOW I was a born a wild child. I made you a promise. I am going to keep that promise. Thank you, dad. Thank you for everything that you were and are for us. Thank you for being the best papa bear and hey, your cubs are gong to be just fine. You left us a QUEEN and we all know she stays slayin. I have so much more to tell you but for now... I love you. See ya later alligator?

#personal #grief

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thelifeofivan · 7 years

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My issues

Its seldom I get the courage to say everything that’s on my chest. But today the changes I’m making are becoming stronger and more evident. What I can admit is that I have issues. Issues that have stuck with me for a long time. 1 issue is that i’m afraid of change. The good change excites me but its the possibly of bad changes that brings up thoughts of the worst case scenarios. I've often sabotaged blessed opportunities because of this issue. Doubting my own greatness, abilities, leadership and ambition. I’ll get right there to the finish line but pull back because the win would bring changes. Changes where I would be away from the people I love, places I know, my comfortable existence. I have alot of friends, alot of family and acquaintances but deep down I feel alone. Then the thought that winning, achieving, succeeding and reaching past my goals could potentially moving away from the little bit I am use frightens me. To reside in an apartment or house with just myself is nerve wrecking honestly. For the first time I’m putting my all into my gift and willing to embrace the changes that will come from it.

2nd issue is my perfection standards. Realizing how hard I can be on people around to be perfect was a deep revelation. Seeing someone close to me act different then how I mentally viewed was a deep issue. From my parents to the elders of the church and to the friends who say that wouldn't cross you but it happens. Seeing people I hold in high regard act different and show their real colors shocked me, hurt me and damaged me. It was worth coming to deal with that everyone won’t stay the same forever.

3rd and 4th issues are my outlet. I mean the turn up or relationship. During the week I spend a lot of time and energy fighting negative people, thoughts or scenarios. During the week you can find me working, doing something towards being positive or life changing. It could be creating a new tshirt design, writing my 5th book, recording poems on youtube, learning where do you millionaires bank at or who knows. There hasn't been many days in the past 15 years where I didn’t have a job. During all those years I worked my outlet was to go out on Friday and Saturday nights. Fill my gas tank, get drunk and go dancing somewhere. Other outings where it was coupled theme didn’t catch my interest as I had spent alot of the time doing that after a bad breakup in 2010. See a relationship was my 2nd outlet. Meaning that while I may go through hell in a workday. From having the fridge at work go out or hand prep 90 kids lunches by hand, being kicked by a student when I was a teacher, or a flat tire from throwing pesticide packets by bicycle, or moving furniture for 16 hours to get the money for a beach trip. The person I get involved with becomes a part of my happy zone, a happy place in my life, someone I want to have fun with. I could be enraged at the world but for those who I love I wouldn't let the anger from an outside scenario erupt towards them.

5th- issue Loving someone without loving someone. Truthfully this is probably the hardest thing I’ve written in years. Because at this moment I still feel the strong love for someone that I haven't seen, heard from, talked to, laughed with or anything. I knew my heart was deep but never this deep or strong. The issue is that I feel like I’ll never stop loving her. There’s not a day that goes by where she doesn’t cross my mind. Someway somehow for some reason I’ll think of her and feel that pain enter the empty part in my existence. Honestly it hurt like shit walking away from her. Yes I was mad but not at her. I was mad at myself for having more effort to give. I pushed her away from my immaturity, inability to change and recognize that it hurt her watching me self destruct. I still love her, but I don’t want to burden her life anymore then I already have.

6th issue- My Spiritually. Now first and foremost I believe in a higher being watching over us. But times growing while being deep in church a few questions came to mind. Like the bible states the beginning of mankind, yet no man has traveled to the end of the universe so no man was here when it was first created. The bible tells of the end of days and how the end of days will happen...yet also states that no man knows the time or day when the end will happen. I do believe that there are principles in the bible that relate to life today. Then as it states that God is a jealous God and we are not to put anyone before him. They old Jesus as God, pray to the saints and kneel before the pope. But the stories and the characters seem as far fetched as santa claus, cupid, and other characters of celebration. My issue is that my belief is not with the modern religion. I believe someone somewhere created each one of us for a purpose. Is his or her name God, I don’t know because I’ve never seen them. But I know that through my existence I was created by some force so I call them “The Creator”. All in all I base my blessings on asking my creator and guardian spirits for guidance, protection and abundance.

7th- Saying no. I’m a real people pleaser from having a childhood of being teased. Spending many days alone writing poem after poem in my journal. My inner voice became my best friend/biggest critic. My struggles of trying to break out of that habit are still happening today but it’s getting better. See it’s so easy to become distracted when at almost any moment you know how to find the negative things to do in life, the wrong crowd to chill with, the wrong vices to buy. The impulse to do those things gets as strong if not stronger then my impulse to love. I feel obligated to say yes because I’ve heard no so many times, been out by myself and wish I had someone there to experience it with me. So I found myself saying yes to those who wanted to experience my presence no matter the distraction or cost to me.

8th- He’s not an issue, but it hurts to watch it happen. I mean my Father. It hurts to watch him grow sicker by the day and not being able to do anything about it. Wanting to move away but leaving him in that state feels so wrong. Not being there to assist him in and out the car, up the stairs, pull the blanket on him when I come home at night, turning on the bathroom light so he can see when he wakes up, putting a glass of water beside the couch before I go to sleep. Listen to him talk about two of my older half sisters who I haven’t seen in decades. I mean I wouldn't know there face if I was walking next to them. My first time hearing my dad choke was at 3am on a school night. I couldn’t sleep because I had this bad gut feeling, I couldn’t stop trembling. I mean my hands were shaking terribly. I laid in my bed trying to shake it off until I heard him yelling. Rushing down stairs I remember the wide eye gaze on his face. I got him some water and at that moment the trembling in my body stop, but the lifelong affect of that night still tremors now. I felt like an guardian at that moment, guard dog, security, night patrol. Many school nights I didn’t rest until the sun came up because I was afraid he would die while I was asleep. During school the teacher and students thought I was asleep but my head was down and tears would be flowing thinking of my dad passing away and me not being there to say goodbye. Just the thought of those days brings me to a spot of anxiety. Those moments where I knew I was powerless, angry that earth life ends, pain from the depths of my soul which I prior to that night I didn’t know they existed.

There are more issues I will share next week as Tumblr will be my area to share who I trully am.

#issues love depression anger sad nooneisperfect netherami therealme family mypast readytochange

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