CW: discussion (in a poetic fashion) of self-harm. Allegory for depression, probably.
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I don't know how I feel.
In these moments, when they arrive, when my mind lets me feel.... it's like there is a hole shot through my chest. My lungs, my heart; ribs, esophagus; muscle and spine- gone. My shoulders, and the very pit of my stomach remain, tied together by rubbery flesh.
But my heart, my center, is gone. Gaping.
I feel hollow, I feel like I'm on the brink of tears. Like the only way to feel whole again would be in a curled fetal, cradling the void.
It rises like a bile in my throat. Like a pervasive bubble that just won't pop. It's choking, and if I were allowed to feel anymore, I'd be left gasping.
Sometimes I still do.
I want to scratch at the skin of my ribs; pull at the skin like its an elastic just to make sure it's still there. Let thick warmth drip down and into my palm like honey, let it show that my heart still beats, even if I can't feel it.
Tomorrow I'll forget I feel. I'll remember a dream of choking grief. I'll forget to feel.
Tomorrow, I'll be okay. I will, in truth, be fine. I'll remember that I felt like this, that I can feel like this. And in a way, I'll miss feeling this way. There can be a beauty in a wrenched soul. Tomorrow, I'll be untwisted, ironed out. I'll be okay.
TL;DR: as a glass child, my existence is not ableist. And recognizing my experiences is not ablist. My sister who has special needs did not cause my predicament, and she is not to blame. "Glass child" recognizes my experience and how it relates to her, and my parents, and how the outcome was imperfect, not her.
(For context, my sister is 5 years older than me, nonverbal, and quadriplegic, and has Cerebral Palsy.)
(Side note, many talk about abuse within this context, and I do not touch on that. However, content warning for discussions of seizures, and breif mentions of death/hospitals)
As a glass child, I kind of just want to speak up. I love my sister. She is my older sister, I was born into an environment what I always was a "glass child."
And again, I love my sister and will always be thankful that she is in my life. I am also very grateful for my parents as, raising children is never an easy task, and when one child does have graver needs that can be stressful, they (my parents) did a fantastic job at raising us.
My sister was always cared for. Financially, my family was fortunate, and rarely were we lacking the proper resources to be able to have as proper of care for my sister as possible.
And, there were always moments, even little ones that affected how I grew up. From little moments of, say, I wanted to show my parents a picture I was proud of, but instead of a response, I would be asked to help my sister. To, of course, graver moments of waking up to the sound of my sister (we'll call her Sarah for anonymity) having a seizure. Or to sirens in front of our doors in need of an ambulance.
And there were always moments like that growing up.
I do not blame Sarah, and I never will.
And there would be times like that where I would want to show off something or be picked up from school, but couldn't or didn't get that because Sarah's needs had big consequences. Mine didn't.
Over time, being raised in this environment my whole life up to a point, I learned that my needs didn't matter. (They did, but as I child, I couldn't know that.) I learned that taking care of my sister put stress and worry on my parents, and while I felt those same emotions, I was a child, I didn't have the same means or practice on how to take care of myself; I didn't understand why Sarah had these disabilities, but I saw the stress my parents were under, and I pushed all these feelings down. I gained the responsibility to not burden my parents with my pain/stress/confusion, because I didn't want to add to theirs. I wasn't ill, I had a roof over my head, I had food in my stomach. I wasn't in the hospital, I wasn't having seizures.
My parents and I all needed to help take care of Sarah or else she would have not lived. My needs, in comparison were inconsequential, so I grew up. I was the older sibling once I was 3.
I don't mean to be ablist, I will always stand up for Sarah, and I would do just about anything for her. By recognizing myself as a glass child, I'm recognizing that I am my own person. I'm recognizing that my needs, my needs as a child, adolescent, and teen were all real. That they were valid and deserved to be heard.
By recognizing myself as a glass child, I am acknowledging that I do exist as my own person, not just someone who was only remembered as "Sarah's sib."
Yes, Sarah had needs, and she is not to blame for any of this. She is an incredible light in my life, and she has taught me more than any lecture or single life experience ever could. Sarah is not to blame for my experience growing up, the situation just didn't have enough room to allow myself to get my needs too.
My parents were dealt a hand of cards that was not an easy one, but they played the well and true best way possible. That best way, just cut out a great deal of my actualization.
As an adult who no longer lives with Sarah, I still love her, my parents, and hold all of them in the highest regard. And, I can now recognize the effect growing up in that environment had on me.
Every childhood affects adult instincts, insecurities, and perspectives. The first time I looked at how growing up with Sarah affected me, it was 5 after not living in the same household as her.
My sister had 'special needs', and when I first discovered the term glass child, I felt, for the real first time, that my needs could be special too. I learned that my boundaries could be make of stone, rather than just be suggested barrier marks on the ground that even I didn't notice, let alone others.
But there were little to no resources on Glass Children. I learned that I was invisible, not only from the research, but from the lack of it.
That's why it's important to talk, and to let us be heard, to see each other. I'm not trying to paint our siblings in a bad light.
I can't speak for others, but I know for myself that I love my sister. Sarah will always be the most influential person in my life.
It's no one's fault that this was my family's life. If Sarah had more agency, I have no doubt that she would have taken care of me in the way many older sisters would have. She just, couldn't. But she did show that she loved me in other ways, asking for hugs, blown kisses, her beautiful smile. She an I have a way of communicating that is unique and our own.
My sister is not a villain. Not by a long shot. Thankfully, nor are my parents. My situation is not because of them. I wasn't just neglected or in the shadow of Sarah, this was just my family. It had a unique dynamic, and it was beautiful. It held a lot of love, fear, exhaustion, and beauty. Being raised in that left childhood wounds. And that's okay, but they need to be recognized and allowed to breathe.
Masks of plastic, metal, and ambiguous material were worn. Practiced players hid in anonymity as night lights shown. A nod here, a throat cleared there.
On came an actor with a mask of blue, walking with courage and portrayed frustration. “Boatswain!” He cried to another.
The color of this other’s mask was washed out by a near streetlight shining gold. “Here, Master: what cheer?” And the show had begun.
No names were called, no pamphlet distributed. Performers came together in a masked performance charming strangers and passersby. The masked Ferdinand wooed the hearts of all the Mirandas-- those unmasked and the masked one alike. Laughs were shared at the dramatics of masked butler, jester, and monster.
And Ariel enchanted the hearts of all, anonymously dancing, charming, shocking curious members of an inconsistent audience.
When the show was done and stranger audience applauded the stranger performers. And then, like the nymphs of the island, the performers separated and disappeared into the open night.
- it’s a good idea to know how to flirt, but, of course, some of us are romantically inept
- it should flow nicely, but too nicely and perfectly set up isn’t realistic
- read as many flirting scenes, fanfics, bad pick up lines, and flirting tips as you can in however much research time you have for this
- seriously, if you try to get better at flirting, it will help you at writing and in real life
- some people are stutter-y and nervous, some people are overly confident and cocky, and some are in-between. it depends heavily on your set-up, characters, and how they react to each other
- characters will (usually) be more confident flirting with those who show mutual interest than a crush they get flustered over
- people also (usually) are more confident flirting with a stranger than a crush
- a lot of personality types and backgrounds can effect what type of flirt-er someone is. if a character is popular and generally accepted, he’ll be real cocky. if it’s a nerd or someone who is more of an outcast, he’ll tip-toe and be flustered due to fear of being rejected. look at personality types first
- flirting isn’t black and white. there’s different types of teasing, movements, and things to say that go into it. look at how your characters already interact and see what can fit them!!!
- i highly suggest googling stuff such as ‘flirting tips’ and reading wikihow articles on picking up chicks just to learn more, especially if you’re the romantically inept type, like a lot of us introverted, cranky writers are
Dragon Age: Origins Leliana x Gender Neutral Hero of Ferelden
Hi whoever reads this! This fun stuff is post Anxiety Attack writing. And for some reason, my brain is forcing me to write for Dragon Age. So I hope you enjoy! It’s Very soft because this is apparently what my new coping mechanism is.
Enjoy. Words: ~680
Having the Arl’s Castle, land, fortress-- the Hero of Ferelden still doesn’t know what to call it exactly-- Highever as their base is so different than the scattered camp that they were or so used to. It was even different than the Circle Tower, which now is so ruined that it couldn’t even seem like a home anymore if they willed it.
All of this runs through their mind as they stare at the flames of the fire in front of them. Once again the flames have begun to die down. Sighing softly, Hero stands to grab more kindling. Tossing more kindling into the fireplace in ‘their room,’ they revel in not being sore for the first time in what seems like ages.Of course the still-healing wounds pinch and pull, but not having armor on does wonders for natural healing.
The fire roars higher and hotter as the sticks catch the flames. With a hand across their side, they grimace slightly as they slide down to a sitting position. After a number of minutes, they can hear the soft footsteps signaling Leliana’s approach. “The next time you run from a room, you should make sure to do it with more flair, that way some tasteful rumors can be formed in your favor.” The soft orlesian accent which Hero has come to love echos from the door to ‘their room.’
“Is that how it all works?” Hero asks with a dried voice, a small tired smile curling their lips. Leliana moves to sit on the sofa not far behind Hero and the two slip into a silence. The sticks and logs in the fire suddenly shift as the wood burns away, throwing a piece of burned stick near the mouth of the fireplace. The blackened stick smokes as the embers on the outside eat away at the wood; some of the smoke slips into the room rather than through the floo.
“Fire has smoke,” Hero says absently.
“It normally does,” says Leliana in confirmation. Hero slowly shakes their head.
“This fire does, but mine--” they snap their fingers to their side and create a little burst of fire, smoke-free fire, “doesn’t. Not until it hits something. And then the smell isn’t nearly as pleasant as the smell of wood.” Hero brings their hand to their nose and smells their fingers and recoils slightly. “Not nearly.”
“I hadn’t though of it that way. Does it hurt when you create fire?” Hero turns to Leliana at the question, coming back into their body as if realizing that they had been speaking aloud.
“Depends on the amount I’m creating. That just now was like when you run a hand through a candle’s flame. More fire can be uncomfortable.” Leliana nods
“Come here,” she says softly, and Hero complies. Scooting towards Leliana, they continue to sit on the ground, but lean into Leliana’s legs and let their head roll back onto her knees. After a moment’s shifting, Hero is situated in a comfortable position with their head now resting on the couch cushion.
Another silence slips between the two and as the fire continues to crackle, Leliana begins to braid strands of her partner’s and friend’s overgrown hair. Hero’s hair has been chopped and burned and rubbed thin by battles and helms, but it still framed their face in a nice way.
They stay like this for a time. Hero, whose eyes slipped closed minutes ago, sits and with a hand hovering over an almost healed wound and rests under Leliana’s touch and care. Leliana, whose fingers weave as intricate a design as they can, sits with a soft smile as the fire warms the two of them and looks down at the flawed leader of the broken Wardens of Ferelden.
The past year has been hard, and despite the assassins, darkspawn, demons, and others who tried and at many points nearly succeeded in making everything much more grim, they have all persisted. They have persisted. With a Landsmeet and Archdemon in the near future, all these two can ask for at this point are these stolen moments. And steal them they do.
uhhhh so apparently the bi pride flag is copyrighted to an american organisation that is now very fed up with not getting paid every time the flag is used, so…. does this mean that by using the flag for free, we’re all actually the stereotype of the Evil Bisexual??
It’s like a normal library. Libraries can upload ebooks there and let people check them out through openlibrary if you have an openlibrary account, or it can point you to nearby libraries that have physical copies of the book for you to go and check out. If you check out books via openlibrary it counts towards the count of books checked out from the library that uploaded the ebook, and they can use it in their reporting and funding and stuff.
There’s like 150 libraries partnered with openlibrary so far.
They also have copies that you can check out if you are print-disabled.
You can also ‘sponsor a book’, which means you pay the cost of the ebook you want openlibrary to acquire, and then they can add it to their collection and let people check it out.
And click on a title even if it says ‘no ebook available’ and scroll down, ‘cause sometimes that just means “all of the copies of ebooks are checked out right now but you can get on the waitlist when it’s back in”
The clanking sound of another ancient machine echoes throughout the dank ruins. The whirring of the cogs and the scratching of the metal blade against the creature gets closer to The Hero.
Readying their own blade the hero turns to face the thing. Though it was made of metal, The Hero could see the faint blue lights coming from - what looks like it could be - the eyes of the machine.
The machine swings the appendage with the blade towards The Hero. The Hero ducks beneath the attack and brings their own blade up offensively.
The sound clanking and slashing of weapons and metal grows, echoes on echoes as the fight continues. Suddenly, The Hero loses their hold as the machine parries. Weaponless, The Hero rolls away from the next attack, trying to buy time with distance. Their eyes scan the dark ruins for their weapon, only to see the glowing eyes of their approaching enemy.
The machine swings its weapon in an repeated motion. Understanding the machine’s pattern, The Hero finds a piece of scrap metal, and with the machine’s next repeated swing, The Hero launches themself forward. They grab onto the armed and swinging appendage, and then jam the scrap metal into the space between the appendage and weapon.
The machine rears back like a horse in distress, but The Hero holds on. Grabbing the scrap metal with both hands, The Hero cries out as they wrench the metal of the machine apart, forcing the weapon to disconnect.
The machine’s weapon falls to the ground sounding heavy as it lands on the old stone.
The Hero kicks off from the machine and grabs the weapon upon landing. Now armed with their enemy’s weapon, The Hero lets out one last cry as they run towards the machine and stab it through with it’s own weapon.
The machine’s glowing blue eyes begin to dim and its body collapses underneath the hero.
As the metal of the ancient machine begins to disappear, The Hero reaches into the chest cavity of the machine and pulls out its power core.
(Fun fact: I had no idea I was queer when I wrote this. How I didn’t know is beyond me, but whatever.)
So, you’re heading out?
The bubbly scrawl appears along my left arm. A small smile works its way onto my face as I read the white script. I am not supposed to communicate with anyone outside of my command at this time, but screw it; freedom of speech and expression still apply, yeah?
“Hey, could I borrow a pen?” I turn to my friend Jonah, who gives me a ‘really?’ look. “Yes, really. Now may I borrow a pen or is that a no?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah. Here you go,” he sighs as he reaches into his pack to pull out a black pen. “I need this one back, L.”
“Yes sir,” I say with a lilt in my voice as I snatch the pen from his grasp. “Thanks.”
Yeah, planned patrol. Shouldn’t be too bad.
“Pen away, Liz,” Commander Zolt orders gruffly. “We’ll be out of this stinking truck in five minutes, you’ll live.”
“Yes sir,” I say as I yank my sleeve down over my olive skin and hand the pen back over to Jonah. “Thanks again,” I say. Wordlessly, he takes the pen back and puts into his pack and pulls out some jerky to snack on.
“So, what’d you tell ‘er this time?” he asks while peeling the wrapping open. He wiggles his eyebrows and I just roll my eyes at him.
“It’s not like we had a ton of time to chat and it was just about our day; nothing ‘juicy,’ you idiot.” I say.
“Rats.”
“Shut up.” I smile and lean back into my seat. In the back of the truck are three people besides me and Jonah. Commander Zolt, who has never seemed to like me, along with the siblings Colt and Bel. who mostly chat with each other, but they are good people to hang with otherwise.
As the ride to Quintar continues to draw out, my mind thinks to the writing on my arm. I find myself focusing on the faint pin-pointed pressure of Tiana’s response. Despite how tempted I am to look, I can almost feel Commander Zolt watching and waiting for me to slip up, which keeps me from doing anything of the sort.
I’ll read it later, when I get the chance. Tiana and I have been chatting for almost fourteen years now. She reached out to me first.
Does this work?
The pale blue color had bloomed on my arm. I remember running to my mom immediately after. “Mom! Mom! Look!” I’d said. Seeing the messy scrawl for the first time had been a happy surprise. “Look! They wrote. What do I say back?” I’d asked her mother.
“Well say hi to them at least. Talk to them,” she said.
The feeling of the truck suddenly slamming on the brakes snaps me back into focus as our bodies jerk towards the front of the truck. “Alright, buzz-cuts and ponies, time to move!” the commander orders us as we begin to pick up all of our items. I pack up any material I took out of my pack and grab my gun from behind my seat as I stand.
“Three years. We’ve been doing this job for three years. Last run for you, L,” Jonah says as we get ready to go. “You lucky shit.”
“What can I say? I don’t want to be away from home any longer than I have to be.” I laugh and punch his upper arm, “Plus, once I’m back, I plan to finally meet Tiana in person, rather than over a video chat,” I say as I glance towards my left arm. “But we’ll have to meet up once you’re out. You are out soon too, yeah?”
Before he responds, we are pushed out of the truck into the dry, dusty heat of Quintar. The truck takes off to make room for the next truck as Jonah speaks. “Three more months. Better no forget about me in that time, L.” he says, securing some of gear to his belt.
“Yeah, yeah.”
We are all corralled into a group once the rest of the command gets out of the other trucks. We split into groups of six and spread out along the surrounding area. Major Beth leads our group based off of her mutt’s nose.
We arrive to a mostly deserted part of the town as we keep watch outside of each building while the mutt tries to sniff out any bombs, drugs, weapons, and other dangerous material.
‘Clear!” Major Beth yells out as the mutt sniffs out another crumbling building. As we transition to the next building and continue our check, I lag behind a few paces and pull my sleeve back to see what Tiana wrote.
Stay Safe.
The clumsy handwriting makes me smile, as it always has since she accepted my position.
Why the HELL are you doing that!?
I could practically hear her screaming at me through the bold marks on my skin. She knew that I had been thinking about doing this, and had voiced her concern many times prior, but when I told her that it was going to happen, I could feel her anger radiating from the lines on my skin.
I’m calling.
Moments later my phone rings loudly. I take a breath, before deciding to answer. I deserve any anger she has. “Hey.”
On the other end of the line I hear her strained voice as she asks. “Dammit, Liz. You’re going to get yourself killed out there,” her normally soft and happy voice sounds like it’s on the verge of breaking. “Of all times to go into service why-” she pauses for a moment, swallows and continues, “why now? Why not community service, policing, fire fighting even. Why would you go work in a war zone?”
I understand her concern. “No one else will by choice. I’m not going to be away long. I’ll be back before you are out of college, and when I come back I’ll have the money to meet you so you don’t have to leave your studies. I’ll be fine. Plus, when I get back I’ll be able to get veterans discounts,” I say, half honest, half joking. Tiana lets out a breathy scoff.
“Fine. Stay safe.”
“Liz! We need you to check this out,”Major Beth calls out.
“Yes Ma’am!” I jog inside the building Major Beth and her dog are in. “What is it?”
Major Beth gestures towards three cabinets, two of which were opened. “We found a variety of weapons which were modified.” Major Beth opens the third cabinet and turns to look at me. “You’re the weapons specialists, what do we have here?”
I take that as a cue to begin pulling out the weapons and inspecting them. The first cabinet and much of the second are full of semi-automatic rifles with additions which were added with basic supplies, mostly duct tape. Most of the guns had added on knives and various blades to make basic bayonets. Other guns, though appearing ordinary on the surface, were modified to shoot ammunition other than bullets. Pistols are limited to small rocks and pebbles, but larger guns were altered to use things such as stones and incendiary cartridges depending on each gun.
“Besides the obvious attempt at recreating bayonets, the guns were modified to use more mundane things as projectiles, so they wouldn’t run out of ammunition,” I say, sparing her the details as she comes over to inspect the weapons. I walk over to the third cabinet to find it full of explosives. I hesitate in picking up anything from the third cabinet before walking back towards her. “It’s full of bombs and the bottom has a layering of of gunpowder. I recommend that we use any spare water we have and douse the powder,” I say.
She nods and I begin to walk towards the door to get a jug of water, but I am interrupted when a loud banging sound ruptures throughout the area. Pulling my gun out, I quickly turn around to try to locate the sound. But I see nothing. The sound was of a gun going off, but I can’t tell from where.
Another banging sound goes off, and suddenly the cabinet full of explosives is set off. The gunpowder lights on fire and then there is an explosion.
My body is pushed back into the opposite wall, and my vision blurs to black.
*
Clunk Click.
The sound of a door rouses me from sleep. My bleary eyes open and I have to blink a few times to see clearly. I turn my head to the right to see a nurse changing what my IV is connected to.
“Your awake. How do you feel?” he asks.
“What?” I ask before comprehending what he said. “Oh, I- uhh- good? Where am I?” I can feel parts of my body secured by bandages and the air smells too clean,
“You are in a hospital in Ann Arbor, Michigan,” he says. “You were injured while in Quintar, and since it was so close to your release date, it was decided that once you were stable you would be sent here,” he explains upon seeing my confusion. He walks to the door and just before he leaves he adds, “There will be a doctor here to check up on you in a few minutes. Until then, you have a visitor.” He walks out the door, and I can see his silhouette pause to say something to someone just outside the door through the hazy glass.
A moment later the door opens, and a girl walks into my room. Her hair is an auburn color and her skin is fair. She has many freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks, and her green eyes light up when she sees me awake.
“You never listen? Do you?” she says as she walks over and sits down in the chair next to my bed.
“Selective hearing.” I smile up at her. “You were able to convince people to send me here, I’m impressed.”
She shrugs. “What can I say? I’m majoring in English, I make the best arguments, and I wouldn’t stand for any more delays. By the way,” she stands and slightly leans over the side of the bed to hold out a hand, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Liz.”
I smile and take her hand, “I wish this were under better circumstances. I am happy to meet you in person as well, Tiana.”
“Ow. Ouch. Ow.” the girl says under her breath every time the tattoo artist touches the needle to her skin. She’s doing all that she can not to flinch as the artist paints.
“First tattoo?” the artist asks, lips tilting upwards with politeness as she asks the question.
The girls huffs dryly, yet not without humor. “What gave it away?” she says also smiling slightly. “I bet it was my stony attitude,” she says as she looks around the parlor. various designs line the walls, from simple flowers to fiery skulls with dragons.
The artist smiles fully, “Definitely the stony attitude.” The artist brings the needle close to her skin once again, “Ready?”
