#catharsis writing

[104cadetlauren]

WHAT IF LEVI WROTE HANGE A LETTER POST-RUMBLING?

It’s been days since I finished rewatching Attack on Titan, and now I’m stuck with post-show depression all over again. As a Levihan shipper, I can’t stop thinking about my headcanon: that they always had feelings for each other but never got the chance to say it. Too many words left unsaid.

How could two brilliant leaders be so awful at saying how they really feel? It’s like they kept running in circles.

I still can’t move on from how short Levi’s attempt was—whatever it was he was trying to tell Hange. So, as part of my catharsis, I wrote a letter from Levi to Hange. I made it to help myself find a bit of closure.

Sharing it here in case you feel the same way I do.

Before you read it, I want to share with you Levi’s Hange eyes. The eyes, chico, they never lie

Dear Hange,

Oi, Four Eyes…

It’s been months since we stopped Eren.

The Rumbling’s over, but whatever came after… it doesn’t feel like peace.

I’m in London now. Onyankopon, Gabi, and Falco are here too. They’ve been keeping an eye on me.

The doctors say my knee probably won’t recover. “Probably” doesn’t mean “never,” though. Doesn’t matter. I’m still breathing. That’s enough—for now.

You’d like it here. Machines everywhere, doing what people used to. Exactly the kind of thing you’d ramble about for hours. You’d probably explain how the underground trains work, lose yourself in some lecture on energy conservation. I can almost hear you now—talking too fast, eyes too bright. I’d give anything to hear that again.

I wish I could hear you explain it all—half of it would go over my head, but I’d still listen. Or pretend not to.

There’s tea here. Real tea. None of that dried-up ration crap we used to get at HQ. You would’ve dragged me around to all the shops and made me rate every cup.

Tea tastes different here. Not worse. Just… different. I drink it anyway.

Hange, I’ve been meaning to write this. Didn’t know where to start. Still don’t.

After everything—Furlan, Isabel, Petra, Oluo, Mike, Erwin… you—

You were the last one. The final thread tying me to the old world. When you were gone, something cracked in me. I didn’t want to keep going. I was ready to stop. Thought I could handle it—turns out even I’ve got a breaking point. Did you know I almost died again? Some snake-faced Titan got its jaws around me. Ugly bastard.

I didn’t even fight it. Didn’t reach for the ODM. That’s what got me. No instinct. No reaction. Just let myself fall. If it were before, I’d have launched away without thinking. But in that moment? I didn’t care. I was done. Would’ve been a corpse in its teeth if Mikasa and Connie hadn’t shown up. Embarrassing way to go, really—eaten by a glorified worm while emotionally compromised.

But then I remembered you—all of you. Why we fought. Why you stayed behind. The vow I made to Erwin… the one that’s still choking the breath out of me some days.

I couldn’t let it end like that. So I hauled myself forward. Again.

And somewhere in the middle of all that pain, I kept hearing your voice. That question you thought I didn’t catch—back in the forest. You asked if we could stay there, just the two of us. You thought I was unconscious, but I wasn’t. I heard you. And for a second… I wanted to say yes.

But we both knew better. That wasn’t who we were.

Still... if you hadn’t fixed that damned cart… if you’d asked again…Maybe I would’ve answered differently.

You pulled me out of the wreckage after Zeke pulled the pin of the Thunder Spear. I was barely hanging on.

I thought I was hallucinating when I saw your face—worried, scared, too close. I thought, “Great. I’m dying. My brain picked you as my final illusion.” Typical. But I didn’t want to close my eyes. I wanted to stay in that moment, even if it was the end.

But it wasn’t the end. I woke up again—burning with fever. You were right there. Your breath, your warmth. You were too busy ensuring that your stitches were precise that you did not notice me open my eyes. You were beautiful. More than ever. I hated how much I noticed it that time.

You were thinking irrational that time. You were Commander. I was broken. Useless, even. You should’ve prioritized the mission. But you didn’t. That’s how you were. Always thinking someone else mattered more.

You once said we could live in the forest. I agreed to leave it, but that question stuck with me. We never got to talk about it. After we joined up with Pieck and Magath, there was never time. But it haunted me, Hange. When we weren’t arguing or planning how to stop the apocalypse, I kept thinking about that stupid question. I kept hoping we’d get to talk.

That day at the port—you told Pieck it’d be an honor to ride on her back. I saw the light in your eyes. The kind I hadn’t seen in a while. The kind that used to burn when you’d talk about titans or books or some ridiculous idea at 3 a.m.

I tried something then—cracked a joke about your unrequited titan crush. Implying that you had one right here instead. Pathetic, I know. But it was the best I could do. You dodged it, asked if our comrades would be proud. You pulled an Erwin. And suddenly, I felt it—that something was ending.

I told you to stop talking like him. You didn’t even look at me.

But I think you understood. You always did. No matter how clumsy I was with words, you got it. Maybe you reminded me about our comrades because you thought we didn’t deserve to feel anything when they were all gone. Maybe you were right.

When Floch shot the flying boat and you volunteered to buy us time... I wanted to stop you. I was dragging myself toward you, trying to find the words. And then you said, “Let me go. Please make it happen.” Just like that. Without even looking at me one last time.

I still see it. That moment. You turning back, that stupid grin on your face — like you weren’t about to throw yourself into hell.

I remember every damn second. The heat. The smoke. Your refusal to look at me. You walked away without giving me the chance to argue.

You said to let you go. Like it was something easy. Like you weren’t the only one who ever really saw me — not the soldier, not the name, but the person under all that. You understood me in ways I didn’t think anyone could.

I would’ve followed you, you know that. That’s why you didn’t let me choose. You knew what it would cost. One of us had to make it out. One of us had to finish this.

They say time dulls the pain. It doesn’t. You just learn how to carry it. But when it’s quiet — really quiet — I hear your voice again. Hear you rambling about Titans. I miss those moments more than I know how to say.

Did you blame me?

Did I fail you like I failed them?

There was something between us, right? I think you knew. Even if my words were a mess, you always understood. That moment—our last—it meant everything. I said goodbye in the only way I could. You knew. I know you did.

I don’t regret knowing you. Or letting you see the real me.

Maybe one day, we’ll finish that conversation from the forest. Until then, I’ll keep watching the damn sky. Those flying boats you couldn’t shut up about. Aviation is what I think you and Yelena called it.

I don’t know what to do with this letter. Burn it? Keep it? Doesn’t matter.

But if you’re out there—somewhere—just know this:

I never moved on. I won’t.

You were it for me, Hange. You still are.

You were the one person who got under my skin and stayed there.

I’ll keep living because you wanted me to. But my heart? I left that with you.

Until we meet again, four eyes.

Please watch over me.

Always yours, Levi

Note: Did you like it? If not, take your best shot! Comment or blog Levi’s letter to Hange. Let us trauma bond and give each other the closure we all need. - Lauren

[mayphoenix]

Why I Need Johnlock to Happen

This is long and personal and I need to get it off my chest so I can get on with my life.  Please bear with me. In mid-December, I received word that my ex-wife, a woman with whom I shared 23 years of my life and to whom I was legally married in 2005 (but separated in 2010), had been diagnosed with brain tumors.  In April of 2016, one month after we divorced (it wasn’t recognized in our state until the SCOTUS ruling; once that passed, I filed), I was told she had been diagnosed with lung cancer.  She had undergone chemo and in September tested clear.  But it came back three months later, and on January 4, 2017, she passed.   When I found out she was dying, I tried to make contact.  I wanted to clear the air, make peace, and most of all, forgive her before she left this world.  You see, ours was not a healthy relationship.  It never is when your partner turns out to be a narcissistic sociopath who gaslights you on a daily basis and occasionally abuses you physically.  She was twenty years older but age never mattered to me.  I loved her.  And yes, just as John has a thing for dangerous people, as a survivor of child abuse, I always seemed to find myself drawn to people who hurt me.  Which is perhaps why I will spend the rest of my days alone, singular; aside from being damaged goods (something nobody wants), I now have serious trust issues. Things got so bad at one point that I suffered a mental breakdown. It was then that I began seeing a therapist.  I was diagnosed with PTSD, severe chronic depression, and anxiety disorder.  As soon as I began to receive treatment, I began to see the problems in my life for what they were.  I could have escaped but instead, I believed I could fix it.  That whole “love conquers all” thing.  Well, I tried to get my partner to work with me, to meet me halfway, but the thing about narcissists is that they never change.  She walked out on me.  I begged her to stay and just be friends and roommates, but if she couldn’t control me I guess she didn’t want anything to do with me.  Attempts to be civil and friendly after that failed, too.  She continued to act one way with me and a different way with other people, and she had everyone fooled...the way she had me fooled...but I’m the one who was left scarred for life.  I had been closer to her than anyone else in this lifetime.  She was my soulmate, for better or worse, and once upon a time I thought we would be together to the end of our days.  

Death changes things.  I’ve long held the saying “Life is Too Short” as a personal mantra and even have a tattoo on my hand to commemorate someone who was taken too soon, to remind me of this fact.  So despite everything that happened, all the water under the proverbial bridge, I reached out to my ex as soon as I knew she was dying.  Sadly, I was denied a last chance to see her by her caretakers, her friends who were also the executors of her estate.  Come to find out, they all hate me; in their eyes, I am the villain.  They don’t know what she did to me.  Why would they?  They only know what she told them about me.  These were once mutual friends but after the breakup they chose sides.  Her side, to be exact.  Thank goodness not everyone was fooled: there are others who got to see a glimpse -- people who knew her before we met, people who came to visit for a few days and got to see the way she talked down to me, pushed my buttons, etc.  Many of them apologized to me after the fact, saying “I saw what she was doing to you but I didn’t do anything” or “I knew what she was like and I should have warned you.”  And you know what? I don’t blame them.  Even police officers hate answering domestic abuse calls.  When put on the spot, very few people really know what to do or say.  If I blame anyone, it is myself, because I had been too trusting, and not strong enough to fight back or stand up or walk away.  And for that, I need to learn to forgive myself.

And while I couldn’t say it to her in person, I did forgive my ex for what she did to me.  I’ve said this many times over in the past month.  When I left that courthouse last March, I cried, “I’m free!”  Because I was.  Up until that point, there had still been a legal tie to her (again, even if it was not recognized in our state).  I did not realize the emotional ties would still be there.  I had no idea she was going to be dead eight months later, or that her death would have such a powerful impact on me.  I say this all the time: I would never wish cancer on anyone, even my worst enemy.  And she wasn’t my enemy.  I didn’t hate her.  I hated what she did to me but in the end I held no ill will against her.  I also know from years of being with her that she never wanted to be kept alive with treatments if she was terminal, she would always tell me “Put a gun in my hand, I’ll take care of it myself.”  I was told she wasn’t able to make any decisions for herself toward the end.  Others made those choices for her, her friends/caregivers.  They put her through painful, unnecesssary treatments.  If we had still been together, I never would have allowed her to suffer.  She never wanted that and I’m sorry she had to go through it.

I was doing dishes, listening to Spotify, and “Since the Last Goodbye” by The Alan Parsons Project started to play.  That was one of our favorite groups, and the song is about two people who thought they’d always be together, whose lives were entwined, but all they had left were memories.  When I returned to my computer an hour later, I saw the news: my ex had passed.  I will always believe that song came on my shuffle as her final farewell to me; after all, there are no such thing as coincidences.  

I began to grieve.  I sobbed and I wailed.  I was depressed and angry and sad all day and late into the night.  Thankfully, I have friends who let me call them and cry on their shoulders long-distance.  They encouraged me to focus on the good times -- because we did have good times -- and that my grief was normal because I had spent 23 years with this person (the greater part of my life, at the time of separation).  You don’t share every waking moment of your life with another human being, see them at their best and their worst, and not feel something.  Even if they hurt you.  You still grieve.  

A few days after her death, one of her friends -- one of the people I had contacted in my attempt to see her one last time -- posted a public statement about how I was deceitful and only reached out so I could get something (admittedly, I saw they had started a Gofundme for her funeral and the cost to clean out her apartment, and I wondered if they meant to throw everything away but I did not ask for anything; I did, however, want to know what would happen to her cat, which had been one of ours and she took with her when she left).  This person, whom I had always adored, said my ex had spoken of me with compassion (which I find hard to believe, going by things she’d said to other friends about me following the breakup); she went on to say that she had only tolerated me for my ex (they were friends five years before we got together).  I was warned to stay away (so I can’t even attend the funeral), that I should expect nothing, and if I tried to contact anyone...well, let’s just say it came across as a threat.  

I was gutted all over again.  I felt despondent, in a state of shock and disbelief.  This is the salt in the wound, being painted as the bad guy, as some kind of monster.  Some of them think I was the one who left the relationship but the truth is she walked out on me.  She made that choice.  She even told me I would not survive a year without her and yet here I am, now seven years on my own.  I have survived -- barely -- but even so I swore to myself I would ever go back to the way things were before, not after having my eyes opened.

So.  With all that said, the reason I need Johnlock to happen is because I need a Happily Ever After.  I need John and Sherlock, two damaged souls (like me), to have the happy ending I never got.  At the end of TLD, we saw the glimmer of hope that they could come back from everything they had been through, that their relationship has a chance to not only survive but also evolve and become something greater and stronger.  Because they are soulmates.  They are meant to be together, against all odds.  They are supposed to forgive each other and change for each other, adapt to one another and fulfill what each other needs most.  Because that, my friends, is LOVE.  They have both suffered and they deserve some happiness.  I want them to have the happiness I will never have, that I always wanted and needed.  It breaks my heart to see them hurting.  

Yes, I know they’re fictional characters.  But here’s the thing: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were my first example of Perfect, Unconditional Love when I was a child of eight years old and reading Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle’s stories.  With the innocence of a child who was abused by her father, whose parents went through a nasty divorce, and who sought love and acceptance wherever she could find it, I saw in those pages a companionship that went beyond that of friends.  I knew these men loved each other, and even if the language was different -- 19th century Victorian vs. 1970s American -- I took it at face value and in the simplest of terms: Holmes and Watson loved each other and would always be together.  They were and are two halves that made a whole.  I aspired to have what they had.  I had thought I’d found it, too.  But I was wrong, and because of that experience (and a few other brief and equally unsatisfying attempts at relationships -- like I said, I tend to be drawn to the wrong people) I am jaded...but only for myself.  Just because same-sex marriage didn’t work for me doesn’t mean I’m against it for everyone.  I want to see other people have what I couldn’t have.  I want them to be happy.  I need it, because seeing it is the only thing that gives me hope anymore.  I have many friends who are same-sex couples and happily, legally married, and I’m so glad they have each other and it’s working for them.  

But I just need to see John and Sherlock have that, too.  Just once, just one incarnation, and this has to be The One.  In my lifetime, I need this.  I need to believe in Johnlock because I need to believe in love again.  That there is redemption for the broken misfits like me, the weary soldiers who have survived personal battles, the misunderstood freaks and social outcasts who think all they deserve is to be alone.  

Please, let this happen.

[mirandahamiltn]

As a daughter of two immigrants, one from Mexico and one from Nicaragua I was always told that being American was a privilege. I never truly understood what that meant. I just thought-- hey I was born in California and that was it. It’s not until recently that I truly understand how important that was, and the frustration I must have given my parents at taking everything for granted. 

I never understood how my mom could make something so simple like getting an ID a big deal. I figured that voting when you were eighteen was just something you did. It was why I didn’t understand how my mom who came to the US at the age of 17 looking for a better life, cried because she wasn’t with me to drive me to go vote for the first time. I didn’t understand at first how my mom cried and told me with tears in her eyes that she was more American than she was Mexican and didn’t understand why it was so hard for her to get something so simple as a bank account. 

As for my father-- he never truly pushed me towards understanding politics. To him George Bush senior and junior were both the devil but Ronal Reagan for all of his immigration reform was king. To him Clinton was nothing more than a philanderer who wrote a huge book that he would never read. That’s not to say that my dad didn’t shape any of my political thought. Among many things he shaped my thought on immigration. For years he struggled and spent hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees only to get his green card a few weeks after he had died. Knowing that my dad never got to open that envelope and see the horrible picture he had taken was heartbreaking. 

All this is just for me. A reminder of why it is so important for not just me but for countless other first-generation sons and daughters to get involved and just like Obama said “Don’t boo. Vote.” While Obama reminded us of our shared American dream I also have to remember my parent’s American dream. I have to remember that I am not just my own voice but the voice of my dad who worked 7 days a week until the day he died just so that I wouldn’t have to worry as much. 

[greenekangaroo]

Sometimes, people who write ships as abusive are using it as a safe way to deal with abuse in their lives. That doesn't make abuse canon, and I agree with you, but this is just my explanation on why I refuse to judge those who choose to depict it that way.

No one needs to justify to me WHY they write bagginshield the way they do. I’m not going to stop them, nor do I have the right for the precise reasons you mentioned. However I’m not going to hide my dislike of the interpretation nor am I going to be quiet when the writer in question is touting their headcanon as canon. Tumblr has this problem with ‘well my interpretation is the most valid therefore you can’t argue with me or tell me other people feel differently so there.’

[lexcubitor]

and then the Tardis sounds, and he runs outside, except.

Except there's something wrong. Brian cranes his head to look behind him for flash of red hair and his son's fond smile, but only the Doctor steps out, and there are lines on his face, deep and furrowed like dried cracked earth that's lost all its moisture. All out of tears. Brian's smile falters and his hand drops from its half upraised wave.

The Doctor's not looking at him, gaze off to the side and staring at his shoes.

"Where are they?" Brian asks, tremulous, he refuses to lose his smile. This is the Doctor. He promised they'd be safe.

But the Doctor's not looking at him. Won't look at him....

"I'm sorry. I'm so very very sorry."

~*~*~

but then, of course, we all know the Doctor likes to run. To run and run and run from endings. To rip out that last page of a book, and take with it all the closure or unhappy endings, so he can imagine that the adventure continues on. On and on and on like a never-ending story, full of life, and love, and adventures where no one dies, and nothing ends.

So what if, in his need to run, the Doctor never looks back? He never returns back to that town, to that house, to that home where for a brief period in his long long lifetime, the Doctor came to stay.

So then there's Brian. Brian Williams. Who carries his trowel with him, who loves his daughter-in-law and his son, and played fetch with a dinosaur.

There's Brian Williams who sits in an empty house, fixing the lights, and keeping the refrigerator clean for when they return.

So he's always there. Waiting, for a blue box.

Just. Waiting.