#tck problems

[mbrainspaz]

life is just you go along and do your best and sometimes the people who mean the most to you fuck off and disappear forever one day, and you just keep on going along and meeting more people.

[oldnightcollage]

Fly Away Home

[enragedbees]

Ascendance Month Day 1

Prompt: favorite character and why

Words: 1694

A/N: so I was NOT planning on making this so long, and I would have posted earlier except my brain told me I wasn’t allowed to stop writing. please enjoy!

content warning: sexism, death mention, predatory behavior, one mild swear

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“All I want is to be happy, but I fear that that is too much to ask.”

 ~

        When she was young, Amarinda would fantasize about growing up.

        She dreamt about fancier dresses, and grown-up parties, and princes who would do anything for the chance to kiss her hand. She longed for the days when she would get to do whatever she wanted; no parents to tell her what to do, no rules she didn’t want to follow.

        Amarinda yearned for the day she would be of marrying age. She was already engaged, and she just couldn’t wait until she could meet him, and fall in love, and watch her life become something out of a fairytale. He would, of course, be completely smitten with her, and would be lovely and charming, and romance her every day. Amarinda would be queen of his country, and she would have all the freedom in the world.

        Amarinda was still very young when she realized just how wrong she was.

        The older she grew, the more she reminisced of her childhood, the only time she had ever had even a taste of freedom. She didn’t get to play with the other children in the city anymore. She didn’t have any time to herself. Every day was spent preparing her for her only responsibility in life: marriage.

        Amarinda understood her role. She knew that the only reason she carried any worth in the world was her betrothal. Her value came from the benefits she could provide, the services she would be expected to complete. Amarinda hated it, but she understood.

        She didn’t have to same value to her country as her cousins, the king’s children. She didn’t have the value to her family that she would have had as a boy.

        But she would one day be Carthya’s queen. And that made her existence mean something.

        The older she grew, the more beautiful Amarinda became. Her hair grew longer and shinier. Her features became more prominent and mature. Her dresses required more management and, often, more alterations, as she developed quickly and the dresses that fit other girls her age weren’t meant for her body. That was what people first noticed about her; that was what people cared about. Not her character, her graciousness, or her kindness. Just her looks.

        And Amarinda absolutely hated it. She hated the feeling of every male eye locked on her wherever she went. She hated the frequency of instances of grown men she didn’t even know brushing up against her in a ballroom, or setting their hand on her hip or playing with her hair.

        They didn’t care that Amarinda was already promised to another man. They didn’t care that she was still just a child.

        Amarinda tried not to let it get to her. It just meant she was beautiful, desirable. She was supposed to want that attention.

        She would attend meetings in her uncle’s court as preparation for when she’d need to sit near her husband and look beautiful at his own courtly meetings, and she learned to smile and nod, rather than risk punishment or dismissal for saying anything at all. When she met with nobles or regents or any male of importance in her country, and their eyes never stayed on her face, she brushed it off. There was nothing to do but smile and grit her teeth.

        Years continued to pass, and Amarinda began to dread the day she would meet her fiancé. She could imagine whatever she wanted about him, that he may be kind and considerate, or even aloof and uninterested in her, but only up until she met him. Then she would be stuck with the knowledge of who he was.

        Amarinda had had her dealings with spoiled young princes, who were often worse than the men she encountered. They usually had no sense of proper courting etiquette and were much bolder than the men were, because they hadn’t been taught not to be.

        And, with what Amarinda had heard about her future husband’s younger brother, she didn’t have high hopes for the effectiveness of teaching decorum to the two Carthyan princes.

        On the day she arrived in Drylliad for the first time, her parents accompanied her. But Amarinda would be expected to be the one to speak with the royal family, the one to make conversation and politeness. It was a terrible amount to bear at such a young age.

        The King and Queen of Carthya welcomed her with warmth and respect, and then allowed Darius the opportunity to step forward and speak to her personally.

        Amarinda tried to keep a brave face. She kept her eyes in front of her, knowing everyone in the room was watching them, on the edge of their seats wondering how the first meeting of their future king and queen would go.

        Darius stepped forward and bowed. Amarinda curtsied.

        And when Darius looked back up, he looked Amarinda in the eye, and he smiled.

        It was a smile of nervousness and curiosity, and it was also of kindness and graciousness and sincerity. Throughout their conversation, Darius’ eyes never drifted, never left Amarinda’s.

        Amarinda tried not to fall too fast. She took her time getting to know Darius, refusing to get close until she could afford to let herself relax around him. She still had a duty to uphold, and she really didn’t know much about what Darius expected from her.

        But a few weeks passed, and she couldn’t keep herself away from him. Darius was so much more than she had dared to hope for. He was a perfect gentleman, and he was kind and good and passionate.

        Darius would ask for Amarinda’s input in the meetings she attended, and would politely shut down anyone who interrupted or dismissed what she had to say. He would take her arm at balls and galas, and when she was seen with him, there wouldn’t be as many eyes on her. Amarinda barely cared enough to be repulsed at how they respected her as Darius’ property rather than as a person; she was focused only on Darius, and his smile, and how he made her laugh, and how safe she felt with him.

        Amarinda was twelve when she moved to Drylliad. And she was more than happy to do so.

        Amarinda knew the importance of her role as Queen, and she didn’t take it lightly. She knew how little freedom she would have. She knew that she would never get to have a quiet or uneventful life.

        But with Darius, for this first time since she was little, she was almost excited. Because at least she would be doing it all with him.

        Four blissful years passed, and Amarinda could hardly wait the remaining few for her wedding. Darius was just as excited. They were never allowed to be truly alone, but that was alright. They were happy as long as they were together.

        Amarinda lived in Drylliad most of the time, taking occasional trips back to Bymar to visit her family and to make any necessary appearances. Sometimes Darius accompanied her, but when he didn’t, he never complained. He wished her a lovely trip and didn’t make a fuss, even though Amarinda knew he’d miss her. It was a sign of total respect and trust, one that Amarinda wasn’t used to. She loved it.

        “I’ll count down the days until we’re together again, my lady,” Darius whispered as he kissed her hand. Amarinda smiled and promised to be back as soon as she could.

        Amarinda could have come back sooner, but the royal family had ended up taking a rather impromptu trip to Isel for three weeks, so Amarinda stayed in Bymar a little longer.

        She knew he was dead within a week.

        Amarinda had heard the rumors. She knew the unrest in Eckbert’s kingdom. She hoped, begged, prayed that she was wrong, that Darius was still alive and she would see him and hold him and hear him say he loved her in just two short weeks.

        Two insufferably long weeks passed, and the bells in Drylliad chimed once, twice. And a third time.

        Amarinda didn’t have time to grieve. She barely cared when Jaron revealed himself and took the crown. She didn’t care about the excitement in the palace and throughout the city, as if they’d completely forgotten Darius an the king and queen. She was too empty, too brokenhearted. She forced herself through a dance with Jaron at his coronation, and left immediately after.

        In her room in the palace, Amarinda spent days weeping. Darius was dead, and without any kind of preparation, she was thrown back into the filth that was the world without him. He wasn’t there to support her or protect her; he wasn’t there to make her laugh or command the respect she deserved.

        Jaron was nothing like his brother, and didn’t even attempt to make any sort of connection with Amarinda. At dinners, he didn’t really care what she had to say, if he even showed up at all. Amarinda understood how heavy the weight of his world must have been, but she was in mourning too, and she wished he would have given her something to work with, to make their arrangement bearable.

        Amarinda was miserable, and she suspected that, no matter what she did, misery would always be the natural state of her life.

        But she refused to let the world break her down. She was a princess, and she was stronger than most people gave her credit for. Amarinda kept her head held high, kept her guard up and kept her skin titanium. She would have to marry the king of Carthya; whether that was Jaron, or a steward, or someone else, was irrelevant.

        Because Amarinda would be queen of Carthya, and she swore the would be the best damn queen Carthya could ever have wanted. She would protect and take care of her country. She’d do it for Darius. For the people who welcomed her as one of their own. She would do it for herself.

        Amarinda had grown up. And she wouldn’t allow herself to be ignored.

[caffeinated-engineeringstudies]

October 28, 2020

My heart goes out to everyone who is seperated by travel restrictions from the rest of their family!! I never thought being an expat would hurt as bad as it does right now. I haven’t seen my family in over a year now and it is wearing on me and my mental health....

Six more weeks and then I can finally go home! Honestly, I didn’t think I would ever miss Germany, but not seeing my family for a whole year has been hard. I usually get bored and annoyed when I am in Germany cause there’s not that much to do where I live, but I have taken my family for granted and I definitely do not anymore. This year has been a really tough one, and just knowing I can hug my parents again soon is what is keeping me going.

// Golden - Harry Styles (my baby) //

[valyrfia]

as a third culture kid the most terrifying words ever uttered are “where are you from”

[idiosyncreant]

It Gets Better - TCK Edition:

A grown Third Culture Kid talks surviving the post-TCK life

originally posted on The Post-Alien Diaries on Wordpress as part of a series I will be reposting here!

I can’t believe I’m 32.

Someone older and therefore more credible than me said it first: you don’t mentally feel older as you age. Currently I feel it when seeing younger people and realizing I am no longer so young as that. I have always planned to become a eccentric old woman, so my progress down my personal timeline is not as troubling to me as some may find their journeys. And there are definitely perks to being older than before (though apparently not embarrassing yourself in front of people you think are cool is not one of them, go figure).

I tried to watch a video posted by a TCK on YouTube a little while ago, but the college-age girl broke down emotionally, and I couldn’t finish watching it. It was very raw, and reminded me that I’m no longer in that place.

I’m 32. I’ve been back in the United States, land of my parents and most of my upbringing, for 14 years. The edge has worn off a lot.

Part of it is learned skills, actually. Getting jobs teaches you how to socialize with people you don’t choose to be part of your life. People who don’t share your interests or background. The isolation of feeling the need for connection becomes less desperate, not because you need connection less, but because you learn not every connection has to be equal.

I’ve talked about learning to both be open about my experiences as well as how to moderate when I talk about them. It’s a process that has run alongside the passage of time.

I also have been able to slowly gather friends who understand. If not understand the part of me built by my experience overseas, then other parts of me. (For instance, the fantasy-writing-inspired-by-tropes-in-manga part of me, or the part of me that thinks hockey is fun.)

Another thing that helps is that I’ve added a lot more different experiences to my catalog of memory. I might occasionally worry that the most interesting thing about me will always be something out of my own control–that my family moved overseas when I was 13. But it’s less and less likely as I go on.

I’ve done a cycling tour of (a part of) Germany. I’ve published poetry in fantasy and science fiction magazines. Things I’ve chosen to do as my own person have added to who I am. I can find ways to connect to people, from a wide range of things I know about and have experience. For instance, there seem to be no casual hockey fans: if you follow hockey you do so with zeal, as it’s not a particularly mainstream sport, and probably played it at some point or are related to someone who did. I connect with coworkers over movies or favorite coffee drinks. Anywhere I go I find a crafter, or a homeschooler, or a gardener.

This is not to trivialize what TCKs go through. I don’t know if my own struggle with depression as a young person was directly related to my Third Culture Kid experience, but watching a girl cry into her webcam about the struggles strikes too close to home when I can’t do anything to help her. I know also that my friends who grew up traipsing between cultures (and occasionally experiencing traumas related to these experiences) often still struggle to find connection. Struggle to maintain an equilibrium. To figure out what it is they want from life when a normal settle-down life seems too small.

I’m only 32, but I’m no longer 19. No longer frantic that I’ll never be able to make friends with people at a real level. I remember feeling that. But I made it this far. As time goes on, you can learn how to support yourself–and connect in ways that other people understand.

It gets better.

[keepsbooksinherpocket]

On Adulthood

Me: I dunno man, I'm not good at doing things that keep me alive.

[ghostwriter98-blog]

As a TCK, going to college in your “home” country means having to pretend like you fit in somewhere where you actually feel completely lost. Pretending to be someone you’re not. And then you wonder where you really fit in. And you cant think of anywhere. And when the realization that nowhere you go in the entire world will ever really feel like home kicks in....well there’s no coming out from it.