Also on a Lovecraftian note: apparently one of his friends (who, like Lovecraft, did not drink) expressed the desire to someday try alchohol. Lovecraft responded by writing a short story about a drunken homeless man who dies in the gutter, where the dramatic reveal is that he used to be said friend! He sent that story to him with a postscript reading “Now will you be good?”
Self care looks different at different times. Each day, self care can take a different form. There hasn’t been a “self care is ACTUALLY…” post yet that I can’t relate to, depending on how I’m feeling, but one thing holds true:
Self care is hard.
I’m writing this on a bad day, a day when maybe self care looks like just… staying in, because I don’t have the spoons to go out, and spending hours trying to forgive myself for that. Self care isn’t glamorous today, it’s not a bath or a mug of tea, it’s lukewarm leftovers and beer. Self care is doing the bare minimum, and it’s still so fucking hard.
Maybe today, I eat. Maybe I drink a beer and stay sober and maybe I don’t get trashed and maybe I don’t relapse and maybe, today, that’s self care: eating and staying sober.
Maybe tomorrow I relapse, or the next day, or maybe I never relapse ever again. Maybe tomorrow, eating and staying sober come easy to me. Maybe tomorrow, self care looks lie a mug of tea and a calming bath, and maybe tomorrow I’ll spend several hours trying to forgive myself for needing that extra ~frilly~ self care. Maybe one of these days, self care will take the form of cleaning my house, because I can’t deal with how much I hate myself anymore and at the bare minimum, I can clean so I’ll stop being such a fucking trashy waste of space, or maybe I’ll try to forgive myself for not cleaning, or maybe I’ll realize halfway through my bath that I never checked the mail, or maybe… or maybe…
That’s it. That’s my life. That’s the big neurodivergent secret: it doesn’t actually matter what your self care looks like, but it matters that you let yourself have some, and it matters that it’s not easy and you do it anyway.
Self care is hard, it’s difficult, it’s taxing, it’s frustrating, and if you can care for yourself easily, then you might not understand why such tiny little gestures are upheld as the most important thing you do all day. But for those of us who can’t take them for granted, trust me when I say: they are very, very important. And the fact that we know they’re tiny gestures makes them all that much harder, because the shame of knowing I can’t do any better is devastating.
October 20th, 2017, likely during the day. Gives plenty of time for this to get exposure.
And what about the winner?
Once I pick the winner, I’ll try to tag or message them and let them know they won. I’ll also be sending that winner, once the document is finished and uploaded, a link to their reading which will otherwise be private (Docdroid hasn’t failed me yet with privacy).
Say that I won. What are the guidelines?
So glad you asked! I will need a preferred name and preferred pronouns so I can personalize the document better and make sure that, when I draw the card, I ask the question with respect in mind. As to your question, please make sure it is phrased “What does life need me to know regarding [x]” and please make sure any relevant details that can aid in the reading are given with your question. I must ask that you don’t put all of the focus on third parties and that you also keep things to the realm of the living.
You’re forgetting something!
Thanks for reminding me … You must be 21 or older to enter as the content I generate usually involves alcohol. No advice offered in this reading should be used as a substitute for legal, financial, or medical advice.
"well one of the title characters drinks lighter fluid in the first act because he is cold and at one point five consecutive lines of dialogue between three characters are literally just the word ‘sherry’”
Cas coming into the kitchen one night to find Dean sitting alone, a glass of whisky in front of him, his shoulders sloped in tired lines and his eyes shot through with red.
“How’d you even lift it?” he says. Cas frowns, not understanding. “M’soul.” Dean takes a swallow of whisky. “S’heavy. It’s so heavy. Should’ve broken your back on the way out the pit.”
Cas watches Dean for a drawn-out moment that’s deep like the ocean, or like space - filled with silent moons and stars, things he cannot say.
He comes to sit by Dean.
“It’s not your soul that’s heavy,” he says. “It’s just your heart.” Dean offers him a blearily sceptical look over his next intake of whisky.
“Uh huh,” he says.
“Your soul is light,” Cas insists. “It’s weightless. It has no colour that I know how to name. It feels like…” He thinks for a moment. “If you could make a material out of the sound of your voice, it would feel like that.” He reaches a hand across the table, rests it on Dean’s forearm. “Your soul is… fine,” he says, understating, because Dean - in this state - never wants to hear anything much that’s good about himself. “It’s only your heart that pains you, and weighs you down.”
Dean shrugs. “Got a cure for me, doc? Fix my old heart?” he says - and belies his former blurriness with a suddenly clear and slightly desperate glance at Cas, which barely lasts a second.
Cas slides his fingertips from Dean’s forearm down to his loose, upturned hand.
“I might,” he says, as Dean laces their fingers together. “Yes, I think I might.”
For the minific....E. Sharing a drink, Solavellan :)
lips that touch liquor
He hears their laughter through the walls, an echo that
carries, to settle like a sigh in walls that have longed for the sound for
centuries. His own, far quieter place remains just that, but he doesn’t begrudge them
this moment, even if he’d rather not partake, for all of Varric’s many attempts at luring him out of his willing seclusion.
“Is this where you’ve been,” he hears her voice, the soft,
familiar tones gently chiding, and he looks up to find her in the doorway. She’s in the simple garments usually reserved for her private chambers, a loose shirt and breeches, and her uncombed
hair curls lovingly against her throat. In her hand she carries something,
wrapped in a piece of cloth.
“Not one for card games?” Ellana asks, pushing away from the door frame to come stand beside his chair, leaning back against the desk. “It’s a
shame – with the way you school your expressions, you could have us all running naked through the halls.”
She’s not touching him, the loose lines of her shoulders speaking of an ease that he’s come to know and feel himself, but her close proximity still carries a world of weight.
Solas glances up, head inclined and smile carefully inscrutable. There is something about her that prompts responses he’s much too old for. “You as well?”
He hears the near imperceptible hitch of her breath, but she’s quick to recover. “If you’d beat me,” she concedes. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, before they stretch into a smile. “It would have been quite the sight.”
This thinly veiled coquetry is not a new occurrence,
but there’s something particularly daring about their exchange now. Solas allows a
pause to follow at the heels of her words, before replying, still holding her
gaze, “I have no doubt.”
A familiar tension shivers across the air,
a dancing drum that begs and beckons. He’s stopped wondering how they
come to be like this, always just out of each other’s reach, and the slow-fading memory
of a dream-kiss living in the ever-shrinking space between them.
What he does wonder is what it will finally take, to swallow the distance completely.
“Have a drink with me?” she asks then, the words escaping
with a breath, and the moment shudders – snaps and dissipates, like the popping
hiss of a fire-spell, and leaving the same, lingering warmth. “We don’t have to
play cards,” she adds, eyes twinkling.
Solas considers her where she stands, half-sitting,
half-leaning on his desk, and the tell-tale, rosy flush to her cheeks. So easy
to decline, and that will be all. She’ll retire to her quarters, and
likely never offer anything of the sort again.
So remarkably easy, and yet–
“So long that it is not tea,” he says, and sees
the relief that chases across her face, just before her cunning smile tucks it away and out of sight.
“Oh, don’t worry. This,”
she declares, removing the cloth to reveal the bottle within and holding it up for
him to see. A pale coloured liquid sloshes cheerfully against the glass
container when she gives it a shake. “Bears no resemblance to the stuff.”