caring for the wrong people

Sorry about not posting art lately, I’ve been having slight issues functioning, both physically and mentally. There’s so many things to be worked on and I really lack what it takes. I’ll hopefully get back to posting more art soon!

I’m currently working and over 40 intersecting stories that, a majority of them, have to be re-written and re-drawn, so there’s a lot on my mind.

If there’s any of my characters that anyone likes in particular I’ll draw them! Or characters from media… or anything…

shoutout to everyone with bpd who tries so hard to maintain relationships with people, despite the ever present paranoia that no one genuinely cares about them; you are strong as fuck and i’m proud of you. know that most of the time those thoughts are wrong, people do care about and like you.

things i understand: people not liking youtubers
things i do not understand: people finding it necessary to put posts stating they do not like youtubers in these youtubers’ tags

There's this Thing that y'all don't seem to get.

Gryffindors don’t give a shit about rules. The most hardline of them don’t even care about people. They care about justice. Right or wrong, black or white, there are no shades of grey. If it’s just, it’s always just; if it’s unjust, it’s always wrong. Hermione’s ruthlessness makes her a Gryffindor. She is absolutely sure that she is on the side of justice in everything that she does, and it’s such a Gryffindor trait.

Because Slytherins are ruthless, but they care about rules. Their own rules, usually, but rules nonetheless. They will impose parameters and limitations on themselves just so they have a framework to operate within. If doing something means violating their own internal code, then they’re not gonna do it. Even fucking Voldemort is like that. He broke every single fucking rule the Wizarding World ever put in place, but damn if he’d break his own.

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I don’t know if it's because I have a lot of followers, so I feel like there’s more pressure for me to care about what I say and the impact it has but I’m really afraid of expressing opinions in case I’m wrong ‘cause I really care about being right and telling people correct things.
— 

@danisnotonfire during his live show on the 8th of November 2016

Quotes from Dan (13/?)

Maybe it’s because he’s so cautious but I always finds his opinions incredibly smart and eloquent. I could literally listen to him talk about anything, even politics.

I thought I had a problem of caring too much. When someone enters my life, it is utterly impossible for me to fully let them go. If we see each other from afar, there is a part of me hoping we’ll lock eyes so I can just catch a glimpse of them. Why? Because I care about their well-being. I care about their lives, fully and completely. And whenever I was forced to let someone go, I was ashamed and embarrassed at how long it took me to do this with the result of failure. Because I’d be lying if I were to say that my phone lighting up with names I’ve tried to forget wouldn’t make my heart skip a beat. It would. Because I care. But now, I’ve realized that there is nothing wrong with this. Why has empathy and compassion become something to be ashamed of feeling? There is nothing wrong with caring about people. I refuse to make my genuine empathy towards others something to be ashamed of. I love that I care, why turn that into something negative? The difference now that I’ve gotten older is that I care about myself more. The heartbreak, sadness, and experiences I’ve endured have only served to prove that I deserve validation coming from myself more than from anyone else. I deserve to care for myself more than the care I project onto others. And it took me a long time to realize that. I care about others, but to end my string of feeling heartbroken, I’ve decided to care about myself just a little more. And if you want to call that selfish, go ahead. I call it self-preservation.
—  reasons why it’s hard to let you go
i’m done… with being manipulated, with people that pretend to care about me, with people that run the second things go wrong, with being not seen as worthy and beautiful, with people who can lie straight to my face and not feel an ounce of regret. it’s a new year and i refuse to let you mess this year up for me too
—  i’m done with you

Someone please take me to the alternate universe where the character of Anakin Skywalker is actually valued and not just viewed as ‘that part people fast-forward through to get to Darth Vader’. 

Man, I see so much hate in the Shimadacest tag. I thought the whole Pharmercy/Gency ship war was bad, but this just takes things to a whole new level.

I wish people would just let people ship who they want. It’s okay being against a ship, but telling people to kill themselves because of a fictional ship is horrifying and terrifying.

Stay positive and safe out there, friends! You’re awesome no matter who and what you ship ♡ ♡

Fanfiction - Stealing Tomorrow (Chapter 3)

Chapter 3 – As We Were

Skye, 14 years and 11 months ago

“Hush, Sassenach.” Jamie urged her, mischief in his eyes. “The fairies dinna care for loud people.”

“Really?” She smiled, amused. “They inhabit the wrong country, then. Scottish people aren’t exactly the serene and quiet type. Any more useful tips for avoiding to displease the little creatures?”

“They don’t like whistling or crossed fingers.” Claire could hear the smile on his voice, even if he had his back turned to her, working his way up the rocky and muddy ground. “Or cursing.”

“Oh, fuck! I’m doomed!” Claire laughed, covering her mouth in self-reproach. “They don’t sound that much fun, if you ask me. Are we almost there?”

“Aye.” He answered and his voice was carried by the wind across the green hills, as if hidden crowds were there to repeat his words in a ghostly choir. “Are ye tired?”

“I know you are half mountain goat, but I might be persuaded to rest a little after this.” She admitted, almost breathless.

Jamie had prepared for them a weekend away from Broch Mordha, that so far had included climbing the Old Man of Storr – a strenuous ascend that left her feeling a sharp pain on her side, but well compensated by a magnificent view with a double rainbow to boot -; sightseeing in Staffin; and – as the hours of sunset quickly approached – a detour to the Fairy Glen. They were in the middle of the climb to the Fairy Castle and Claire was forced to divide her attentions between the marvellous sight – the sky painted by a talented hand in purple, pink and blue – and the attention necessary to avoid falling and breaking a leg.

They had been dating for a month – the happiest days she recalled in her entire life. She was busy working during the days – but most nights they would get together. Jamie had a gift to make every occasion special – may it be a homely cooked dinner (even the slightly burned bits, when they were distracted by each other’s lips and forgot to time the oven, tasted like haute cuisine), a walk in the woods or swimming in the hidden lakes. He was funny and tender – and a true gentleman. Claire smiled, recalling the way he had made sure she was alright during the entire day, adjusting his pace by hers, stopping regularly to allegedly admire some plants or take a picture - only so she could rest a couple of minutes without feeling weak.

As they came closer to the structure resembling a miniature castle, a narrow passage made of slippery stones stood between the hill and the opening – as if the fairy queen had lowered the bridge to welcome them to her realm, should they be brave enough to attempt the crossing.

“Alright.” Claire murmured between her teeth. “Am I really supposed to do this without cursing?”

Jamie looked back and held out his hand in support, grinning to her. Together they made the daunting crossing, being rewarded with an exquisite view once they reached the top.

“It is breath-taking, isn’t it?” Claire gasped, still holding Jamie’s hand, their fingers entwined.

“Aye.” He answered in a hoarse voice – but his blazing eyes were focused on her face and not on the hills bellow them. “It is.” His mouth enveloped hers then, his tongue tasting the playful words she had been about to say – passionate, knowing and sure.

Later that day, tired from the day’s exertions and cradled by the moving car, feeling secure and at peace with Jamie driving – tunelessly humming along with the song on the radio - Claire allowed herself to close her eyes until she reached that peculiar state – brushing her bodiless fingertips on the edge of oblivion, dreaming knowing she was dreaming, unconsciousness still subtly penetrated by the sounds around her.

“I love you, mo nighean donn. You are my forever, Claire.” Jamie whispered softly, thinking her asleep – and her arriving dreams knew the undeniable truth of his words.

Edinburgh, Present day

Jamie had been moved to a room while he waited for an OR vacancy. The A&E staff was still working untiringly to try to save as many critical patients as possible, victims of collapsing beams and smoke inhalation, and Jamie’s condition – in spite of painful – was stable enough for the time being, allowing him to wait a few more hours. Claire had supervised his transfer, making sure his vitals were tightly monitored.  

“Will ye stay with me?” He asked slowly, when the orderly and nurse left them alone. “I’ve never had surgery – I’m a wee bit scared, I’ll admit to it.”

“There was a time when you had the right to ask me that.” Claire answered haltingly, avoiding his gaze as she pretended to examine the collector bag. “But you don’t – not anymore. You lost it a long time ago.”

“I ken I’ve done ye wrong, Claire.” Jamie licked his chapped lips. “But everything I did was…”

“Don’t you dare say it!” Claire almost shouted, her fists closing until she felt her nails digging into her palms – pain was reassuringly present, a life raft she could hold on to. “Don’t you fucking dare say it! You broke my heart, James Fraser. You made me love you and then you broke me.”

“Do ye hate me for it?” He closed his eyes and asked softly, pain choking his voice. “It’s well within yer right to do so – and still, you could never hate me as much as I hate myself.”

“I’d hate you if I was to feel anything at all.” Claire’s hands remained still on each side of her body, like forgotten parts of her that she used to cherish, now ripped away from her grasp. “But I don’t. At last I’m numb – at last you can’t hurt me anymore.”

Liar. He can still hurt you – just be being here, looking at you like he once did. Saying words that used to meant other worlds, other lives. As we were.

“I just wish to know that ye are well.” Jamie turned his head and glared at her – there was sadness in his eyes, but also resolve. “That you are happy.”

“And do you want to know that for my sake?” She laughed – a brief and acid sound, which sounded like a wail from a shrinking heart. “Or so you can be at peace with your conscience?”

“I want to know…” Jamie swallowed hard, his face shockingly white against the linen of the bed. “Because I promised to make ye joyous once. I vowed to fill yer life with laughter – and it would ease my heart to know you happy, even without me having a part in it.”

Sometimes in the morning, before I’m completely awake, I forget that you aren’t there. I erase years without you – and for that small moment, I know what happiness is.

“I’m happy.” Claire croaked – even if her face hurt from straining, the salty taste of tears filled the back of her mouth and her voice was a distant echo of elation. “I moved on. Unlike you, I keep me promises, Jamie.”

****

Claire sat in inviting obscurity. The darkness in the small room was only hampered by the constant red and yellow lights of machines, gently assuring her that his heart kept its usual rhythm - a foreign concept to her, whose heart skipped and fluttered madly, propelled by memories and distant words.

Jamie was profoundly asleep, a saving grave provided by the morphine drip – each droplet a fountain of dreamless sleep, so much so she craved to drink down the whole vial and travel to a faraway land, where promises were held and kisses lasted forever.

She had stormed out of the room after their brutal conversation, pretending not to hear him calling her name. Claire’s steps had guided her to the on-call room, nodding to people passing by, her lips wording words of reassurance that she didn’t mean at all. Once there, she had grabbed the pillow and had screamed against it with abandon, muffling years of anguish and solitude – but most of all releasing the despair of knowing herself still an unwilling prisoner of her heart.

When she had composed herself, Claire made her rounds and settled the orders for the day, even pulling herself together enough to issue a statement to the media about the injured in the residential fire. But late in the afternoon, when chaos had given place to a more usual pace of a healthy hospital, the pull had been irresistible – and she had found herself at his door again.

“Where have you been hiding, LJ?” Joe startled her, his head peeking on the door. “Why am I suddenly assigned for a splenectomy? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but it’s your patient and I can barely feel my feet already.”

“I can’t do this surgery, Joe.” Claire said, watching as he fully entered the room. “It has to be you.” Her friend raised his eyebrows in surprise and confusion, padding to the bed until he could read the chart, dangling from the frame.

“James Fraser.” He articulated slowly and she watched, half amused, as his mouth dropped open in bewilderment. “The James? Jamie?”

“The man himself.” She nodded, curling her legs beneath her on the armchair. “In all his redheaded glory.”

“Oh my! It really is a small country.” Joe shook his head and offered her a concerned look. “I had no idea when I offered him to you – I hope you know that.”

“I do.” Claire sighed. “I thought this could happen when we came from Boston – even told myself I was ready. I was so wrong, Joe – seeing him just….disassembled me. I was so angry – still am.”

“You are angry…” Joe slowly said. “And yet you are sitting here in the shades watching over him. And you want me to do his surgery when any resident could have easily done it.”

“You are the best.” She smiled with sadness, brushing her hand against her eyes. “I can’t be inside that OR, Joe. I can’t be a doctor for him – it’s not that I couldn’t see you cut him. But if something goes wrong…” Claire gulped, softly biting the knuckle of her finger in thoughtfulness. “I can’t think clearly. My place is in the waiting room because I can’t be a doctor for him right now – not when I’m too busy being a woman.”

“I was there, Lady Jane.” He moved closer to her and softly touched her shoulder. “I know what it did to you. How hard you had to fight to pull yourself together. If you were any other woman, you’d be running the other way the instant you saw him. And yet, here you are.”

“Yes.” She whispered, watching Jamie’s lips slightly quivering in his sleep. “Here I am.”

“And what does it mean, darling?” Joe pressed on with tenderness.

“Jamie lied when he told me it was meant to last forever.” She looked at him, defeat in her eyes. “But I didn’t.”

California is in many ways out of control.
— 

Donald Trump while talking about taking federal funds away because of sanctuary cities. 


In the meantime, Californians:

Now let me welcome everybody to the wild, wild west
A state that’s untouchable like Elliot Ness

California, knows how to party…

When Lailah came back from the stream, it was to Zaveid fidgeting with the flower she had given him at that in ages ago. Quietly, she peeked over his shoulder. The flower was a total mess.

“I can make another one for you, you know,” she said.

Zaveid yelped and Lailah couldn’t help but giggle. Really, as much as Zaveid liked to posture, he was really more of a lamb than a wolf.

“Don’t go sneaking up on a guy like that!” Zaveid said. “He might get the wrong idea.”

Lailah hmmed as she took the bedraggled flower from him. Not only was it rumpled and bent, it had clearly been taken apart and then put back together incorrectly.

“What were you doing to the poor thing?” she asked.

“I was trying to figure out how you did it,” Zaveid said, leaning back on his hands. “It really is something, taking a piece of paper and making plants and things out of it.”

“It really isn’t that hard. It just takes some practice.” Lailah hesitated a moment before asking, “Would you like to learn?”

“Hell yeah!” Zaveid said, getting up and following her over to a stump the group had been using as a table.

“Hm. Better start with something simple. How about another flower?”

Lailah laughed at the horror on Zaveid’s face as he glancd at the more complicated flower she had given him earlier.

“Oh, not that one! Something a bit easier. We’ll start with a one sheet flower for now.”

Lailah walked him through it, step by step, fold by fold. He did it correctly, she knew he did because she had watched him, but still somehow the flower came out more like a rock.

“No, fold forward, then fold half back,” she instructed.

“Like this?”

“Not quite. Here.” And without thinking about it, she took his hands in hers.

Zaveid’s hands were so much larger than hers, his fingers thick and long where hers were thin and short. She could feel scars under her fingers, probably from when he had been in battle, or perhaps even before that when he had learned to use his pendulums for the first time.

How long ago had that been? Lailah wondered. Five hundred years ago? Ten hundred? More than a thousand?

Zaveid was old, even for a seraph, just like Lailah was. Lailah honestly did not remember coming into being. Had she sprung from an earthpoint like Edna? Had she been human once, like Mikleo?

Had Zaveid been human once? Had he, like Lailah, been forced to watch as precious friend after precious friend died, disappeared, or was corrupted?

Thinking about the Wyvern and about Eizen, he probably had.

It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To have someone who stayed?

“Lailah?”

Zaveid’s voice, deep and serious, shook her from her thoughts.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Want to try again?”

“Nah,” Zaveid said, shaking his head. “Let’s face it. I’m all thumbs.”

Lailah took a few sky blue sheets of paper, folding them quickly and deftly into a series of small flowers.

“I don’t suppose you have any thread?” she asked Zaveid.

“Don’t you know who you’re talking to?” he said with a smirk. “Be right back.”

Lailah strung the origami flowers along the string, one after another until she had a chain.

“Here,” she said, slipping the forget-me-nots over Zaveid’s head. “To replace the old one.”

“I’ll take better care of these,” he said. He ran his hands over them, carefully and gently. “Promise.”

“See that you do!”


The next morning, Zaveid carefully packed the flower chain into his bag and Lailah found herself wishing that she had had the courage to make the red roses.

Physical pain is physical pain regardless of the cause.



* * * TW for hypothetical descriptions of abuse and mutilation * * *





Okay, apparently it’s “not physical abuse” if an autistic person suffers real physical pain from seeing a comfort object destroyed, and to call it such diminishes what “actual” physical abuse survivors go through.

This sounds very much to me like somebody telling an autistic person they don’t know what ‘real’ autism is until they live with a nonverbal autistic person who needs lots of daily help and can’t make their communications understood. 

It feels like autism is being dictated to the autistic person as if they’re a fraud because they’re able to communicate understandably. But autistic people get shouted down all the time, so who cares, right? 

Bzzt, wrong.

I’m well aware that there are people who get beaten, burned, bruised, strangled, have broken bones, are disfigured and have emotional / mental / physical scars. I’m so sorry that happens to anybody and what they suffer through is very, very, very real and very, very serious.

And suddenly all that pain isn’t considered physical abuse if it’s an autistic person and they aren’t physically injured because they witnessed a comfort object being destroyed. 

Let me unpack this a little. Bear with me here.

Autistic people can be hurt in ways that neurotypicals / allistics dismiss as childishness. We may deeply empathize with an object to the point that it’s like an extension of ourselves. Our brains would probably light up in all the “ouch!” places in a functional MRI scanner if somebody made us watch our comfort object being doused in gasoline and set on fire, and it would be indistinguishable from the same “ouch” places lighting up on a scan while somebody douses our bodies in gasoline and sets us on fire.

The physical abuse of autistic people is being diminished when their real physical pain is dismissed as “psychological pain” because “the physical damage wasn’t done to their own body”.

Who are you to judge somebody else’s bodily pain if you’re not them and don’t know their history?

If an abuser causes an autistic person to feel physical pain, it is physical abuse no matter how they cause that physical pain. 

To say otherwise diminishes the real and traumatic abuse autistic people go through when abusers destroy their comfort objects. At no point does any of this diminish what people who endure physical injuries via abuse go through. I never said their pain isn’t real or doesn’t compare.

The ONLY difference between an allistic person being physically injured by abuse and an autistic person feeling pain upon seeing their comfort object being destroyed is the autistic person has no visible wounds.

The autistic person’s pain is labeled “psychological” and dismissed as such when it’s so much more than that. The pain is emotional, psychological and physical…just like anyone else being abused.

Physical pain is physical pain, the cause doesn’t matter when it’s an abuser inflicting it. It is physical abuse. To say otherwise IS dismissive.

why cant people just let others enjoy things