live on my knees

hi I’m kelsey.

I’m in a really bad situation at the moment and it’s really hard for me to even write this, I’m not one to usually ask or even open up when help is needed but this is really urgent and apparently this is all I have left. 

So my mum was recently diagnosed with a disability called MS which is basically like brain damage and it affects the whole body, she had to leave her job because she’s in so much pain and she was on sick pay for a while which did help but now she’s not getting any money and even the government won’t give her money. 

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There must be a book about this ?? what to do when your friend turns into a big pinkish cat ?


Thank you ! It was a good excuse for me to draw Peregrïn’s cat form. She has a reflex of turning into it when she’s startled. Even when not in battle. Like… don’t wake her up with big noises and stuff.

The suggestion was Peregrïn protecting Khadgar, which is something she would 100% do so I agree with this idea >v<
I still want to point out that at this age they’re pretty much equals, as far as I know, she’s not stronger.
And they do stand up for one another. Even when they were young friends, just two kids, different yet somehow similar.

“I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees.”  Mexican revolutionary leader Emiliano Zapata, whose Zapatista peasant army fought a long guerrilla campaign south of Mexico City.  This picture was taken in Mexico City in 1914, after the revolutionaries captured the capital.  However, the victors soon fell out, and Zapata allied with Pancho Villa against the liberal Constitutionalist faction.  He did die, assassinated in 1919, but still has an iconic legacy in Mexico today.

I knew SJM was going to heal Chaol. It’s the entire premise for the book, so of course she would. I just had no idea it would feel like this.

I know I made a vague post about Tower of Dawn, but then I tried to go to sleep and realised I was still pissed so here’s a detailed account of what the phrase “get up” means to me, an actual disabled person, rather than SJM, an abled person who decided to write a disabled character being healed by nothing but those two magic words.

So here’s what get up means to me:

It started with sleeping in. It got harder to wake up every morning. My parents were convinced that I just wasn’t motivated enough, so they kept telling me to (guess what) get up. Because that’s what you say to a moody teen that won’t get out of bed, right?

Then, I started falling asleep in class. I developed a rash over my legs that made walking painful, and the pain felt like it seeped into my bones over time, leaving my legs painful constantly. I walked oddly, stiffly, around the house and at school, and it aggravated a knee injury I had from a car accident 3 years prior, one that I thought had healed within 2 months of the accident. I was wrong, and I’ve continued to be wrong to this day. The rash healed, but my knee did not.

Eventually, I stopped going to school. I tried multiple doctors until I found one that my mother liked. This doctor seemed to believe that I should be woken at 7am every morning, come hell or high water. She misdiagnosed me with an autoimmune disease (easy to do, given that CFS bears striking similarities in some cases) and subsequently viewed my chronic fatigue as a symptom of a greater problem, one she could treat with vitamins, antidepressants, a  better diet, more sunlight, etc, etc.

She was wrong.

I, being 14, didn’t get to say that she was wrong. I didn’t get to say that it hurt me when I went to physiotherapy under her orders and was forced onto the rowing machine. I didn’t get to say that it hurt me to do stretches sometimes, that it upset me when I was told to stop being lazy, to get up. I sure as hell didn’t get to tell my parents to stop trying to wake me up at 7am.

My fatigue grew worse. Soon, I got delirious when my mother tried to wake me, often having no memory of her waking me the first few times. She’d insist that I spoke to her when she woke me, that I acknowledged her, but I couldn’t remember. I’d wake at noon after 5 hours of being woken up every 10 minutes with no memory of being woken previously. I thought I was going crazy.

And through it all, I was told to get up.

Soon, I figured out that pain kept me awake. To stop myself from falling asleep in class and getting into trouble, I started beating my injured knee. It never bruised or bled, but it kept me awake. It helped me get up. I wasn’t to know that that would leave me with an injured knee to this day.

Soon, it escalated to me being unable to stay awake for more than 4 or 5 hours at a time. My school attendance was adjusted to only half-days, until even that grew too much for me. Sleep became painful, and I had to prop my knee up on a certain angle to keep the pain at bay for long enough to get the rest I needed, waking every time I shifted in my sleep.

Desperate, my parents and doctor cooked up a plan to admit me to a hospital for what they called “sleep therapy”. Basically, medical personnel would do exactly what my mother had, only they’d enforce a curfew, take away my laptop and electronic devices at night, force me into an exercise regimen, and, in my doctor’s words, “reset me”. After my experiences with physiotherapy, I was terrified of having no voice there.

Thankfully, we moved away at that point, and I lost touch with my doctor. Being admitted to that hospital became impossible given the distance, so I started at a new school with new kids. I had to explain my illness to every teacher I had, because none of them knew I was disabled. Apparently there’s no memo-type arrangement for that. It was mortifying. On my first day I was forced to walk the marathon track through the bush. I was 16, but I couldn’t articulate to them in a way they respected that it wasn’t just a matter of willpower, whether or not I could walk the track.

Turned out, it was. I willed myself through the track because I was embarrassed. I got through the day. Because I’m that strong and inspiring, right?

When I got home, I collapsed. I spent the next 24 hours in bed, unable to even get up to pee. All I did was take pain medication, eating when I needed to to take stronger doses. I barely remember the next 3 days after that, spending most of the time sleeping in bed, sleeping on the couch, or sleeping in the shower.

I received no apology from the school.

Eventually, I got up again. I went back. Months passed, and even though I only attended intermittently, I was soon appointed as a Student Leader. I have a loud personality, when I’m awake, so I guess they figured it would be useful in some capacity. I expressed concern about attending the student leadership training day, but was informed that I couldn’t become a student leader if I didn’t. So I went, having been assured that it was indoors.

It wasn’t.

First was a hike up a cliff. I almost fell over three times, convinced that if I did I’d never live it down. My knee gave out once, but I managed to stay upright. Several of my peers joked about me looking exhausted because I “wasn’t used to exercise”.

We sat down at the top of the hill, then. You know how, if you have an injury, it feels worse the next morning when you wake up? For me, sitting down without heat packs applied to my joints does the same thing. I’ll always hurt more when I get up.

So, sitting on the hard ground for half an hour listening to some camp counsellor talk wasn’t ideal. When it came time to leave, I knew I’d be so much worse.

It took me several tries to stand. Several people deemed it necessary to tell me to get up.

We walked back to the main house and sat inside for a while, talking. I was not provided with a comfortable chair, as they were few and far between and I was lagging behind the group. No one offered me one. I was the last to arrive, so I sat on the floor. Because that’s fair, right?

Later that afternoon, we were broken into groups for a scavenger hunt around the woods. I objected, informing a teacher that I was tired, but he told me that if I stayed in the house someone would have to stay to supervise me, and everyone was getting involved in the hunt. The same teacher that promised me there was no physical activity involved in the trip made me feel like my pain was a burden while I was trying to learn how to be a leader.

I got up.

I went through the motions of the scavenger hunt, sitting down on the ground and rocks where I could. Not because the pain would stop, but because my legs felt like jelly and the amount of time I could spend on them was decreasing. The more we walked away from the main house, the more panicked I got. What if I couldn’t walk back to the house? I didn’t have a wheelchair, or anything to help me get there. I voiced my concerns to the other members of my group, but they informed me that I was being dramatic and it was “just a little bit longer”.

I did make it back to the bus. I limped into my mother’s car at the school where we met up, and fell asleep immediately.

When we arrived home, I had to walk out of the car and into my bedroom, which was up a flight of stairs at that time. I fell over at the bottom and bawled my eyes out, practically crawled up them, and had to have food and water brought to me for 3 days afterwards.

All because they told me to get up. Get up from the ground, get up from my chair, get up the cliff–I had to do it, right?

I received no apology. I dropped out of high school a few months later.

Get up doesn’t cure disabilities. It puts us in danger. I don’t get up anymore. I roll out of bed after 12 hours of hibernation, but I don’t get up. I don’t set alarms. People don’t wake me (deliberately). Physically, I don’t really get up anymore. Not like this. Getting up for me means sitting up, tying my hair back, and getting to work on my novel. That’s getting up. Sometimes I can’t even do that.

I knew SJM was going to heal Chaol. I’d accepted that. I just had no idea it would feel like I never want to get up again.

Hey kids

I’m gonna talk about me for a little bit. I’ve been sitting on this for a while but I’m having a really bad day and the newest nonnie to grace my inbox has pushed me over the edge.

So let’s have a little education here about a condition that breaks me and makes me stronger every single day of my life. I have ulcerative colitis. Whilst the disease itself is a daily struggle let me tell you its side effects make it feel like like a feather bed. This side effects have resulted in me being medically classified as disabled. Clearly people who are not close to me to do not know this and some feel a need to send me abuse because of it. 

So let’s start this from the bottom. I really wish I was pretending. Try eating a single piece of sweet corn on the wrong day and spending the next three days in a hospital bed having your stomach pumped and get back to me. 

I’m not the disability police I don’t know if being unable to bear children is a disability or not. What I do know is because of my dear friend ulcerative colitis, my body will literally eat any nutrients needed to have a healthy child and then start on the fetus itself so thanks for that. 

Lastly, the charmer that managed to tip me over the edge. I don’t know whose blog you saw this on and at this stage I don’t  particularly care. No getting ulcers is not a disability. But do you know what is? Having ulcers so bad they burst and bleed and give you blood poisoning. The crippling arthritis that literally renders me unable to move for days at end. The osteoporosis caused by the medication I take to keep me alive that is literally slowly breaking the bones in my knees and elbows. 

I’m living with a disease I saw kill my father. I do not remember the last day I woke up without any pain. I’m never going to recover from my condition, there is no cure. All I can say at least I’m not a fucking dick that thinks it’s acceptable to belittle someone else’s suffering.

An ache in my lungs. The rotting infatuation behind my teeth.
Sweet decay.
The loss of love at the base of my heart.

Love is fickle love is non existent in this life I live.
My knees tremble for it I
arch my neck and sigh for it.
I wish and long and scream behind sealed lips.

My hand is empty, too small without another to warm it.
I used to cup my palms around my own soul, a purple white flame that flickered and burnt those too weak to remove it from my grip
now it burns in my chest, alongside the ice in my veins the
cold behind my eyes. No, not the heat of tears but just a heaviness of longing. A glacier in my mouth.
A fire in my breast.

She dances away with another, with others, dragging me in her wake.
She places her hands on my shoulders and pushes me into myself, into vibrant darkness that sparks with
electricity.
My skin crawls, writhes, aches for more than this. I flinch away because if I do not my traitorous heart would take control and force me closer
still.

Can she not feel the searing heat in my breath, in my skin as she holds me, a hand on my wrist
my leg
my thigh
my stomach
my spine. The forest fire in my lungs.
She touches and taps and breathes against me.

All while keeping me at arms length.

She’s smiling, laughing, twines her hands through my hair, drags nails down the column of my neck, my throat, chills erupting and giving me away
I bare it for her willingly, my weakness flayed wide open.
She holds my ribs in her hands my heart strings between her teeth.

Oh I would do anything for her, let her do anything just to remain in the embrace of her laughter, the thrill of her entire being. Even if I am never able to touch or hold
Or embrace her

I suffer silently. Heavily.

This love is going to burn me up, if this longing doesn’t freeze me first.

Remedy

A/N: I wrote this one before I even started this blog and decided to post it for y’all. It’s in Bucky’s perspective, which I’ve never posted in beforeeee, so I hope you like it? (It’s like a year old yikes) It’s still a bucky x reader, just not in the readers pov. so yah.

Warnings: Cussing, a little tiny bit of smut, and I think that’s it. 

Originally posted by avengershaveboobs

“Harder!” Stark yelled, causing me to groan. “I’m punching as hard as I fucking can, it’s unfair that you’re using your glove!” 

“Bucky, your arm is metal. You should be able to punch a hole through the damn thing.” Tony was showing absolutely no mercy today, and I couldn’t fucking stand it. Everything about him annoyed the hell out of me, and the fact that we were paired for training just frustrated me even more. 

I clenched my fist as tightly as I could and swung forward with as much force as I could muster, sending the punching bag off of the chains that held it to the ceiling and taking Tony down with it. 

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