And perhaps I’m a little touchy on the subject and maybe I hold Carrie a little too dear to my heart, but the reason I do is because Carrie Fisher helped me realize I was mentally ill.
Oh I knew I was crazy, in the same vague way you worry that you’ve left the stove on at home, despite not having cooked yourself a meal in weeks because you’re too depressed to eat a proper meal. (Except you don’t call it that, you call it “laziness” and maybe try and convince yourself it’s a new diet called “whatever requires the least amount of effort to put calories into my face”.)
Something was “off” inside my head, but no one seemed to care about it too much. Even when they threw me into eating rehab for a perceived eating disorder—despite lacking several of the vital criteria on the checklist to have typical eating disordered behavior—no one gave too much of a shit. I was just a girl who was “too nervous”, “too in touch with my emotions”, “too fragile”, I was “attention seeking”. And their remedy to this was ignore me and wonder why I crashed and burned at regular intervals, blame me for being selfish, then go back to not giving a fuck until it inconvenienced their life again.
I was crazy. But maybe I wasn’t. Maybe if I just tried harder…so I learned to cope. I became the one who Coped. I was There For Everyone. I became Reliable and above all else, I learned to be Funny and make It funny.
My mother still hates that. She thinks it’s crass for women to be funny. Personally I think I’m fucking hysterical, but then what do I know, I’m fucking nuts.
Later, now with hindsight and being able to look at my life from a safe(-r) mindset surrounded by people who care and want to help, I realize that what I was going through was (and is) untreated PTSD. Whether or not the PTSD caused the other issues, like the depression, the anxiety, the compulsive behaviors or the ADHD I think I might have, I don’t know. I likely will never know, because the Thing happened and shot my still developing child brain into a million tiny fragmented pieces of unparalleled terror and poor coping mechanisms. It doesn’t really matter at this point, all that matters is dealing with all of it as best as I can, however I can. But there’s a very real chance I might never have gotten to this stage if I hadn’t found out that Princess Leia, my childhood icon who helped me feel brave and strong while my world was ending, had written a book about living with mental health issues.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from it to be honest. I knew vaguely, that Carrie Fisher had issues. The word “junkie” had been used by my father—while unironically taking a drink from his self-medicating poison of choice and my mother tutted and tisked about how some people just ought to pull themselves together.
Ten, maybe twelve minutes into the book locked away in my room, I can’t even tell you anymore whether I was crying because I was laughing so hard or if I was laughing because I was crying my heart out, but I was having a fucking revelation.
This was me, holy shit this was me, this was me, this was me, an unboken mantra in my head pounding to the beat of my heart, this was me, this is me—I do exist.
That’s a weird thought to have, right? I do exist.
It wasn’t, “I’m normal”, because normal is not this. It’s not feeling like your mind is running a million miles a second in circles while simultaneously wading uphill through treacle and juggling chainsaws while trying to keep all your Life Plates spinning and oh gods someone just handed you a kitten to look after. What it is however, is fairly common, and suffered with varying degrees of severity by a rather sizable chunk of the world’s population. I mean, who knew? I sure as shit didn’t. I thought it was all in my head.
You know what I mean.
I’m told some people get up in the mornings and go through their entire day without once having an intrusive thought or struggling to do basic shit like take a shower and manage to remember to feed themselves. I know, seems fake right? It certainly does to me.
And here was Carrie, my Princess Leia, laying out her issues past, present and probable future, in what remains one of the funniest, most brutal attempts at self-lobotomy on paper I have ever had the privilege to read. I consumed that book in mere hours, I devoured her words and breathed them in like inhaling steam in a sauna and breathing out fire in their wake and moved onto her next book, then her next, then her next, and by then there was this blessed thing called Twitter and it should be impossible to be hilarious and poignant through 140 emojis or less, but that was the kind of brilliant she was. And this was me, this was someone like me. And she was witty and brilliant and funny and yes, things were difficult for her and yes, some parts of her life were an absolute clusterfuck of mistakes, addiction and general all round fuckery leading up to that point…but she was still there, y’know? She was still there.
And it breaks my heart a little every day, knowing that I’ll never be able to tell her how important that was to me. And to thank her for it.
So instead I try to pay it forward. Every day, from one day to the next, I try to be a little kinder, a little brighter—a little more like Our Lady Carrie—and throw two loving sparkly middle fingers up at the world that tries to stamp out and demonize the notion that mentally ill people like me, like you, exist.
And we deserve to exist, and more than that, we deserve to be treated with human fucking decency.
And if you are of a mind that the latest news surrounding Carrie’s death means that she was any lesser of a vital energy force in this world, that she mattered less, that her words were less important or that she “deserved” to die because they found drugs in her autopsy report, it is with my profound and heartfelt best wishes, that I invite you to cordially:
Thing’s the ace community has stolen: The letters “F” and “A”, the colour purple, all of the cake, dragons, the moon itself, unspecified resources (probably diamonds), the ability to wear a ring on your middle finger, every flag in the world, and your cat (probably).
the original headcanon that started my involuntary love for writing about SP:
Sarcasm. A lot of fucking sarcasm.
Him being an absolute piece of shit jackass to everyone except you
Having him sit with you during class instead of the other Serpents - probably has his arm over the back of your chair
He definitely plays with your hair all the time
Subtle PDA (bc he’s not big on PDA): hand holding, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, touching your face during small intimate moments, forehead and cheek kisses, gentle thigh touches, dragging his fingers over your arms, etc
you bet your ass he’s all over you like a fucking dog peeing on a tree when other guys are trying to flirt
tongue in your mouth, hand on your ass, glaring daggers at the perpetrator
knows its really fucking disgusting to act that way but really enjoys making others aware that you chose him.
Behind closed doors or in the privacy of your own homes he’s completely different
Wraps his arms around you when you’re cooking or doing dishes, pulls your feet into his lap when you’re just with juggie and toni, definitely lays his head in your lap when you’re watching tv and he’s napping
He gets frustrated with you a lot because he thinks his way is the safest way all the time and worries when you stray from his plan
But its only bc he’s worried
Not bc you actually piss him off
LOTS OF EYEROLLS AND DRAMATIC SIGHS (inside jokes ppl inside jokes)
Tickle wars and wrestling
Being the type of couple that’s always competitive over little things
Betting on how many fights he’ll get into
Betting on the other guy just to spite him
Neck kisses FTW
Which leads to hickies (everywhereeee)
Serious case of post-makeout hair all the time it’s ridiculous
Getting to sit on his lap which is pretty distracting for him
“I can handle myself, Sweets.” “I know, I just like taking care of you.”
Being so so very incredibly protective over you
“Today I gave Fangs a concussion by accident bc he was thinking about you naked” “and why was he thinking about me naked?” “because I was talking about you naked ..”
Wearing all of his plaid shirts as pj shirts bc they smell like him and they’re massive
Him eating anything you make regardless of the quality of the food
Him being so supportive of you getting your education. Doesn’t give a flying fuck about his education, but he’ll be damned if you don’t get over 80’s in every single class
Corny jokes ALL THE TIME
Pervy jokes ALL THE TIME
Sweets staring at your mouth literally all the time bc he’s so intently focused on the way it forms words (which probably leads to him kissing it all the time too)
Slow and passionate sex, incredibly intimate sex on the daily
Rough sex when he’s sad and angry
‘You know what’d make me feel better?’ ‘what?’ ‘get on your knees’
He’s ready to give you the entire fucking world on a silver platter and is willing to roll heads to do it
“Me and mine verse the world, middle fingers to the grave.”
I’d kill to see big girls romantisized in the same way on this website. I want big girls in bigger sweaters reading in coffee shops. I want thick fingers with delicate rings and beautiful full faces smirking sexily. I want chubby girls with flowers in their hair and nose piercings. I want big girls in little shorts, rocking the worlds socks off with their middle finger held high and i want six different comments raving about how fucking good these girls look.