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:
Sirius Black was the calm before the storm, that sharp intake of breath, the intoxicating feeling of euphoria as you throw your middle finger up in the air and scream fuck the world! He was leather jackets and bruised knuckles. The telltale muted thrum as you pass a concert venue. He was all about soft moans and gentle touches behind closed doors. The pale curve of a back against worn out sheets, innocent and challenging at the same time. Grey eyes that could burn your eyes and lips that could soothe the aches of a bad night. He was dangerously proud and confident but ridiculously understanding and loyal. Sirius Black was a contradiction in every sense of the word.
Remus Lupin was the smell of earth after rain, the warmth you feel when you hold a cup of cocoa on a cold night, the thrill that runs down your spine each time you enter a library and the comfort of sweater paws. He was also a hurricane when he was writhing in the sheets, silver scars glowing something fierce against soft skin. A mouth full of lightning that looks like sin but feels like heaven, with fingertips that drew lines of fire down a lover’s throat, thin hips with edges that could cut but instead, tasted of the sweetest things and a smattering of freckles in between his shoulder blades that spelled out hope, love and something that was a little too wild to comprehend. Remus Lupin was the boy who refused to give up on a world that gave up on him.
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).
honestly all of my childhood hero kristi yamaguchi’s (as scott hamilton would say: “fall down, get up, and smile like kristi yamaguchi), but i’m gonna list her 1992 winning olympic freeskate because it’s a fandango and who doesn’t love that??
i’m gonna be honest with you: i actually tend to find women’s singles boring. there’s too much of the same thing, too much influence from the likes of michelle kwan and sasha cohen: the judges like tiny bendy girls, instead of girls who may actually be the better skaters. that’s why i’m really excited about elizaveta tuktamysheva, who is just super weird and spunky, and this free program of hers in particular, “sandstorm”
they may not jump, but these days, ice dancers are the best skaters in the world. that wasn’t always the case - they used to be really good at posing and not much else. the team who did the most to see that changed that is shae-lynn bourne and victor kraatz, who were often too ahead of their time to ever get the medal recognition they deserved. they did, however, give us one of the most famous figure skating programs of all time: their iconic riverdance free dance
torvill & dean are probably the team that started the change, and their “bolero” is still famous
johnny weir: “poker face” (OBVIOUSLY… what an ICON), “creep” (this is new, and so beautiful), “i put a spell on you” (NERD; also like basically every us figure skater of the last 20 years is in this program?)
brian orser and josee chouinard: “brian’s hat” (honestly just so charming… also, somewhere in my stepmother’s house there is a newspaper clipping with a picture of me sitting on brian orser’s lap, taken the same night i first saw this performed)
and i will leave you with this, the most important program of all time, performed by evgeni plushenko:
Summoning Candyman Epilogue ( Jumin X Reader fanfic)
Fandom: Mystic Messenger Rating : M Summary: “Jumin Han, Jumin Han,
Jumin Han” you repeated in front of the mirror. When you wished for Jumin to be
real on Halloween night, you didn’t expect him to turn out to be a criminal
lord with a strange pet fetish… Keywords: Super AU, self-insert,
loss of control kink, pet kink, creepy dominant Jumin, criminal setting,
yandere, also some Yoosung X Seven and Jaehee X Zen Author’s
to everyone who expected super filthy sex – after the last scene in chapter 8,
my beta and I came to the conclusion that there was nothing left to add, so
this epilogue is mainly to tie up the loose ends (though I remain open to the
idea of an extra chapter of smut because who doesn’t love more of that, right? XD)
That said, it transits nicely for the next project, which I let you discover at
the end ~ enjoy!
“You know, I never understood why he
chose to bury you here. It’s just so…not
you” Simon stressed, then frowned at his inability to express himself
better. He didn’t mean the emplacement of her grave, not really; no one could
have argued that the place wasn’t as exceptionally beautiful as the girl it
guarded. Delicate flowers constantly bloomed around the headstone, like each of
them was a tear from the angel engraved at its top; even the leaves of the
willows surrounding it seemed to weep with gentle elegance, which was
everything Erika had been. Gentle.
Elegant. And weeping, though most of them were too jaded or tactful to remember
it be wonderful to live in a world without suffering, Simon?..” she used to ask. Hopeful,
at first, as all idealists are; no amount of problems ever seem too many for
serious caritative work to overcome, especially once the cure for the lentivirus
was found. Years and repetition, however, slowly moved her focus from those
solved to those remaining, until simple math laid the truth bare; it’d never be
enough. For one tree of misery down, a
whole forest grew in its place; and while a more philosophical person would
have argued that it was even more reason to keep trying, Erika’s fire turned
inwards instead. Guilt for those she was
unable to save burned her soul like a fiery sun, and whereas despair drove her
mind to radical cultism in the first loop, here she just escaped her cousin’s
fretful watch, picked a bunch of syringes and walked straight into an odopium