[S**k- March’17] Onew said Minho never uses the wallet that he bought for him. Jonghyun asked Minho the reason as to why he doesn’t. He replied that it’s because the wallet is a limited edition wallet.
Onew said he’ll buy 2 wallets for him next time then. One to use and another to keep.
When I was eleven I stole my mom’s xanax
Prescribed for anxiety
Covered up as a solution for a pinched nerve
No one told me the depth at which illness runs through my veins
Too sensitive, too weak, too negative
Anxious, depressed, paranoid–
Terms never mentioned above a hushed whisper
Sixth grade I swallowed pills that weren’t mine
Surfed the internet on my iPod touch for different ways to deliver the chemicals
When I was twelve I started snorting modafinal
Lifted from my fathers medicine cabinet
Too tired to handle with care
Crushed between two spoons
That year brought notebooks filled with masterpieces
Written in languages I could not understand in the morning
Thirteen brought study drugs
My brothers adderall carrying me through an accelerated math program far beyond my capabilities
The learning disabilities I was unaware of could not hold me down after a few blue lines
At fourteen years old
OxyContin was a lifeline to which I clung
Surgery after surgery my mom was too busy recovering to manage
At school the vocab word of the week was insufflate
Fifteen brought trauma as I led a pure life into my line of recreation
She stole her mom’s pills too
We took everything we could find
Chasing a feeling she didn’t know and I couldn’t describe
Sixteen brought weed and alcohol and
Selling adderall in Spanish class
To fund the steady stream of
opioids and benzodiazepines I needed to
keep my hands from shaking
Heartbreak and new love came with seventeen
A new love to share my passion with
She blew lines of oxy off my ass on our first date
Rubbed the leftover powder on my gums
Taught me to do blow off of CD’s in my driveway
She carried a rolled-up dollar bill in her wallet
Always ready for the next hit
I loved her
And she shattered me
Eighteen ended the cycle and
A new lover kept me high on marijuana
High enough to let down my walls
But not enough to stop the shaking
Sharing bowls in the backseat of his car
Blunt walks on the beach
He hates when I tasted like cigarettes
Antidepressants stimulants and downers
With my name on them
Rot on my nightstand
As I try to make peace with an addiction recommended by a
I don’t care if I’m damaged, honestly I think I’m just bored
Upcoming title from the Star Wars Little Golden Book Collection…
Behold our beautiful Reylo! *Cries profusely* Are the Dark and Light joining forces? Heroes and Villains working together side by side? Why do they look like they are part of the same team looking at the reader as if about to tackle a common enemy rather than staring angrily at each other???
*Cries some more*
I can’t wait to read more about how their destinies are intertwined 💖💖💖😍😍😍
I don’t know exactly when or how the discourse around
cultural appropriation got expanded to encompass trauma survivors. The logic
seems to go like this: we’re all more or less in agreement that it’s wrong to
lay claim to the racially specific experiences of marginalised groups to which
you don’t belong. Surely the same thing
applies to trauma: if you don’t share personally in the experience, you’ve got
no right to talk about it. Leave those stories to the people who’ve actually
lived them. Stay in your lane.
But here’s the thing: survivorhood is not a stable identity
marker in the way that something like race is. ‘Appropriation’ is only a
relevant concept when the experience we’re talking about is an exclusive one.
It is impossible for, say, a non-Chinese person to ever become ethnically
Chinese, or to understand from personal experience what it is like to live as a
Chinese person. By contrast it is very, very
possible for a non-survivor to become a survivor. That’s … actually kind of
the whole point of trauma, you know? The ‘in-group’ is an open and
ever-changing roll call that spreads itself out across all demographics. People
can and do become members of the group overnight.
Given those circumstances, there’s something very ugly about
the idea of trying to claim ownership over the universal human experience of
trauma. People who’ve never lived through trauma themselves have a legitimate stake
in trauma narratives because they’re aware – assuming they possess normal,
adaptive levels of foresight and caution – that it could just as easily happen
to them as anybody.
How do you identify a person as a survivor or a non-survivor?
Trauma is an inherently subjective experience; a person can suffer catastrophic
psychological damage from an incident that a different person, under different
circumstances, might completely brush off. There are people who’ve survived extremely
painful and dangerous ordeals but who wouldn’t dream of identifying with any
kind of survivor ‘community’. There are people who’ve been legitimately
traumatised by an ordeal so small and strange that they feel like impostors if
they call it ‘trauma’ at all. There are people with second-hand trauma, people
who’ve survived ‘near miss’ incidents, people who’ve lived relatively safe
lives but still live in fear of the endless ‘what-ifs’. All of those people
have perfectly good reasons to want to talk about trauma, to share stories
about it, to create their own narratives about what trauma means and how they
should interact with it. They have no moral obligation to defer to any old
stranger who comes along claiming superior trauma credentials.
Locking people out of conversations unless they clear some
arbitrary bar of ‘traumatised enough’ isn’t just misguided – it’s damaging and
offensive. It others people with traumatic personal histories and creates an artificial
gulf between ‘survivors’ and ‘non-survivors’. It discourages empathy by
treating trauma as something that happens to a distinct group of People Who
Aren’t You. It pressures people who’ve lived through trauma to embrace the
abuse that’s been inflicted on them as a defining aspect of their identity. It
demands that people who are already suffering subject themselves to painful
scrutiny over whether their experiences have been bad enough to ‘count’.
And I can’t speak for anyone else, but let me tell you: I
have spent an upsetting amount of time in so-called ‘progressive’ circles
feeling obliged to carry my pain around like a pass card in my wallet, ready to
pull out for inspection whenever someone challenges my right to speak or read
or write about trauma. It’s messed up. Trauma is not an axis of marginalisation,
it’s not the domain of any one minority, and it’s sure as hell not a
debate-hall trump card. We need to do better.
The moment of sudden clarity when feelings are finally
recognized, or are made aware for the first time.
It hit you
on a Wednesday evening while you were at the gym as per usual. School was
killing you, but you were determined to stick with your workout schedule, even
if it meant sleeping an hour less or watching one less episode of your current
favorite kdrama. Just exactly why were you so passionate about working out?
[7:33PM] Jeon: If
you’re not here in 5 minutes then YOU owe ME all you can eat KBBQ.
AND ice cream.
It was as
simple as that – you just couldn’t, wouldn’t,
lose this bet with Jeon Jungkook.